by T. K. Leigh
Stepping out of the car, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and head toward the house, already getting a few side glances from the crew busy at work. I search for Wes amongst them, spotting him as he walks onto the porch.
Each time I’ve seen him before today, he’s sported three vastly different looks. From commanding businessman. To doting uncle. To the at home dinner with guests.
But this look… Well, this one may be my favorite, if for no other reason than a reminder that this man can go from wearing a tailor-made suit one day to a white t-shirt, ratty jeans, and dingy work boots, his clothes covered with dust and grime, the next. He’s like a chameleon. Just when I think I have him figured out, he changes his appearance, making me start my analysis of who he is all over again.
I continue up the gravel path, my sneakers crunching with each step. There’s something so easy and casual about Wes as he gives direction to one of the workmen. I can’t help but admire him. The concentration in his gaze. The pull of his biceps against the sleeves of his shirt. The way his jeans fall loosely from his hips, but still allow me to make out the definition of his body.
“Enjoying the view?”
His deep voice pulls me out of my fantasies about what he looks like without a shirt, about how his body would feel against mine.
I tear my gaze toward his, a flush heating my face when I observe the cocky smirk crawling across his full lips framed with scruff. He really gives off a hot, construction worker vibe, something I didn’t think possible based on how incredible he looks in a suit. When he crosses his arms in front of his chest, it takes every ounce of resolve I possess to not gawk at his biceps, his defined muscles stretching the fabric of his shirt.
“Londyn?” he says when I don’t immediately respond.
“Sorry. Yes.” I grit a smile, avoiding his stare as I pretend to push a ringlet behind my ear, despite the fact I’d tamed my curls into a short ponytail earlier. “The house looks like it’s coming along quite nicely.”
He stalks toward me, intense blue eyes spearing me as he leans toward me. “I think we both know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
I swallow hard, my heart rate picking up the longer he remains a mere breath away. Then he pulls back, smiling as he touches a hand to my back and leads me toward the house. A man I estimate to be roughly the same age as Wes assesses us as we walk, obviously curious about our somewhat intimate interaction.
“Nash, this is Londyn. She’s the interior designer we’ve hired.” He smiles down at me, a hint of pride in his expression as he introduces me. “Londyn, this is Nash, the foreman on this project. He’s the only one I trust to oversee all the construction and installation.”
“When he’s not trying to take control himself.” Nash laughs, removing his work gloves and extending his hand. He’s on the shorter side, perhaps only an inch or two taller than me. But he still appears to be in decent shape, probably from all the hours of manual labor he must put in every week. “Nice to meet you, Londyn.”
“Likewise,” I say as we shake.
“If you need anything and can’t find me, Nash is the next best thing,” Wes explains.
“Good to know. Now, where do you want me to start?”
Nash quirks a brow. “You’re here to help?” It’s not clear if he’s aggravated or impressed by the idea of a woman infiltrating his crew.
“I know how to lay insulation, install drywall. I learned from my father.”
“Londyn has her own furniture design company,” Wes states. “She up-cycles. There’s no doubt in my mind she can handle a utility knife and a staple gun. Anyway, she’ll be helping me up in the bedroom, so you won’t have another body to keep an eye on.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Let’s go inside.”
The authority in his voice causes a tremor to trickle through me. I don’t know why I like it so much, but it makes me momentarily lightheaded.
“I bet she’ll be helping you in the bedroom,” Nash jokes under his breath as I follow Wes up the front steps and onto the porch.
“I heard that!” Wes shouts without looking back, giving me a sly grin as he steps aside, allowing me to enter the house first.
“Wow,” I exhale upon seeing how much he’s accomplished over the past week. The drywall in every room has been torn down, fresh wiring, pipes, and air ducts now working their way through the bones of the house. The only things that remain are the fireplaces, and I’m thankful for that. They’re too special and unique to destroy.
“I’d hoped they’d be able to extend the gas lines to the fireplaces,” Wes says, as if able to read my mind. “But to do so, we would have had to cut into some of the brick and porcelain surrounding them.”
“It’s not worth it,” I reply without hesitation.
He chuckles, touching my elbow and steering me up the creaky stairs that I plan to replace with something much safer, considering Imogene will be spending some time here.
“I had a feeling that would be your response.”
“The history of this house is too important to destroy for the convenience of a gas fireplace.”
“Agreed.”
“What happened to all the doors? Molding? Cabinets?”
“Out in the detached garage. I figured you’d want to repurpose as much of the original materials as you could.”
“You figured correctly.”
We make our way through the cacophony of hammers and staple guns before coming to a stop in the master suite, natural light streaming in through the windows, aided by a couple of work lights set up in the room.
“Here you go.” He hands me a pair of work gloves.
“No need.” I set my duffle bag on the floor, which has been covered in plastic to preserve the original hardwood. Unzipping it, I find my gloves and slide them on, waving my hands in front of me. “I’ve got my own.”
“Was that a tool belt I saw?”
