Page 14 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

Poppy stands a few feet from me, her lovely face frozen like stone into a harsh glare. I deduce right away that I haven’t just insulted her by snooping. It’s evident that her father is still an extremely sensitive subject for her.

“I apologize,” I tell her. “Profusely.”

She continues staring at me, eyes flashing between theJM 1999box and me. Schism won countless Grammys over the years, not to mention the hundred or so other kinds of awards they were bestowed during their twelve-year career. I’m sure plenty of those boxes in the shipping container are full to bursting with them.

“I should have minded my own business,” I continue, sensing that I need to offer a more thorough apology. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I wholly respect your privacy, Ms. Minton—I mean, Poppy.”

She purses her lips. I brace myself, wondering if I’m about to be fired from a job for the first time since I started this company.

Except, in the end, all she offers is a chilly, “It’s fine.”

She turns on her heel, heading back toward the container. At that moment, Rhett and Jacob pull into the driveway in the van full of demolition gear.

The day hasn’t even begun yet, and I’m already walking on thin ice.

Chapter Five: Poppy

My second week in Mermaid Shores begins with abang.

Literally.

I’ve purchased a lot of properties, but performed only minor renovations on them, and yet I know as well as anyone that the first step in a project like this is demolition.

Within two days, the cottage is pure chaos.

Maybe it should freak me out. All of my worldly possessions are locked away in the garage and my primary living space has been overtaken by burly men with big hammers for about eight hours every day. There’s dust and debris and everything is exceptionally ugly all of a sudden.

Despite that, I’m excited. It’s kind of thrilling, all this bedlam.

Something’s missing, though. For the most part, I’ve tried to stay out of everyone’s way. I’ve spent the past couple days down on the beach or roaming around town or overstaying my welcome at the Marx abode down the road.

Today, however, I want to get my hands dirty. I want to know that I actually played a hands-on role in remaking this cottage.And not just in the sense that I’m choosing the paint and the curtains and the furnishings.

So, on Wednesday morning, after some yoga on the beach, I slip past three buff guys with thick Boston accents and head upstairs to shower. I’ve already been warned that, in about a week or so, they’ll begin tearing down the staircase. Which means that, for a while, the second floor won’t be accessible.

For now, though, it’s a slightly quieter refuge from the work going on downstairs.

Yesterday, while I was browsing through a local boutique, I found a pair of adorable overalls. They’re a size too big, but the bagginess adds to the overall aesthetic of a super down-to-earth girl who definitely knows her way around basic construction tools. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for. Maybe if I look the part, it’ll come more easily.

Fake it until you make it. If I’ve learned anything useful from living in Los Angeles, it’s that.

I slip on my running shoes—the most practical pair of shoes I have—and pull my hair up into a ballerina bun. Smiling at myself in the mirror, I carefully remove my jewelry. I hardly ever take it off, and I feel a little naked without the familiar weight of 24k gold and twinkling diamonds. Still, it must be done.

A few minutes later, I find Joe in the kitchen. The major appliances have been removed, and are now stowed safely in the garage. The granite countertops were hauled away yesterday. It’s impressive how fast Mansfield Contracting gets stuff done.

Joe is crouched on his knees under the sink, muttering under his breath. He’s alone in here, the rest of his crew dealing with the demo needed toward the back of the house.

“Everything okay under there?” I ask.

Clearly, I’ve startled him, because he lurches upwards and knocks his head against the top of the cupboard beforemanaging to fully pull himself out from under the sink. He sits back on his knees, rubbing the back of his head.

Then, when he sees me, he halts. Feeling weirdly self-conscious for perhaps the first time in my life, I watch as his gaze takes in my outfit. I swear his eyes linger on my wrists and neck and earlobes, which are usually adorned with gold and diamonds.

“Uh, yeah,” he finally answers. “I’m just not a great plumber.”

“That’s comforting to hear,” I joke.

He cringes. “Right. No, sorry. You have nothing to worry about. It’s just that Gerry wasn’t able to make it out here today and—”

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