Page 21 of To Have and to Scold

I’m trying to keep my voice down on the phone. I don’t have any idea how the acoustics work in the Integrity Construction offices. I’m just glad I have my own office here…it’s much more private than the open concept at Amore, on the twenty-sixth floor of Midtown Office Tower in downtown Atlanta.

Besides, if this building were open concept, I’d have to see Beck Billingsley a lot more than I do. And that would not work. I’m trying to be professional here—trying to salvage any shred of dignity that I can—even though he and I aren’t exactly getting along.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mom says, but I can tell she’s distracted. “I can’t get this to—” She grunts, and I can practically hear her teeth gritting through the phone. “How’s the apartment?”

“It’s nice. And the neighbors seem great.” I pry my particle board out of the unzipped, large presentation cover I brought from Atlanta.

“Well, that’s a relief. It’s always hard to start over in a new place. I’m glad they seem nice.”

“Except, I’m not starting over.” I pick off lint from the board and straighten the photos that have slipped. “Think of it like I’m at summer camp and in the fall, I’ll come back home and everything will be all better.”

“We can’t control the outcome, though, sweetie,” Mom warns. “I’d say just enjoy the journey and see where it leads you.”

“It led me to Holden and McKenna.” I place the particle board on the floor and prop it up against the wall. It’s plastered with wedding announcements from all the couples whose weddings I’ve done.

“What?”

“Yeah. I saw them in the diner during my first meal in Willow Cove. Holden used to come here with his family.”

She clicks her tongue. “What in Heaven’s name were they doing there?”

“Vacationing. As one does when you’re young and in love.” Suddenly, I feel old and very much not in love. And resentful. And oddly itchy around my neck.

“Well, at least they aren’t there permanently. I can’t believe they decided to vacationtherethe same weekend you moved in.” She gives a dismissive laugh, which I don’t blame her for, given my complaining about having to come here.

“Willow Cove’s really nice,” I insist, a little too forcefully.

Of course I should be defending it. I should be screaming from the rooftops about how great it is so I can fill our six bookings ASAP.

“I’d better get going,” Mom says. “I have a client in a few minutes and I’m trying to get something to work on my graphic design app. How do you turn an image into the background of a post? I can’t get it right.”

Ah. Instagram. Her account about how to live a mindful life.

“Share it with me and I can work on it.”

“Oh, thanks, Dallas.” She pauses. “How do I share something?”

I tell her how to send me an open link and get off the phone. Even though she has a tendency to give me unsolicited life advice and she keeps buying me lacy underwear as some sort of tactic to manifest the man of my dreams (“If you wear it, he will come!”), she really is the best. With her in my corner, I can do this, right?

Right? I hold up a fist in the air, close to my face, and squint at some imaginary foe.

I have to make this work.

I’m startled out of threatening myself by a knock at the door.

“Come in!” I say, breezily.

The door opens and it’s Beck. He rests against the door frame. He’s dirty—literally covered in a fine spray of dirt and grime. So why then is the air in the room now laced with his not-at-all-offensive scent? I mean, it should be offensive, since it looks like he just got done with some manual labor. But it’s not. It’s nutty pine meets minty fresh. How is that possible?

I wish the look in his eyes was as welcoming as his scent.

It is not.

“Mary asked me to ask you if you’ve been getting the forwarded comments from the website in your inbox?”

“I don’t think so. I wasn’t even aware there would be comments I’d need to field.”

His gaze goes around the room, so I add, “Would you like to come in, Mr. Billingsley?”

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