I shrug. “Life as a small business owner. Your workday bleeds into every day.”
He nods. “I get it. The ranch doesn’t take days off either.” His gaze moves to the window, where horses graze in the distance. “The work never ends.”
We are, I realize, not so different in this. I appreciate that he understands.
The last man I was with didnotappreciate the way my brain never fully clocked out. I tried to explain that my work was also my passion, but he broke things off because he said I wasn’t present, claimed I wasn’t meeting his needs.
I take a sip of the beer Slade handed to me. It’s a strong IPA and I accidentally skipped lunch, so the buzz is winding through my veins. It’s loosening my tongue, too, which is probably why I let slip, “It’s nice when someone gets it, instead of resenting it.”
Slade’s gaze sharpens. “Someone gave you a hard time about your work.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“No.” He turns his beer bottle once. “Just a guess.”
I look at my notebook. “Ex-boyfriend. He felt my work got more of me than he did.” I sigh. “He wasn’t entirely wrong, in all fairness.”
“Sounds like a him problem. If he was worth paying attention to, you would have paid attention to him.”
I laugh, startled by the insight as much as the fact that it’s coming from Slade. “I suppose that’s true.”
He pushes off the wall he’s leaning on and walks toward me, unhurried, and reaches out. “I’ll take that for you,” he says.
Our fingers brush as he slips the empty bottle from my hand.
His proximity, the casual accidental touch, flusters me more than it should. I feel like a schoolgirl with acrush.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Want another?” he asks, nodding toward the beer.
I do. I could happily spend the entire rest of the day with Slade. “I shouldn’t,” I say reluctantly. “I’ve got monthly accounts to balance after this.”
When we head back to the kitchen, he tosses the bottles in the recycling and leans against the counter. “So what’s your professional opinion of this place? What’s next?”
Professional. Right.
“It’s a beautiful home,” I say, “And it certainly needs to be furnished, and perhaps some earthier finishings to warm it up, but… can I be honest with you?”
He goes still, like he’s bracing himself for something. “Go ahead.”
“Okay. Is it safe to say you’re a minimalist?”
“I don’t know. I guess. I don’t care about stuff.”
I smile gently at him. “‘Stuff’ is kind of what I do. You’re a minimalist. I’m a maximalist. This place is all clean lines and neutral colors, and, well. You’ve seen my boutique. It’s all about color and texture and pattern and quirky details.” Regretfully, I say, “Maybe we’re not the right fit for each other.”
There’s a pause.
“But Lila. This?” He gestures around himself. “This is what I want to change. I grew up in a house like the one you’re describing. Something colorful and warm and lived-in and… I’d like this place to feel like that too. I just don’t know how. That’s where I need you.”
I consider everything he’s shown or told me so far. The house with nothing in it. The rental apartments in one city after another. The couch he’d toss in a fire without a second thought. The dog he’ll take in temporarily, but not claim as his own.
Nothing permanent. Nothing that couldn’t be walked away from easily.
As I hesitate, he says into the silence, “I want this house to feel like you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest at those words. Slade’s expression remains neutral, but color climbs his cheekbones. Just the slightest hint of it, but it’s deeply satisfying to witness on a man this contained.
