by Lex Martin
Relief, thick and palpable, rushes through me. I keep my face neutral and nod. “Well, that makes it less complicated for you, I’m sure.”
His lips twitch again. Is he trying to hold back a smile? I pet my dog and pretend I don’t care that he’s single.
We sip our coffee and munch on the croissants and talk about how much we love this neighborhood. Chauncey flops on his back at Josh’s feet, and Josh leans down to rub his belly.
“He’s getting mud everywhere. Do you have a towel I can use to dry him off?”
Sighing, I wave him off. “It’s fine. I’m going to have to bathe him anyway, or he’ll have the entire house smelling like wet dog.”
His eyebrow arches.
“What?”
“Are you up to wrangling your dog for a bath?”
Not really. I’d prefer to kick back with a bottle of wine and Netflix until the swelling in my ankle subsides, but Chauncey is a mess. “I’m sure after a little ice and Advil, I’ll be fine.”
“Where do you bathe him?”
“In my guest bathroom.”
He motions down the hall. “The first door on the left, right?”
Um. I’m about to be freaked out that he knows the floor plan when it starts to make sense.
“You were serious about wanting to buy this house?”
“I never joke about property acquisitions. And yes, that’s how I know the layout of your house. My realtor gave me a tour.” He laughs. “Sorry, didn’t mean to weird you out.”
He gives me another one of those Colgate grins before he picks up my dog and heads down the hall.
Holy shit. Are you really giving my filthy mongrel a bath, or did I hit my head at the park and I’m lying in a gutter right now?
By the time I limp to the bathroom, Josh has the tub half full and Chauncey is covered in bubbles.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I mumble, plopping down on the closed toilet seat.
“It’s better than the mountain of work I have to do at the office. By the way, I love what you did with this new tile.”
He must have a damn good memory for details, but he is an architect after all.
“Thank you. I had a hellish time finding the right vintage pattern, and then I was terrified I’d run out of tiles or break one.”
He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “You did it yourself?”
I nod. “Just don’t look too closely because it’s not perfect. Bob Villa makes it look so easy online.”
“You learned how to grout the bathtub with do-it-yourself videos?”
“Yes, sir. I’m handy like that. But I grossly underestimated how long it would take to learn how to do it, find the right equipment, prep the area, and then actually execute my plan.” Reaching up, I retie my ponytail. “It’ll probably take me ten years to finish renovating this place, but I don’t care. I love this house.”
“What else are you hoping to do?”
We talk about the rest of my plans, and Josh listens, asking more questions, and by the time Chauncey is rinsed, I’m altogether enchanted with this man. I suspect my dog is too.
But wait. I can’t be enchanted. I need him as a client.
It’s hard not to feel conflicted when this gorgeous guy is kneeling shirtless in my bathroom, smiling up at me as he pets my sopping wet dog.
“Chauncey never sits still for me.”
He wraps a towel around my pooch and smiles. “Guess I have the magic touch.”
As Josh dries him, Chauncey’s eyes close like he’s having the time of his life.
I can only imagine.
8
Josh
I close the door to Evelyn’s bungalow and hop down the stairs, still shirtless, feeling like I’ve never had a better time with a woman, or an Olympic mud puddle diver, which in Evie’s case is the same thing. I chuckle at the thought of her nosedive into that mess. And then I start thinking about the way she looked, no bra, tight shirt. Damn. While she’s smoking hot, it’s more than that. I can’t explain why, but I needed to stay today. I felt compelled to help her, feed her breakfast and lunch, and talk to her about dogs and literature and home improvement. I just needed to be with her, all day.
Half-naked.
She’d insisted on washing my shirt and returning it clean, since Chauncey got it thoroughly wet during his bath—even though she was wearing it, not me. I tried to argue with her, but she stuck the shirt in a bin and wouldn’t let me have it. While it was weird to be lounging around in just my track pants all day, she didn’t seem to mind. I caught her looking at my chest when she was talking to me. Did I read her right? Is she as attracted to me as I am to her?
I hope so. I cross the street at the corner and head back home.
After we bathed her dog and she showed me the renovations she’s planning for her house, it was time for lunch. She tried to insist on hobbling around to make it, but I shooed her out of the tiny kitchen.
“But it’s a one-butt kitchen,” she said, protesting.
That stopped me, and I stared at her. “What?”
“Only one butt fits. That’s how my grandma used to describe her kitchen when she shooed me and my dad out. She’d say, ‘This is a one-butt kitchen, no room for any of you.’”
“Well,” I replied, laughing, trying not to think of her glorious behind, “get your butt out of your one-butt kitchen, so my butt has room.” I found bread and lunch meat, and made turkey sandwiches and fruit salad.
We sat across from each other in her dining nook at the edge of the one-butt kitchen and ate, discussing what’s next for the house.
I like her ideas for the space and am not the least bit sorry I didn’t get it. She’s fixing and updating, but keeping the original charm and bone structure of this great, old-fashioned home.
