Page 21 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

“Avocado Mousse?” I mutter under my breath. “Who is naming these colors?”

It’s Monday. Early afternoon. I spent most of the morning with Sabrina, who was sweet enough to let me drag her around to every hardware store within a thirty-mile radius so that I could collect paint samples.

Aiden was apparently too busy working on something in his studio to come with us. We both knew he was lying, because we know that Aiden hates shopping, no matter what it’s for.

I peppered Sabrina with questions about the new manuscript she’s in the middle of writing, and she offered me her opinions on everything from light fixtures to appliance brands. Unsurprisingly, she has amazing taste.

Right now, however, I’m completely on my own back at home, about to be consumed by a sea of paint samples.

“Meadow Pink? That’s not evenpink.”

I wrinkle my nose at Camel Hair, gag at Mustard Olive, and then spend several seconds musing over the possibility of a color called Stardust.

Obviously, it’s part of Misha’s job to help me decide on these things, but there are so many paint options here that I know I need to narrow down my preferences before she stops by tomorrow for the color consultation.

I’m tempted to ask Joe to come in here and offer his opinion, but he’s upstairs helping the crew tear out the outdated fixtures in the primary bedroom’s ensuite. Which means that, for the next couple weeks, the only bathroom at my disposal will be the tiny one for guests, downstairs by the kitchen. Then, when they rip down the staircase, I won’t even have access to the upper floor for a while.

I keep waiting for the urge to complain, but the truth is that it all just feels like a great, big, exciting adventure. It feels like the house has a mind of its own, reshaping and reforming itself day by day with mischievous speed. Of course, I know it’s actually all the workmen who are making the changes, but there’s nothing wrong with having an imagination.

With a heavy sigh, I compare French White to French Macaroon, discard the latter, and then reach for Bar Harbor Beige.

A loud knocking echoes throughout the house. It sounds like it’s coming from downstairs, but I pay it no attention. I’m not going to micromanage Joe’s staff.

Except, then the knocking echoes again, louder this time.

I toss Dusty Cornflower aside and rise from the hardwood floor. It looks like a kaleidoscope threw up in here, especially with the midday sunlight gushing in through the glass ceiling and walls. This is one of my favorite spaces in the cottage—an addition that the last owners built and referred to as their conservatory. I’m going to have Joe convert it into a sunshine-filled dining room.

Bang, bang, bang.

I frown. That’s definitely not the construction crew.

Someone’s knocking on the front door.

Which is weird, because I’m not expecting anyone. Also, if it is Sabrina or Aiden, they already know that there’s no need for them to knock.

Plus, the door is unlocked, so if it’s one of Joe’s guys, they should just let themselves in without bothering the rest of us.

I glance down at my clothes. I’m wearing what I like to call athleisure chic, which is how I make myself feel better about the fact that my ensemble is nothing more than navy leggings and a matching top. It’s the sort of thing I’d wear for a Pilates class and then immediately change out of, but my usual style has been temporarily sacrificed in favor of convenience. Also, the majority of my clothes are still stored away in the garage.

As I head toward the front of the house, the unknown visitor knocks again, loud and insistent. I hope it’s not one of the neighbors coming to complain about the construction noise. I’m not necessarily opposed to confrontation, but I’d very much prefer it if everyone was nice and relaxed all the time instead.

I pick my way across canvas tarps laid out to protect the floors. I hear the men upstairs, a few of them chuckling about something amongst themselves.

My plan is to replace the front door with something prettier than a generic hunk of oak. I want something with frosted and stained glass. Something pretty that will allow me to catch a glimpse of whoever is standing outside without the need for a tacky peephole.

For now, however, I simply have to wait and see who has arrived with the intent to practically kick down the front door.

With an exasperated huff, and with Cumulus Cotton still clutched in one of my fists, I wrench open the door.

I let out a sharp gasp at the sight of the person standing on my porch, and almost slam it shut again, but I’m so shocked that I forget how to move.

The man is tall and slender, with blond hair styled to look effortlessly windswept. It’s not effortless at all, though. I know from experience that it takes four different products and thirty minutes of obsessive arranging of individual strands to accomplish this look.

Percy Barclay is here.

I gape at him.

He’s wearing a Ralph Lauren shirt with the top three buttons undone and dark blue trousers, which he pays to have tailored in Paris. He refuses to let anyone touch his pants. Not even the tailors in Hollywood with celebrity clientele.

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