Page 10 of One and Only

Greer licked lightly at her bottom lip as she studied my face. “I don’t usually get carte blanche. What if I show up with gold threaded sheets and a diamond chandelier?”

I arched an eyebrow, and she smiled.

“If you need to leave, I think I have enough to start my preliminary design, yes.” Her eyes were speculative. “I’ll need room dimensions, though. And if you have any other spaces for her—a bathroom or playroom—I can tack those on too.” She smiled. “No extra charge. We’ll give her something amazing, I promise.”

I nodded.

“Parker didn’t”—she paused—“he didn’t give me much information about you. Or why you need a space for her now.”

“Probably because I didn’t tell him.”

She pursed her lips as she studied me. Crossing her arms, she unabashedly flicked her gaze around my face, then down my chest to my hands, where they still rested on the table.

“What’s your story then, Beckett Coleman?”

The answer to that question stayed buried somewhere deep, caught long before I was able to drag them up my throat. It wasn’t a story I shared often, and I wouldn’t be sharing it with her if I could avoid it.

The crux of it, of course, was that this was my one shot to be the dad I’d always wanted to be. Transforming a space that would make her happy, make her feel welcome and safe, I’d do whatever necessary to have that for her.

Sharing my story with Greer Wilder wasn’t necessary.

“I thought you had another meeting to get to.”

The evasion was clear, and she narrowed her eyes. I found myself holding my breath to see if she’d push, but Greer took another darting look at her watch and exhaled slowly.

“I do.” She smiled lightly. “Lucky you.”

“I’ll email you the dimensions,” I told her.

“Perfect. I’ll get to work on the mood board, and we can go from there.” She stood as I did. “What’s your timeline on this?”

“I’ve got a bit over a month before Olive moves in full time,” I told her.

Greer emitted a low whistle. “Okay then. I’ve always loved a challenge.” She held out her hand again. “Pleasure to meet you, Beckett.”

This time, I was taking her hand with a different sort of awareness. I didn’t like it. Awareness meant noticing things—like soft skin and strong fingers and direct, unflinching eye contact. My hand tingled when I pulled it away from hers. I wanted to flex my fingers, shake the sensation free from my skin.

Her eyes were heavy on my back as I walked away.

As I approached the door, a tall guy around my age, with blond hair and a wide jaw, held the door open for me.

In his hand was a single red rose.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Thanks,” I told him.

When I cleared the door, I turned briefly and watched the hostess walk him back to Greer’s booth. Something uncomfortable flickered behind my chest.

I blew out my breath and walked with long strides toward where I’d parked my SUV. It wasn’t until I’d gotten in, turned it on, and started pulling out of the parking garage and went to grab my phone to call Josie that I realized it was still sitting on the table at the restaurant.

The line of traffic stretched out in front of me, and I closed my eyes, pulling from whatever well of patience I might have left to drive back around the few blocks between me and the restaurant.

The twenty minutes it took me to loop around to the restaurant and drive the street until I found an open spot felt about four times longer than that.

Once I’d found an empty spot and walked back to the restaurant with quick, impatient strides, I pulled the door open with a bit more vigor than I should have. The hostess’s head snapped up, her eyes wide.

“Umm,” she said, eyes flicking back to Greer’s table. “She’s … busy?”

---