Page 72 of To Have and to Scold

“There’s not much I can do about it.” I state this flatly. It’s true. We’re heading in completely different directions.

“You ask her out,” Elliott says. “You tell her how you feel. Romance her.”

“Real helpful. Is that what you did with Portia? Romance her?” I grunt out a laugh.

“As a matter of fact, I think I did.” He points to me, a calculating smile splitting his face. “You ask Portia, but I think I did.” He punctuates the last few words.

“Well, congrats. You deserve a gold star.” I can’t hold back the sarcasm.

Mary pats Elliott on the back. “He really does. He fell for Portia and didn’t let anything stand in his way. It’s admirable,” she says.

Okay, okay. Admirable? I wouldn’t go that far.

But maybe I could use some of the courage he has for once.

“I can give you some pointers. Or better yet, we can talk to Portia and she can tell you firsthand what worked and what didn’t.”

I begin to leave. “You’re an idiot, Elliott.”

“Yet, I’m the one engaged…” The tone of his voice is casual, but I don’t appreciate the smirk.

I hear Mary smacking Elliott’s arm. “Elliott! Too soon.”

All I can think to say is, “I hate you both.” Followed by, “Go play in traffic, Elliott.”

Immature? Yes. But they cornered me, and I had some fight-or-flight stuff going on. Besides, all I can really think about is that soon I’ll see Dallas again.

And maybe it’s a good thing that Elliott will be over there hanging the mirror. Having him as a buffer might prevent me from doing anything crazy—like discussing the possibilities of something more long-term with Dallas.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dallas

When Elliott pulls up to the mansion right before Beck does, I can’t help but feel a wisp of disappointment.

It’s a good thing he’s here, I tell myself. We cannot be tempted to kiss in the mansion right now. My head is so full of wedding details that I can’t trust myself to make sane decisions. And we cannot have a repeat of the Clancy-Bozzelli wedding debacle. Elliott around as a makeshift, unknowing chaperone will only help.

I’m a bit disappointed, though. If for no other reason than for Beck and me to talk about what happened in his kitchen the other night—a.k.a. the best, most intense kissing of my life.

But seeing Elliott is a good reminder that I’m here to do a job: get every last thing done before the wedding on Friday.

Opening the double doors in the front, I’m hit with the new-build scent of wood and varnish—of all the promise that this venue holds.

Elliott’s caught up to me. “This place is looking good,” he croons. “I gotta show Portia.”

I’ve already got my tablet out, looking over my tasks of things to do this evening. And no, I didn’t write down “Kiss Beck,” but that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it.

Elliott heads to the back of the house and soon, Beck pulls up in his truck and he joins me in the grand entry, his eyes flitting around briefly in a sign of approval of the space.

“Elliott’s here to put up the bathroom mirror and anything else I need him to do,” I tell him.

“Yep,” Elliott says, walking in and crossing his arms over his chest, surveying the room as only a general contractor can. Beck does it, too, and I’m imagining they aren’t thinking of the finishes like I am—the lush, low profile verdant-green velvet sofas, the botanical printed curtains, the built-in floor-to-ceiling cabinetry with perfectly placed pottery and books in calming yellow and avocado.

They’re probably thinking about all the underbelly stuff like wiring and plumbing.

As if on cue, Beck proves me right. “Electricians came this morning. Fixed the faulty outlet. And HVAC came by, too. They had to run some tests on the A/C.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” I say, pushing past them, my Keds squeaking on the new floor. Yes, I’m wearing Keds on the job, and I don’t hate it. I don’t want to run the risk of scuffing the floors with heels. Besides, it’s refreshing to not have to be terrified for life and limb while I’m scurrying about.

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