Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  The interior designer in me understands the desire to modernise and renew. The granddaughter in me, though, wants no one touching these walls but me. The squeaking cabinet doors sound like garbage to a developer, whereas to me, they sound like tea and shortbread cookies in vintage teacups. With my parents having died long before Gran, I’m the last one who can preserve the history and memories that live under this roof.

  I have big ideas because it can’t stay this way. Ideas to make it mine while keeping Gran’s and Mom’s memories alive. I’ve been sketching things out and using the crazy finds from around the house to inspire my design elements. Some rooms are hard to picture any differently than they are now, mostly because of sentimentality. Some are easy.

  The kitchen, for instance. It’s quintessential 1950s brimming with kitsch. Salmon-coloured walls, worn canary yellow flat-faced cabinets with matching laminate countertops and chipped sky-blue linoleum floors. The upper cabinets are so low they’d likely catch on fire from using the toaster on the counter beneath them. The space-saving fold away kitchen table, while innovative for its time, is not my favourite feature, either.

  My most prized thing about the kitchen, and the central aspect of the design I’ve created, has nothing to do with the era at all but rather embodies the essence of Gran. My inspiration is her collection of copper pots. She amassed them one-by-one, so they’re mismatched and a perfect representation of her eclectic personality. She stopped using them many years ago because they got too heavy to lift. Now, like everything in her house, they sit in drawers, buried under mountains of other memories.

  The timer goes off on the oven and I jump up from the kitchen-table-come-office-desk to pull out the freshly baked cookies. And by freshly baked I mean fresh out of the tube of pre-made dough and on to the cookie sheet.

  I’m not much of a baker. Perhaps once the kitchen is redone, I’ll be inspired to learn.

  As I get the final cookie on to the cooling rack, there’s a knock at the front door. I shake the oven mitts from my hands and rush to answer it.

  “Izzy.” Ash greets me with a beaming smile and arms wide open for a hug. At easily six foot three, muscled from head to toe and with a face covered by a giant but well-kept blond beard, he is a stereotypical lumberjack-looking man. Who likes to hug.

  I wrap my arms around his waist and he pulls me in by the shoulders, where I land against his chest in a little nook under his chin. I nestle myself in for longer than is customary, inhaling his piney scent while he holds me like we’re more than friends.

  There’s no doubt that Asher and I are attracted to each other. We hold hands, I call him just to talk, and we go out on weekends, just the two of us. But I’ve never been able to get past the idea of having to work together after seeing each other naked. And since he’s the best contractor I know, I’m not willing to risk ruining things.

  He steps into the house, chin tipped, already observing. “So, this is home sweet home, hey?”

  “This is it.” I lift my hands in presentation. “I have a lot of changes I’d like to make so that it becomes my home.” But not so many changes that it loses that feeling I love so much.

  Ash claps his hands and rubs them together, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to get to see a whole new side of you.” I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows. “You’re always designing for other people’s taste. This is all for you. I can’t wait to see what your style is. Unicorns and princesses or leather and chrome?”

  I knock my shoulder against his arm. “Neither!” Of the two trends, I’m unsure which is worse.

  That’s not true. Unicorns and princesses are way worse.

  “Smells like an open house in here. You expecting other contractors to come by and give their opinions?” He tries to sound slighted but he’s way too happy a guy to let something as trivial as someone else’s viewpoint bother him.

  “You know yours is the only one that matters to me.”

  There’s no one I trust more than Asher, because he would never steer me wrong or let me make a bad choice. It’s another reason we can’t date. How could he be objective and keep me honest if he was emotionally invested in me?

  “I baked the cookies for you, but they’re fresh out of the oven, so let’s do the tour while they cool off.” I grab my portfolio. “Where should we start?”

  Chapter 8

  Owen

  “Thanks for helping me out.”

  Scott slaps me on the back. “Man, you know I have no life outside of working for you.” He says it with a tone implying he’d rather be doing anything else on a Sunday afternoon than unloading a truckload of tile.

  My mind has been so wrapped up in what to do about Princess that I put the wrong worksite on the delivery form. My sloppy work is costing both Scott and I our one day off. Also, it’s the one day of the week when I get to spend more than an hour with my dad, and I’m extra pissed off that my mistake cost me time with him.

  “Everything alright? All these years and you’ve never screwed-up like this.”

  I cast my glance to the house next-door. “Everything’s fine.”

  He laughs under his breath. “How’s Princess Isabella?”

  “Still there.”

  He drags a box out of the truck bed and waits for me while I do the same. “You haven’t charmed the pants off her yet—or the roof from over her head—with your witty banter?”

  My eyes give him an answer that doesn’t require words.

  We walk into the house and carry the boxes upstairs before he continues his line of questioning. “Did you see the work truck out front of her place?”

  “Yes.” I see everything that happens there.

  “Who has she hired?”

  I shake my head. I don’t recognise the pickup.

  We head downstairs. “She can’t have permits yet. Bet you can stall her out by being a pesky neighbour. Take a grievance to City Council or the next community meeting,” Scott says.

  I don’t require him to spell it out for me. I understand the process, albeit from the other side of the fence. The other side of Iris’ fence, specifically.

