Page 58 of The Contractor's Rose
Not really shocking, but even though their office was right next door to the shop, I hadn’t seen them. No calls. No texts. Not even a check-in when the replacement flooring had gotten dropped off a few days early and blocked their parking spot for half the day.
But somehow, they always found time to talk to Gavin.
Apparentlyhewas the one who gave and received the updates now—about the progress, the schedule, the scope of damage, the electrical inspection. Meanwhile, I was the one standing here up to my ears in logistics, wondering when exactly I’d become an afterthought in my own parents’ lives.I got that they owned the building, but this store owned my soul, and they should have known that.
When I’d called them the other night to suggest we all go out to dinner together this evening—to catch up and, not that I’d said it, tell them that Gavin and I were seeing each other—Dad had said it sounded like a lovely way for me to “thank Gavin for all the work he’s so generously provided when he could be focusing on otherprofitablerehabs.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Gavin had so “generously” come over last night to help me replace the lightbulbs above the new checkout counter because I couldn’t reach them, and the old ones had been giving off the vibe of a late-night gas-station interrogation room.
I also hadn’t mentioned how, once the bulbs were in and we were both standing beneath the soft, golden glow of new light, he’d pulled me in and kissed me slow and deep and right against the counter—“generously,” of course.
Or how we’d had dinner upstairs—takeout, from that Thai place we now frequented a couple times a week. Or how, after I’d poured the wine—a normal amount—he’d taken the glass from my hand and “generously” kissed my collarbone instead.
I hadn’t told him that Gavin had screwed me on the kitchen table before dinner. And “generously” again on the couch after.
I guess “thank you” meant different things to different people.
Things with Gavin felt … strong. Steady. We’d seen each other almost every night this week, even if only for an hour or two. He’d show up with takeout or wine or just those quiet eyes of his that seemed to see straight through me. He touched me like he already knew I’d needed grounding, before I’d said a word.
He was calm. Confident. Like none of this fazed him. Like introducing us to the world—or at least, to my parents—was just another thing on his list.
Me?
I was shitting my sundress.
I’d been playing this dinner over and over in my head. The looks. The awkward silence. The way my mother would lean across the table, all pearl earrings and measured tone, and ask how long “this little situation” has been going on. The way my father would go quiet and check his watch. Or, worse—say nothing at all. Or, really worse—get angry.
Sighing, I stretched my arms and back after sitting on the shop floor with my laptop for the past few hours. Noticing that I had about an hour to get ready before Gavin arrived to drive us to our death—I mean, dinner—I stood and took a full look around the shop. It was coming back to life a little more each day. Meanwhile, I thought Gavin had somehow managed to bringmeback to life since everything had fallen apart.
At exactly seven o’clock,I heard the shop door chime downstairs. Not a minute more. Not a minute less.
There were only three people who had a key, and only one of them I expected to be walking through the door and up to the apartment tonight.
I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress and glanced at myself in the mirror one last time. It wasn’t my usual style—not one of the floaty sundresses that made mefeel like I belonged in a storybook or at a farmer’s market. This one was more structured. More … grown-up.
It was a soft slate blue, with clean lines and a square neckline. Knee-length. Fitted at the waist, but not tight. The kind of dress that saidI am an adult woman who pays taxes and has opinions about epoxy versus elastomeric paint.And maybe, if you looked close enough—the kind of dress that still offered a little bit of sex appeal. The barest hint of cleavage. The suggestion of shape beneath structure.
I wanted to look nice, of course. But mostly I wanted to look like someone my parents would see beside Gavin. I didn't want them to see their daughter as someone who had a silly crush on the contractor.
I pulled the apartment door open and found him standing at the base of the stairs, looking up at me with a slow, deliberate smile.
Oh, hell.
Tonight, he was in a pair of dark jeans and a light blue button-down that stretched just enough across his chest and shoulders to make my mouth dry up entirely. He hadn’t shaved—thank heavens—but his dark grey-flecked hair was combed back, still a little damp at the edges, like he’d just stepped out of the shower.
“You’re trying to kill me,” I said before I could help myself.
His grin widened. “Could say the same.”
He climbed the stairs slowly, eyes raking over me from top to bottom. He didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t rush. When he got to the landing, his hand slid around my waist, pulling me in.
“You look beautiful,” he muttered. “Elegant. Sharp. Sexy as hell.”
I smiled, nerves fluttering. “Too much?”
He shook his head. “Not even close.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek for a moment, then added, “Does it make me look more … I don’t know. More adult?”
