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Maybe that’s why Beau hit a nerve. He talks about architecture like it’s his obsession, too. Huh.
Whatever the case, there will be no kissing. He is a client. And there will be no calling of Jimmy Wayne, either. He is the past. All that matters—all that hasevermattered—are my buildings. And this one is going to be spectacular.
But as I sketch on my tablet, I can’t help but notice the window I drew looks like Beau’s lips. I laugh at myself, scratch it, and start over. This is ridiculous. I am getting a headache thinking about all of this nonsense.
Or because there’s still a towel on my head.
I grunt and get up to finish my hair. It’s mostly dried, but it dried in the towel, and now there is the dreaded frizz. I could start over, but I don’t want to spend all night in the bathroom, so I suck it up and apply a de-frizzing agent that doesn’t really work, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something productive. Then I plow ahead on my tablet.
The ideas are coming, and I’m close to that elusive flow state thing when I get another text from Jimmy Wayne. “It’s important, El.”
He is the only person who ever calls me El. I have hated it since I was a kid. My name is Elsie. Not El. I told him that countless times. But he persisted, thinking it was a cute way to tease me. I still hate it.
So, I turn my phone on silent and flip it over so I don’t see it. No more distractions. No more men. Let’s do this.
16
BEAU
What the hell did I do wrong?
It was the question that ruined the rest of my weekend, and it continues to haunt my Monday morning. I am not the man who mistakes a woman’s interest. In fact, I have never been turned away for a kiss. I know when a woman is interested. She wanted me.
So why did she run away?
Never in my life have I been one of those men who found women to be mysterious. Women are like anyone else. They put signs out there that may differ from what a man would do, but they are readable and obvious to anyone looking for them. And Elsie put every sign out there.
There was no mistaking Elsie staring at my mouth. The way her lips curled at the corners when she did. For Pete’s sake, she even scooted closer once everyone else had left. I presumed she had been too shy to make a move with my family around, and so she had waited for them to leave. It couldn’t have been more obvious.
And yet, she left.
It was a mystery. She had told me she was single, so that wasn’t it. With someone as straight-shooting and plain-spoken as Elsie, it seemed peculiar for her to flirt all day and night and then take off. Maybe she only enjoys flirting?
A quick Google search told that wasn’t it, and that she likely enjoyed the ego boost of flirting. But that doesn’t seem to be the case either. Why flirt with me when she knows we will be working together for a long time? It doesn’t make any sense logistically to risk the potential for awkwardness.
So why the hell did I do it? Because I couldn’t stop myself from trying.
It didn’t matter that she annoys me. Or that she’s so insistent that her ideas are better than mine. Or that she frustrates me to the point of almost yelling in a business setting. How juvenile of me. But Elsie Braudel brings out that side of me. It’s embarrassing how she gets to me.
She is smart and funny in a weird way, and I cannot predict what is going to come out of her mouth next. Elsie doesn’t back down with me. She is so stubborn and confident and talented, and I hate that she doesn’t listen, but I love that she doesn’t put up with my shit.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I should hate her. Anyone else who acts like she does would piss me off, and that would be enough to dismiss any physical attraction to them. What is so special about Elsie that she gets past that for me? The question boggles my mind.
Whatever the case, today, I have to be on my best behavior. She’s not going to get a flirt out of me, and she’s not going to be harassed by me. The thing at the beach was a fluke, and I’m going to assume she is not interested in keeping things any more than professional. I made the first move. If she is interested, she can come to me.
As soon as she walks through my office door, though, I am drawn to her. Fuck. That innocent white silk blouse, the tight gray pencil skirt. The red heels… it’s all working for me. Her hair is down today, long yellow curls like a German milkmaid. I want to bury my face in them.
“Good morning, Beau,” she says brightly. Too brightly for her.
She feels awkward. Great. This is just how I wanted my morning to go. I smile. “Good morning, Elsie. Your email says you have some more ideas.”
She smiles and nods as she lays her tablet out and gets comfortable. “Clambake aside, I worked the rest of the weekend on some designs you will love.”
“That remains to be seen.”
With only an eye roll for an objection to my cool response, she opens up her tablet to show me. “I took your idea about The Sagamore, the white exterior and the gabled roofs, minus the horse-drawn carriages, and I came up with this.”
I squint at the drawing to determine if I’m seeing what I’m seeing. There isn’t an inch I don’t hate. “Is that roof metal?”