  We each grab another box. “Won’t need to.”

  “I imagine you have a plan, but you’re going to keep it from me unless I drag each word from your tight jaws syllable by syllable.”

  Sounds about right.

  Scott shakes his head. “Let me know if you need me to play a part in your scheme. Please, keep it legal.”

  I give him another sideways glare. Of course, it will be legal; I have Pops and Tommy to consider. I’m still sticking with my simple plan of being nice. Only now, I really have to be nice, so she can’t tell that I’m faking it.

  We finish hauling boxes and Scott pulls over a stool to the kitchen island. It’s the one place to sit, unless you count the single lawn chair I have outside. I grab him a beer from the fridge and slide it across the counter towards him.

  “Come for steaks and the football game after I visit Pops. Tommy will be here at five.” It’s my way of making up for my mistake today.

  “You put a grill out back?”

  “I picked up a Coleman this morning.” That reminds me, it’s still in the truck.

  I head out the front door and hear Princess’ voice before I see her. She’s talking about siding materials. I was hoping she’d back out of her unrealistic plan, but it seems she’s serious about making my life as fucking miserable as possible.

  When I get to the curb, I see her standing on her lawn. She’s wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans and a t-shirt with a wide neck that hangs off one shoulder, exposing delicate skin to the bright sun with the confidence of an eighteen-year-old cheerleader. She pulls it off. From where I stand, her ass looks like she spends her days doing cartwheels and flips.

  I want to go back to only hearing her voice. I wish I were fucking blind.

  She looks at her shack, flanked by that burly guy I saw consoling her at the funeral. He obviously works in the trades from the c
lothes he’s wearing and the beaten-up truck he’s driving. The two of them laugh about something, and he wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side. She slides her palm along his back, touching him in a way that is far from professional. What contractor worth the title sleeps with his clients? I may not be the poster child for healthy relationships, and I still got the message that it’s bad for business.

  I slam the door shut, and they both turn at the sound. There’s no use worrying about being caught as her neighbour. She’ll find out, eventually. With the Coleman box under my arm, I stroll across the property line. Princess’ smile falls into a deep scowl and she drops her hand from between the contractor’s shoulder blades. I don’t know why she’s angry with me. The last time I spoke to her, I helped her with the moving truck.

  Unless she already figured out who I am.

  The guy smiles and moves towards me, stretching out his arm in greeting from five feet away.

  “Hey,” he says cheerfully, obviously remembering me from the funeral. I extend my hand and give a firm, one-pump handshake. “We didn’t officially meet, uh, last time.” His voice loses its glee. “I’m Asher.” I didn’t care to meet him that day and I care less today.

  I look him up and down. We’re about the same height and build. He’s got calloused hands and a few split knuckles, likely from rubbing them against raw materials rather than from fighting. He’s too chipper to be a scrapper. And his nose is too straight.

  “Isabella.” I greet her in as pleasant a tone I can muster given what’s taking place here.

  Asher looks back and forth between the two of us, sizing up our relationship. Probably worried she’ll dump his ass for mine. She will—in the work sense. This house will be mine, and he’ll no longer have a reason to keep touching her.

  A small grunt precedes her snarky greeting. “I see you looked me up. It’s Izzy, by the way.” She’ll always be Princess to me. “Don’t be shy about who you really are on my account.” She turns to her friend with a hair toss and a wave of presentation in my direction. “Ash, Owen is the owner of Black Ladder Developments. He’s the one who’d harassed Gran all these years, trying to pressure her into selling her home.”

  Slight exaggeration, but I expect nothing less.

  Looks like playing nice won’t work with her, since I’m already on the shit list. Easier for me that way—I don’t play well with others.

  “You the contractor on her job?” I deflect, preferring to discuss my business practices with people other than the competition.

  He barks a laugh at me. “Oh no, she’s managing this on her own.” He shakes his head and his eyes bulge out, telling me to avoid that topic. Princess’ manicured hands find a perch on her hips, daring me to say something about that. “I’m here as a sounding board. This house is going to be amazing when she’s done.”

  “Save yourself the trouble, Izzy,” I over-enunciate her name, getting a taste for it. I’ll definitely be sticking with Princess. “Sell it to me right now.” Since I don’t need to hide who I am anymore, I might as well cut to the chase.

  “Not now, not ever,” she grinds out. “You can knock down every other home on this street, but this one is staying exactly where it stands.”

  Asher laughs, thinking my offer is a joke. He juts his chin in the direction of my place. “You’re lucky it’s not going to be for sale. You’d have stiff competition.”

  It’s going for sale, but there won’t be any competition for it.

  “You know,” Asher faces Princess with the excitement of feeling his brain cells fire for the first time, “if you get it done on schedule, you can enter it for an Evolve Award.”

  Each spring, Evolve Awards are handed out to the top firms and individuals in the home development, real estate marketing & advertising, and interior design spheres. Black Ladder has been nominated several times by clients and trades and, two years ago, we won Developer of the Year for single-family homes. There’s no way I’m letting her take the category this year.

