Page 7 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

“I absolutely agree,” she says. “You would like something sleeker and more modern, yes? Something classier.”

“Exactly, Misha. You totally get it.”

And thus ensues a tour of the house, during which Poppy describes which walls she wants to knock down, which rooms she’d like to gut, and where she’d like to install a grand balcony with custom French doors. She waves her hands around like a fairy casting enchantments, describing tasks that will cost thousands of dollars as if it’s nothing at all. I add up my estimates in my head, and the total becomes more staggering with each passing minute.

Clearly, money doesn’t mean anything to this woman. In fact, I have a feelingnothingreally matters to this woman. Nothing but her image. How she’s perceived by others.

But it’s no big deal. I’ve handled irresponsible, careless socialites before. I’m practically a seasoned veteran. Despite that, it’s going to present some added challenges.

For example, there’s no way we can build a balcony. There are zoning laws we need to obey, especially this close to the beach. We’d have to get a permit from the town, which is difficult and expensive and unlikely to be approved.

And yet, I keep my mouth shut for now. It’s a battle for another day.

The bright side is that at least me and my staff are going to be nice and busy for the next couple months.

Chapter Three: Poppy

“That went well!” I announce cheerfully to the empty house.

With my hands on my hips, I grin at the outdated kitchen and try to imagine all of the improvements that Joe Mansfield promised he could do for me.

I mean, seriously? Granite countertops? That’s a hugeno.

And the white cabinets, while somewhat countryside chic, aren’t my taste either.

I want a cozier kitchen, with deeper colors and modern fixtures like a wine fridge and an AGA stove. I’m not exactly a chef, but I would love to learn how to cook and I want to have the best possible equipment to do it.

Misha Roklov was totally on my side, which was great. Even when I told Joe that I wanted to tear down a wall that’s currently splitting two unnecessarily small spaces, and he informed me that it might not be possible because it’s a load-bearing wall—or whatever—Misha immediately jumped in with possible solutions.

Honestly, Joe seemed to be offering a lot of contradictions through the meeting, peppered with his polite, wordless nods of agreement. As in, yes, we can remove the carpet on the stairs, but reframing the entire staircase would block off the second floor for at least a week and slow down the renovation.

And, yes, we can do bigger windows in the primary bedroom upstairs, but he needs to look into town codes, or something like that, before he can confirm that a balcony is possible.

And, yeah, sure, we can import the gorgeous mosaic tile I found from a supplier in Italy, but he’s probably going to need to get a specialized artisan on board to install them.

Basically, there were a lot ofifsandbutswith that guy.

It’s fine, though. Because this cottage is going to be absolutely perfect when I’m done with it. I’ve never undertaken such a personal renovation before. Even my house in Malibu had been left mostly untouched since I purchased it. Maybe there’s a reason I never felt like making that place feel like it truly belonged to me. Maybe, all along, I had a feeling that I’d be drawn away to somewhere new.

With a satisfied sigh, I head upstairs to get dressed. I don’t even mind that I had to give the tour in my pajamas. Both Misha and Joe were nice enough not to comment on it, though I did notice Joe frowning slightly when he glanced down at my slippers. It’s probably not personal, though. Men just don’t understand fashion.

However, I was a little embarrassed that I overslept. I assumed my phone would switch from PST to EST automatically, but when I woke up to the sound of someone pounding on the front door, I realized my phone was still in airplane mode. It didn’t even know we were on the east coast yet.

Which also explains why my phone was oddly quiet yesterday. Then again, it was nice to not be overloaded with notifications from friends, acquaintances, and random people I barely know.

Humming to myself, I dig through my suitcase. It drove me crazy to have to decide what exactly I could live without for an entire week. There’s a chance that I might be slightly materialistic, but it’s not in a shopaholic way. It’s just that I enjoy sourcing nice clothes—special, well-made pieces from designers I love—and taking good care of them. I’m not one of those people who overhauls their wardrobe every season. Not only is that horribly wasteful and terrible for the environment, but it’s also just plain stupid. I don’t evenlikehalf the new trends that pop up every other month. Why would I force myself to spend money on them?

That is just one of the many reasons why I realized that I didn’t have as much in common with my Los Angeles friends as I thought.

I grab some perfectly worn-in denim jeans and a pretty silk blouse, then flounce to the ensuite to do my skincare routine. While I get ready for the day, I find myself blushing slightly as my memory replays the long glances I stole of Joe Mansfield.

To put it bluntly, the man isgorgeous. Not only is he tall, but he’s got some seriously impressive muscles. And they aren’t the kind of pretty, cosmetic muscles that men get from being obsessed with the gym. They’re the muscles of a man who does hard manual labor almost every day of his life. His palm was callused when I shook his hand, making me hyperaware of how smooth and unblemished my own hands are. How little I’ve done with my twenty-eight years of life.

It’s not just Joe’s body that is impressive, either. I’m more evolved than that. He’s got nice eyes, too. Deep brown ones with thick lashes. His dark hair is thick and wavy in a way that suggests he might have Italian ancestors. Either that, or he’s simply been blessed with fantastic genes.

I didn’t see a wedding band on his finger. Not that I was specifically looking for something like that.

Not like it matters.

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