With a coy smile, I nod, taking my tool belt out of the bag, as well. I wasn’t sure what I’d be doing today, so figured it best to come prepared. Plus, I didn’t want the rest of the crew to think I don’t know what I’m doing when I’ve probably been around tools and construction longer than some of them.
“You aren’t like any other woman I’ve met.”
“Why? Because I’m not some debutante, like you’re accustomed to?” I playfully bat my lashes.
“No.” He pulls his lips together. “Well, yes. But most women I’ve met wouldn’t know the first thing about insulation or putting up drywall. They certainly wouldn’t own a pair of work gloves or a tool belt. Or if they did, it would be because they saw a pink one in the hardware store and thought it would be cute.”
“I’ve always been fascinated with how things are made. Like my father.” I turn from him and walk toward a roll of insulation, carefully unrolling it.
“Does he work in construction?” He takes the top of the insulation from me and starts up the ladder, sliding it between the wooden frame on the top half of the wall while I work it into the stud bays of the lower half.
“It was more of a hobby.”
“Then what does he do?”
“You’re going to laugh.” Spying the blade on the floor by the ladder, I grab it and slice along the insulation, inserting the last bit into the wall.
“Try me.”
I raise myself to my full height. “He’s a pastor.”
“Of a church?”
I snort a laugh. “Unless you know of a different kind of pastor…”
“Huh.” He shifts his gaze from me, studying the wall.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs it off. “Just another piece of the Londyn puzzle snapping into place.”
He extends his hand toward me, wordlessly telling me to hand him the insulation so we can start on the next section. I do, returning my attention to my reason for being here, fitting the insulation into the next stud bay. When I steal a glimpse at Wes just as he does the same, his arms extended over his head causing his shir
t to ride up and expose the hard planes of his stomach, my mouth grows dry. I do everything to stop my libido from fantasizing about what lies at the end of that trail of hair, but she’s got a mind of her own, especially around Wes.
“You really are shameless,” he comments.
“Just making sure you’re doing it correctly.” I focus straight ahead, my cheeks heating from getting caught ogling him yet again. “Lord knows how much insulation you can lay while wearing those expensive suits of yours.”
“And here I thought you liked how I looked in my expensive suits. At least, that was the impression I got when we first met.”
“I do.” I quickly snap my mouth shut, gathering my convoluted thoughts. “I mean…” I shake my head. “You just didn’t strike me as the type of person who would get your hands dirty, for lack of a better word.”
He steps down from the ladder, moving it around me and sliding it farther along. “That reminds me of something Meemaw would say.”
“Why do I get the feeling your grandparents had words of wisdom for every scenario facing you?” I finish fitting the insulation, then stand, stretching my legs.
“Because they probably did.” He laughs under his breath, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “Anyway, one thing Meemaw always said was, ‘Before you assume, learn. Before you judge, understand. Before you speak, think.’”
“And now I feel like a total asshole for thinking you were just another hot guy in a nice suit.”
“Oh, I am absolutely more than happy for you to think I’m a hot guy in a nice suit, Londyn. That’s for damn sure.” His eyes flame as a smirk pulls on his lips. “But hopefully as we work together over the next few months, you’ll learn something else about me.”
“What’s that?”
He curves toward me, his breath hot on my neck. “I’m not like anyone you’ve ever met.” He lingers for a moment, then turns from me, stepping up the ladder.
“So tell me…,” he begins, as if his proximity didn’t turn my insides into jelly, “what was it like growing up as a pastor’s daughter?”
I squat, hoping to distract myself from Wes’ proximity by intently focusing on the insulation.
“For most of my childhood, I didn’t realize what my dad did. I mean, I knew what he did. But I didn’t have any of this ridiculous pressure on me to live a certain way because of who my father was. Not until…” I trail off.
“Not until what?”
I pause as I attempt to formulate a response. What can I possibly tell him without giving him all the sordid details of what led me to walk away from the only family I’ve ever known? Did I really walk away? The phrase suggests I had a choice. I don’t feel like I had much choice in the matter. If I did, it was a fool’s choice. Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t.
“If you don’t want to talk about this, we don’t have to.”
“It’s okay.” I slide the blade against the insulation, cutting it to fit into the partition, then stand, handing him the fiberglass. “My mama died when I was seven.”
He steps down from the ladder, his eyes awash with sympathy. “Londyn, I’m sorry. I—”
“My dad did the best he could trying to raise me, but somewhere along the way… I don’t know…” I exhale deeply, recalling my teenage years. “I’d listen to him preach about God’s hand being in everything, but I couldn’t understand how a God who was supposed to be this all-loving being would take my mother from me. I guess I stopped believing. At least believing like I needed to in order to preserve our relationship.”
“So because you questioned your faith, he stopped talking to you?” He tilts his head.
“It wasn’t just that. But I think that was the beginning of the end, so to speak. Over the years, our relationship was riddled with other incidents, each causing the rope to fray a little more. After I finished my undergrad and…” I search for the words to explain this without going into any detail. “Well, he didn’t support a decision I made that I felt was essential to my wellbeing. And I’m not saying that to sound dramatic. It’s true. If I’d followed the path he wanted, I probably wouldn’t be alive today. So, for my own preservation, I needed to go in a different direction.”