  I cover my scoff by shaking the box under my arm, indicating it’s time to leave. Unless this conversation will lead to a bill of sale being signed, my participation isn’t required.

  “See you around,” Asher calls to my backside.

  Sure, if it’s to help Princess move her stuff out of the house—because I don’t plan on hanging out with her for fun.

  I stomp through the door and down the hallway, angrier than before I went outside. I almost throw the box on the counter, then stop myself before scratching the brand-new surface.

  “What did the Coleman ever do to you?” Scott tries to joke with me, but it falls short. Like always.

  “Princess brought a contractor friend.”

  Scott knocks me on the head like I’m a five-year-old. If a gesture could piss me off more than I already am, that would be it.

  “We already knew that.” I jerk away with a warning. Friend or not, I’ll kick him out of the house if he does that again.

  This isn’t personal to him like it is for me. If it were his company, he’d get that missing goals is a big deal. I have expectations for that property. Tommy has expectations for that property. Pops would if he could.

  “Says she’s running the job herself.” That gets a laugh from Scott. I still can’t find the humour in it. Where did she learn to manage a project like this?

  “Is she in the trades?” Unless it comes to his assessment of my feelings for Princess, Scott and I are always on the same wavelength. He pulls his phone from his pocket, presumably to Google her. “Interior designer.” Scott laughs. “It’ll be a disaster.”

  I wish I had his confidence.

  Chapter 9

  Izzy

  My permits came in today. A week earlier than the city said they’d be ready, which never, ever happens. This has to be a sign of how this project will go.

  I do a little happy dance in my bathroom as I get dressed, and that’s as far as celebrating will go until tonight, because today is a big day for another reason—I’m going to meet a new client.

  Mrs. Morrow needs help decorating her new-construction custom home. There was something about her disliking the designer who did all the structural aspects, which means she already has an issue with designers. She wants a fresh set of eyes on the finishing touches and she chose me after interviewing twelve different designers. I appreciate what that means, too, but I’m still thrilled she hired me. I’ve worked with hard clients before and understand how to massage their egos enough to get them to bend to my vision and make it seem like it was theirs all along.

  I give my long hair one last fluff and apply a coat of bright pink lip gloss. I spin around to look in the full-length mirror swinging on the bathroom door. Like my design choices, I pay close attention to what I wear for my clients. With this one being as picky as she is, I must ensure my choice is spot-on.

  Today, I look sharp in my light grey, tapered pantsuit with a minimalist, three-quarter length sleeve jacket over a white blouse. There are no buttons on the jacket so it parts slightly in the middle, but it’s fitted so it won’t drag against dusty surfaces. Beaded hoop earrings and a necklace that sits right below my collarbone are the details that finish the outfit. I slip on my ballet flats—nice shoes but still suitable for a construction site—and throw my reflection an air kiss, telling myself I’m going to kill it today, then head downstairs ready to show that confidence to the world.

  I pull my SUV to the curb in front of the house. From the outside, it’s stunning. Windows are always the first thing I acknowledge as sunlight is so important for design and for living. Generous, vertical rectangular windows with thick horizontal dividers compliment the overall square shape of the structure. I can tell the main floor boasts ten-foot ceilings from the sheer size of the windows.

  Peering in as I walk the pathway of large concrete slabs placed in an offset geometric pattern, I notice two separate rooms on the left and right sides of the house. I assume one will become an office and the
other a formal dining room or living room. There’s space for a couple of small chairs and a table outside the front door, which sits underneath a much larger balcony that, presumably, comes off the primary suite.

  I step up to the all-glass door, which matches the windows, and knock gently since a silhouette is visible inside. My client waves as she approaches the door and opens it with an excited smile. I file away a mental snapshot of her face. Clients always start out thrilled then lose their enthusiasm as the process goes on. Sometimes I need to return to this initial moment to remind myself how she will look when it’s complete.

  I extend my hand and she uses it to pull me inside.

  “Ms. Holt, welcome to our new home.”

  “Mrs. Morrow, it’s nice to see you again. Thank you for trusting me to bring the vision of your dream home to life.” She drops my hand and ushers me down the wide hallway into the central living space.

  Standing next to an eight-foot Caesarstone kitchen island is a man about my age and twice my width. Kelsey would go mad over his bodybuilder’s frame of broad shoulders and tight waist. I’ll be sure to grab his card before he leaves. For as long as Gran played matchmaker with me, I’ve done the same for Kelse.

  We reach out to clasp hands.

  “Ms. Holt,” Mrs. Morrow starts.

  I interrupt her with a smile in her direction. “Please, call me Izzy.” The man’s hand tightens around mine and gives an extra sharp squeeze, causing me to flinch and return my look to him. I stop short of verbalising my displeasure when Mrs. Morrow introduces him to me.

  “Izzy, this is Scott Preston—”

  “Of Black Ladder Developments.” I squeeze his hand back, registering the reason behind his sudden death grip. Owen has obviously mentioned my name to his partner in crime.

  How did I miss the Black Ladder sign out front?

  Mrs. Morrow claps her hands, highlighting her pleasure. “Oh, wonderful, you two know each other.”