Page 43 of To Have and to Scold

“I don’t want to ask her to do that, either. What if we could do it on a shoestring? Like, I’m sure you have a place where you store your supplies. With the fabric I’ve collected and your paint and some elbow grease, we could do it.”

“You’ve been stressing to me for a week now that we won’t finish in time, Dallas. And now you want to add this project, too?” This woman isn’t making any sense. And the thought of her going through my warehouse? No way. “In the future, I’msure we could make this happen. But not before Lila Dobb’s wedding.”

She eyes me carefully. “That’s precisely why I want to do this. Think of how Mayor Dobbs will feel when she sees Lila in her wedding dress standing on the pedestal.” She gestures widely with her hands. “I saw some vintage, free-standing mirrors at the thrift store the other day. With any luck, they’re still available. They’d be gorgeous there.” The hope shining in her eyes just about does me in.

The word “no” is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. “The mayor would have to sign off on it,” I hedge, and Dallas hears the weakening resistance in my voice and jumps on it, full throttle.

“I’ll come up with a design layout by tomorrow and we can approach the mayor with it at that point. She’s going to love it.” She taps her mouth. “Or…we could surprise her and Lila.”

“I’m tempted to wash my hands of your idea and let you handle it on your own…"

She gives a terse nod. “And I’d understand if you did that.”

But again, I can’t.

“Things with the mayor are complicated. She was patient with me six months ago, right as we were solidifying the plans with the architect. She’d just hired me, and then, some stuff happened.” I pause, exhaling a short breath. “I tried to show up and be engaged in the work, but I didn’t do a very good job of it at first. I feel like we’re behind on this project because of me. And I can’t ask the mayor for any more changes and certainly not any more money.”

She puts her phone in her pocket and turns to me. “Do you want to talk about it? About what happened?”

I sigh, rubbing a growing spot of tension above my eyes. “You’ll probably hear all about it from Mary eventually.”

The look she’s giving me is open and gracious. Inviting.

“I’m all ears, Beck.”

Chapter Fifteen

Dallas

Beck Billingsley is a dangerous man.

I’m on a first name basis with him—against all good judgment.Beckis a dangerous man because he’s got this wild look in his eyes like he’s about to trust me with something. It’s like he’s ready to step onto flaming hot coals barefoot.

We’re walking casually down a dark beach, with only the full moonlight to guide us. But still, we’re crossing an abyss, and the blackness of the lapping ocean might swallow us whole.

We’re not touching but thinking of not touching reminds me of the world’s best hug.

He’s about to start speaking when he hesitates. I might have the firstlings of feelings for Beck, but I don’t know if he has feelings for me. I represent everything he’s not: citified, Type A (Hey, if I didn’t wear the title with pride, I’d probably cry about it.), non-beachy (his words, not mine, but nevertheless accurate), and notwithstanding my current outfit reminiscent of Sylvester Stallone, a southern business chic style—a sharp contrast to his not-at-all unattractive blue-collar work attire.

“Let’s do this, my friend,” I say, asking him to trust me.

This gets me something of a smile. Not your typical mega-watt variety from Beck, but I’ll take it.

“Since you’re an industry expert and we’re renovating a wedding venue, I guess you should know that I was engaged, briefly, and it ended and—” He stops himself, waits a moment, and then continues. “I was upset for a while, and it took me some time to start the reno.”

I shoot out a breath and squeeze his upper arm. “I’m sorry to hear that, Beck. This happened six months ago?”

He nods. “It was for the best. She and I are much better off without each other. But I became the subject of public pity and that’s what has ended up being the worst part.”

“That’s rough.”

“Yeah. It is,” he says.

When he’s quiet, our feet sinking in the sand with every step, I look over at him. “Want to talk about it? About her or what happened?”

“Not really, no.”

I laugh it off. “I have all the questions, but I won’t pester you with them.”

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