Honestly, I wish I could help more. She’s got a lot of work ahead of her, and it’s not all stuff you can learn from This Old House. The wavy, double-hung windows need to be reglazed, the siding and roof have to be replaced, and the landscaping is abysmal. And that’s just the outside. Inside, it looks like she’s never moved in, with moving boxes everywhere.
I’m amazed that she’s lived there for as long as she has without unpacking. It’s like she’s so busy with work and fixing up her house, she can’t be bothered to actually live in her home. But there’s electrical work, plumbing, refinishing floors, and hanging light fixtures, just for starters. After lunch, I figured if I didn’t say goodbye, I was probably moving in and picking up a grout trowel to help finish the tile in the second bathroom.
As I pass the edge of the park and turn back up my street, I realize she’s gotten under my skin because I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s so… intriguing.
Somehow, during all that time, I forgot why I even know who she is. All that matters is that after spending hours with her, not only am I fascinated by her renovation work, but I’m also a little enchanted watching the way her mind solves problems. The way her eyes light up when she figures out a design solution for the entranceway. How cute she looks pushing her bangs to the side so she can concentrate.
Really, she’s beautiful. Even with dirt on her face and a flush in her cheeks, completely flustered, her easy good looks shine through.
She felt amazing against me, too.
At first, I only wanted to help her home, since she was hurt. Something changed, though, when she wrapped her arms around me to keep from falling. When I gripped her, my arm around her narrow shoulders, her lush body molded against mine like it was made for me. She smelled sweet, like almond-scented shampoo, and felt warm and strong, but feminine. I wanted to keep my arm around her for longer than it took to get her home.
But I can’t touch her again. She’s my attorney.
Probably.
When I step up to my building, I remember my cousin, who’s a lawyer, telling me that his partner got in trouble for banging a client.
Shit. I guess Evie’s completely off-limits, no matter how beautiful she is a
nd no matter how interesting I find her.
Christ, then I shouldn’t have gone crazy with those cock jokes.
A smile lifts my lips when I think of the red hue that crept up her neck when we talked about that silly cutting board. I love a woman who doesn’t take herself so seriously.
And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased she was curious about my dating status.
Since I still haven’t done my workout, I go down to the basement and crank up the speed of the treadmill. Running indoors isn’t as fun as running in the park, but I need to get in the exercise.
As I run, I think about ways to solve some of her remodeling problems. There’s wasted space in the hallway that could become a closet for linens or a bookshelf. And I know a great salvage house parts shop that would surely have a better pedestal sink than Home Depot.
I beat out four miles in record time and, panting, sweaty, I take the stairs to feel the burn in my legs.
Once in my living room, I do a few pushups and sit-ups, and while I really need to shower, I’m distracted by wanting to check out the Pinterest board she mentioned.
For the record, guys don’t do Pinterest, and if Drew ever found out I was trolling this site, he’d make me hand over my balls.
But I create an account so I can see what she’s talking about. Because I want to know more about her. I find her profile, follow her, and check out her boards. The posts look fantastic—warm, Roycroft-inspired paint colors, Stickley furniture, mica lamps, Fiestaware plates, subway tile, and vintage appliances.
The pictures are the complete opposite of my home, but I love them. I love the design details that look almost Japanese. The handcrafted spirit. For a style that is more than a hundred years old, it’s strikingly modern and still looks good today. Total architect porn.
I shut my laptop and head to the shower.
Reaching in, I turn the water on, shuck off my clothes, and step into the warmth.
But here, as I’m soaping up, I’m not thinking of Evie’s Pinterest board full of wooden ladderback chairs. I’m thinking about how her eyes are luminescent when she laughs. And how her smile nearly knocks me over every time. And how I’d love to feel her curves and press myself against those beautiful tits and round ass.
Fuck.
Now I’m hard.
Not wanting to lose an opportunity—and realizing I haven’t taken any shower pics for my blog—I jump out of the shower, streak through my place dripping suds everywhere, grab my phone, and climb back under the water. As the soap streams down my body, I snap pictures of my now-hard junk for a new post. I’m all wet, one hand with my cell just out of the spray of the showerhead, the other hand stroking myself and thinking of her the entire time.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Satisfied with the pictures, I reach out of the shower, put the phone on the counter, and finish myself off, imagining the way her gray eyes would look if she were on her knees, looking up at me with my cock in her mouth. The way her pouty full lips would close around me. How she’d moan around me.
Fuck.
I grip my balls with one hand and my shaft with the other, and go faster until I come with a bursted breath.
God. Yes.
Later that evening, as I upload the photos to the editing software, I think about the theme for tonight’s post and what I’m going to say.
I select an image and insert dark clouds and rain onto a photo of my wet, hard dick, with a background of the Seattle skyline.
But I can’t help myself. I add a puddle with a dog on a leash to the side of the image.
“It’s a rainy day in the city, and I’m intrigued,” I type. That kind of statement is ambiguous enough to cause a lot of comments, but it doesn’t say anything. Still, if Evie looks at it, she’ll know it’s about her.
And I think I want her to know.
“Mr. Cartwright, I have to say, you’re distracted this morning.”
