Page 30 of One and Only

That had me grinning. “Yes, there are a few of those, depending on which hat I’m wearing for the day.”

“And today’s hat?” he asked, setting the box on the floor by the front door.

“Jobsite dictator,” I said absently, studying the bones of the room. “Making changes and breaking the hearts of every man in the room who thought the plans were finalized.”

There was a large open kitchen, a massive island with a sink in the center. Wooden beams stained in a warm brown stretched along the peaked roof. The cabinets were slightly outdated, as were the floors, but everything was clean and light and comfortable. The furniture was big and solid, everything in a dark, soft-looking leather.

“Nice,” I told him.

The fireplace in the middle of the room was made from large rocks with jagged edges in varying shades of gray.

He needed some rugs and throw blankets, maybe some artwork on the wall to soften it up, but it wasn’t terrible. It simply looked—for better or worse—like a man who didn’t care much for decorating put it all together.

I hummed. “Would you ever consider painting your trim?”

He blinked. “What’s wrong with how it is now?”

“Nothing,” I said honestly. “But once I’m done with Olive’s room, believe me, the rest of this place will need a freshening up.” I patted his arm. “Trust me. I’m very good at my job.”

“Speaking of Olive’s room.” He ran a hand through his hair. “She’s upstairs getting pajamas on after her bath. Do you want to see the space?”

Hands on my hips, I turned to study him. “Not yet. First, I need to …” I gestured vaguely to my face and hair.

“Right.” He showed me down a hallway past the kitchen. “My bedroom is in there. There’s a brush in the drawer below the sink.”

His bedroom was immaculate. The bed, large and centered in the room, was covered in crisp white linens, made with military precision. On his nightstand was a charging cord, a lamp, and a picture of Olive—the only personal touch in the entire space.

It didn’t escape my notice that he was doing a lot for Olive to have a space that she loved, but Beckett didn’t seem to put the same thought process into his own bedroom.

Our bedroom? I wondered.

Was that where I’d sleep?

My stomach went weightless at the thought—me and him and beds and how this would all work—but like every other unanswered question, I slotted it somewhere in the middle of the ever-growing list.

His bathroom was much of the same. A big glass-enclosed shower that could use some updated hardware and a double vanity that desperately needed some new light fixtures. But the floors were fine and so were the counters and cabinets.

I brushed my hand over the edge of the countertop, trying to imagine us dancing around each other in the mornings. The clear glass shower doors were so very, very clear, and I had to blink away. My eyes landed on the mirror.

I studied my reflection with a grimace.

“This,” I said, plucking sawdust out of my ponytail, “will not do.”

Five minutes later, I’d washed the jobsite grime off my face, slipped on a fresh coat of mascara, my hair was brushed back into a low bun, and my plaid shirt was tied around my waist to hide the smears of dirt on my ass.

Beckett didn’t comment on my appearance when I joined him in the kitchen, but his eyes tracked over me in a way that left a trail of warmth over my skin.

That is why I was early.

Without giving him any warning of what I was going to do, I let my eyes wander in the same way. He was casual today too, wearing dark track pants and a soft-looking gray T-shirt that hugged his biceps and broad chest.

“What?” he asked.

“Were you affectionate with Josie?” I asked, eyes lingering on his arms. He shifted them over his chest, clearly uncomfortable with my pointed perusal.

“I … no. Not really.” He cleared his throat, and I let my gaze snag there too. What a nice throat he had. “Greer, what are you doing?”

“Favorite food?”

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