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I completely forget my reason for visiting her as I enter the office, which has been transformed in the short time she has been here. The chrome desk that originally took up half the space has been replaced by a reclaimed wood table covered with wallpaper samples, flooring chips, and ten different doorknobs.
Dahlia covered the plain gray carpet with an accent rug, added floor lamps to replace the bright overhead fluorescents, and installed a large bookshelf to organize the baskets full of supplies. She removed the previous paintings to make space forher design mood boards.
I head toward the six-foot pinboards covering the wall opposite the window. Fabric clippings, raw material samples, paint chip options, furniture printouts, and hand-sketched drawings are pinned to the surface, giving me a sneak peek into Dahlia’s mind.
I knew she had an eye for modern rustic design—that much became obvious during my hours of researching her career—but seeing her in action takes my breath away.
I clear my tight throat. “Settling in okay?”
“Sam said I could do what I wanted with the room.” A hint of defensiveness bleeds into her voice.
“I see that.”
She peeks up at me through her dark lashes. “Do you hate it?”
“I don’t thinkhateis the right word.” I wince at how the sentence sounds.
Do you ever get anything right?
Reality is, I like her style more than I care to admit. Something about it is warm. Welcoming.
Homey.
“Perfect. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking that…” Dahlia swipes the bag of takeout from my hand.
She searches for the best place to eat before deciding to sit crisscross on the rug and use a cardboard box for a table.
“Thanks for grabbing it for me. I must have missed the guy’s call.” She pops open the first takeout container. The aroma of freshly baked cornbread and pulled pork fills the room, drawing another disturbing grumble from my stomach.
Her gaze snaps toward the source of the noise. “Did you have dinner?”
“Not yet.” I take a step toward the door.
She reaches inside the paper bag for another Styrofoam box and places it beside the first.
I pull out my phone to place an order at Holy Smokes, only to find out the restaurant closed fifteen minutes ago. “Damn.”
“What?” She pops off the top of the barbecue sauce and drizzles some over the pulled pork.
Saliva fills my mouth at an embarrassing rate.
“Do you have a key to lock up?”
“No.”
Great. “Did you expect to leave the front door open?”
She shrugs. “I thought I could sneak out of a window or something.”
I tip my head toward her purple cast. “My liability insurance company is going to go bankrupt because of you.”
Her soft laugh floods me with warmth. “Sam left me his key, so you’re safe.For now.”
First thing tomorrow, I plan on having a chat with Sam about office keys and temporary guests.
“Fine. Be sure to lock up.”
“Got it.” She offers me a half-assed salute before popping open the box containing a whopping amount of brisket, mac and cheese, corn, and some coleslaw.