Startled, I look up from my cell phone in a foggy, pre-coffee haze. It’s Monday morning in the office, and all the staff is in. I’m in the middle of texting Evie to check on her ankle, completely losing track of what I’m doing, and evidently not aware my secretary is asking a question.
“I’m sorry, Meredith, what did you say?”
“No problem, Mr. Cartwright. I asked if you wanted me to add the Waller party to your calendar.”
Waller party?
I look at the invitation she’s holding out—it’s the one Henry gave me, which I shoved in my overcoat pocket.
Now that I read it more carefully, I notice it’s for Gwen Waller’s birthday. As in Waller, Goldman & Associates, Evie’s firm.
Before I can respond to Meredith, and as if she knows I’m thinking about her, Evie responds to my ankle inquiry.
It feels better, she texts. All of that ice helped!
I look up at Meredith with a sheepish look on my face. “Hang on a second.”
Did you wrap it? I type.
Yeah.
Good.
I turn to Meredith. “Yes, please, put it on my calendar.”
“Sure thing, boss. And I’m glad to see you smiling. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you so happy.”
She drops the invitation in my basket, turns, and walks out of my office. I stare at her, wondering what she’s talking about.
A few minutes later, I get another text from Evie.
I saw your blog last night.
Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t have added the caption or the dog in the puddle. Part of me definitely wanted her to see it. But I’ve got to play it off as a joke.
The more important question is, did you keep Chauncey away from it?
Ha ha. That dog loves you more than me.
I chuckle out loud, but stare at my phone. I want to talk to her. I want to hear her say the things she’s saying, not just read the text.
Almost immediately, I get another text. You know what I mean.
I immediately respond, I do. But my shirt looks better on you than it does on me. So we’re even.
There’s a pause before she responds. I turn to my emails to go through the ones marked in red and delete all the spam. My phone buzzes.
Speaking of which, I should return it.
Fuck it. I hit the phone icon and call her. She picks up almost immediately, and I get that jolt I always feel when I hear her voice.
“Hey, Josh.”
“Evie.” I don’t know why, but I like saying her name. “I was given an invitation to a party honoring Malcolm Waller’s wife, Gwen. Do you know anything about this?”
“Oh!” I hear relief in her voice. “Yes, that’s his annual gift to his wife—a party like no other. It’s the highlight of our firm’s year, and we always invite a lot of clients and local businesses.” Her voice drops. “I haven’t been invited yet, so I haven’t been able to ask anyone.”
I smile. “I was just curious. So that means there’s a possibility I’ll see you there?”
“Absolutely. I hope so.”
“Great.” I think my facial muscles are putting in a workout that they absolutely never get since I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t care. This woman cheers me up for no fucking reason at all. Then I remember my shirt. “Oh, and about your text? I can stop by and pick up my shirt any time. No rush.”
“That will work.” She pauses, and it sounds like she got up to close the door. She talks a little bit more freely than she did a moment before, and she’s almost conspiratorial. “The partners are supposed to have a meeting at noon today, so hopefully I’ll hear back about us taking on your representation, and we can get going on your matter.”
“Then I look forward to your call.”
Hanging up, I glance up and see Meredith looking back into my office with a huge grin on her face.
Why is everyone smiling so much?
I push up my glasses and get to work on the plans for a movie theater renovation, completely losing myself in the work. The city awarded me t
hat big redevelopment project in Sellwood, and my head is exploding with ideas. I want to keep the original painted ceiling intact, but update the acoustics, seating, and sound design. I’m interrupted when my office phone rings, and Meredith transfers Henry to me. I’m barely paying attention, but I pick it up.
“You’re still going on Saturday, right?” he says into my ear.
I roll my eyes. “Hello to you too, Hank.”
No matter what age, it is the job of the youngest sibling, i.e. me, to be a pain in the ass to all the older ones.
I save my work and look at the clock. It’s almost two. Time goes by fast when I’m focused, and coming up from the work feels like I’m coming up for air while swimming. But I love it. That’s something Tiffany never really understood—that I actually like my job.
She wanted me to be with her twenty-four seven. But if she wanted me so badly, why did she cheat?
These are questions I drank out of my system months ago.
Right now, though, I have to deal with my brother, who is not happy with his nickname. “Don’t call me that.” He’s not nasty, just annoyed. Exasperated. The usual.
I look at my cell phone. Shouldn’t I have heard from Evie by now about that meeting? “Yes, I’m going. What time do you need me to pick you up?”
“You’re busy. Don’t worry about it. We’ll come get you.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, opening a new file on my computer to backup my work. “So, seven?”
“Yes.”
I hang up and check my cell phone again. No messages from Evie, but I do have an email on my blog account asking whether I’m interested in modeling men’s underwear.
Suppressing a laugh, I go to email them no, and then I think about it. Maybe this is something I should discuss with my attorney—if I have one. Again, as if reading my thoughts, my cell phone lights up, and it’s her. I answer, and I can tell immediately by the tone of her voice that it’s not good news.
“Josh, I’m so sorry. I spoke with my boss, and he said the other partners didn’t want to risk the firm’s reputation on a blog with that kind of content. They didn’t want anyone to Google us and potentially find you. The firm has chosen to decline representation.”
