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“A tub ain’t what sells houses. It’s good bones.”
“Excuse me, but who’s the agent here?”
I don’t bother reminding her that she’s only 27 years old, and she’s been doing this for a lot fewer years than I’ve been in the building business at 37.
“I could bring in a more experienced agent from Gold Hill and have them explain it to you.”
Now I’ve stepped in it.
“Harley Wood. You. Take. That. Back.” She says it slow and deadly, and through her gritted teeth like I just suggested we summon Satan himself.
Am I sorry I got her all keyed up? Nah. It’s fun to hear her say my name when she’s mad.
Damn, she’s cute. Why won’t she go out with me?
Maybe I brought it on myself. It’s not a secret that I’m tossing around the idea of starting my own business.
I like working for my brothers, but I need to stand on my own two feet. Buck and Wade have taken good care of me and given me a great start, but it’s time to stop letting family prop my ass up.
The truth is, I don’t have the best track record financially. That’s why I wanted to do the Hilltop House primarily by myself, with the Wood name attached to it. I’m hoping this experience will give me enough credibility to get a business loan when I go to the bank.
Fate’s a small town, so it’s possible that Charlotte doesn’t want to date an entrepreneur starting his own business while she’s established in her career. I get it.
That business loan will only come through if Charlotte can sell the damn house to a client whose head is not planted firmly up their own ass.
Getting the loan shouldn’t be an issue, as my business will be much smaller than Wood Brothers. I won’t even be fixing up houses to sell. I’ll be building bathrooms as a private contractor with a small crew of skilled laborers.
And then, perhaps I can provide for a family.
And if I’m not in the business of selling houses, then there’s no more professional boundary between Charlotte and me.
Like I said, I can wait her out.
CHAPTERTWO
Charlotte
That could have gone better.
I should just come clean and tell Harley the truth.
I haven’t spent the last several weeks brainstorming with a mysterious client to come up with ridiculous contingencies on Hilltop House.
The client? Is me.
Why haven’t I officially listed the house?
Good question.
My libido can answer that: because we don’t want to cross that professional boundary, and yet we can’t stop thinking about the giant thing between his legs.
There, I said it.
Everyone in Fate knows it.
Honestly, I wonder how he can even find jeans that fit him. While most women would put a big dick in the plus column for a guy, I find it pretty intimidating.
Because there’s something that he doesn’t know about me—something that every guy I’ve dated since high school has shied away from. Not only am I a virgin, I’m a pretty thoroughly scared virgin, raised in a high-control church in the backwoods of Kentucky, who was taught since a young age that sex outside of marriage was wrong. I only stopped believing that in my early 20s. But even the residual hangups have caused me to strike out in the dating world. I don’t kiss on the first date. I don’t even hug or hold hands, and I dress pretty conservatively except when I’m home alone.