I crouch down, refocusing my attention on the wall. It normally takes months for me to share anything remotely having to do with my past. But with Wes, it just feels right.
It felt right with him, too, though.
“So I packed up my things, came to Atlanta, decided to get my master’s in interior design, and haven’t looked back since.” I push out a nervous laugh, averting my eyes, embarrassed by how much I shared with him, albeit in vague terms. But after last night, after hearing all about Gampy, I get the feeling Wes can understand. That he doesn’t judge me. That he doesn’t blame me.
“I’m sorry you were in a position where you felt like you had to choose. It takes a strong person to stand up for what they believe in, especially to their own family. And for the record…”
When he trails off, I stand and arch a brow. “Yes?”
“I, for one, am grateful you chose the path you did.”
“You are?”
“I am. It’s like…the butterfly effect. You’re familiar with that, correct?”
I nod. “The theory that one small disturbance can set into motion a chain reaction leading to a large shift in the state of things.”
“Precisely. Had you not had a disagreement with your father, you never would have come to Atlanta and studied interior design. You never would have gotten a job working for Margo St. James. She never would have fired you. You never would have attempted to cross a busy intersection in a torrential downpour.” His voice becomes lower, more sensual, the space between us decreasing with every thumping beat of my heart. “And our paths never would have crossed.” He stops a mere whisper from me, my insides coiling from his proximity. “If you ask me, that would have been a damn tragedy.”
Heat builds on my cheeks, my stomach in knots. It’s been years since a man has spoken to me with such conviction, such honesty. And just like with him, it makes me want to tell Wes everything, share my deepest, darkest secrets.
But I’m not the naïve young girl I was all those years ago. I’ve been hurt in ways I never imagined possible. And I still carry that pain as a reminder to not trust so easily.
I’m riding that seesaw. One second, I want to take a risk with Wes, like Hazel encouraged me. But all it takes is one reminder of how badly I was hurt to make me retreat back into my protective shell.
Clearing my throat, I spin from him. “You’re only saying that because you were in desperate need of a designer who wouldn’t destroy the memories you have of this house,” I joke.
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I glance at him. His eyes are narrowed on me in an analytical stare. I can only imagine how my emotional whiplash must be confusing Wes. It confuses me, too.
On a long exhale, he climbs back up the ladder. “That’s true.” He takes the final bit of insulation from me and fits it into the last stud bay. “But I’m really glad that designer is you.”
I keep my gaze trained forward as I work the fiberglass into the walls, torn between telling him I’m glad, too, and protecting myself. After everything I’ve been through, it’s all I know. Nearly every other person in my life has disappointed me.
All reason tells me Wes is no different.
Chapter Eleven
Weston
A rare stillness surrounds me as I step into the foyer after helping Nash load the unused materials into the van, the house now a blank canvas, ready for Londyn to work her magic. I worried this place would lose its character when we gutted it in order to install new electrical, plumbing, and HVAC, but it’s still here. It’s in its bones, and I can’t wait to see what Londyn does with it.
Making my way into the kitchen, I open the cooler and grab a couple of beers before heading toward the back porch. I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to admire Londyn as she sits on the top step, eyes closed, a pe
aceful look on her face that’s shiny with perspiration.
I have to hand it to her. She held her own today. At times, she even made my crew look bad, refusing to take a break when everyone else did. She definitely made me look bad, but I don’t mind. I’d gladly suffer through nicking my finger with the staple gun because I was checking out her ass again if it meant I could have more of these moments with her.
Sensing my presence, she opens her eyes and glances over her shoulder. As she’s about to stand, I shake my head. “Stay.” I lift the two beers. “Figured you could use one after today.” I lower myself beside her and hand her the beer.
“Thanks.” She brings her bottle toward mine, clinking them.
“You bet.”
I swallow a sip of my beer, the cold liquid refreshing after spending nearly ten hours working in the humidity. It’s certainly not what I’m accustomed to. I’m used to sitting in an air-conditioned boardroom while dressed in a suit. I forgot how much I liked this part of the job. It’s what sparked my passion to design buildings in the first place. It makes me want more of this.
“It’s so peaceful here,” Londyn remarks after several quiet moments, the only sounds the ambient music of nature. “Like you can forget everything else and just enjoy the moment.” She takes a long pull from the bottle, finishing on a satisfied exhale. “I can see why you and Julia loved coming here as kids. It’s so different from Atlanta.”
I nod, peering into the distance, feeling like no time has passed since those summer days I’d sit in this very spot, Gampy at my side, sipping on a sweet tea or lemonade, the sound of Meemaw cooking in the kitchen cutting through the chirping birds and buzzing mosquitos. The birds still chirp. Mosquitos still buzz. But I’ll never again sit beside Gampy as he tries to impart words of wisdom, or listen to Meemaw teach Julia how to make whatever comfort foods she would fill our bellies with that evening for supper.
