by Eden Rayna
At the same time, we both say, “No,” although he says it with a teasing tone while I bark out the single syllable.
I follow that with, “I’ve heard a lot about Black Ladder.”
“Well, I have nothing but good things to say about the company. Except for that designer of theirs. I don’t understand what he was doing on the Black Ladder team.”
Given their business standards, I don’t have a hard time guessing.
His missteps may have got me this job, but it never pleases me to hear that someone has had a bad design experience. Clients build walls and it hardens them to new ideas, no matter how perfect they are.
“Maybe Black Ladder will hire you as their in-house designer. I’ll be sure to put in a kind word if I’m satisfied.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morrow. I hope you will be satisfied too.” Even if I were living hand-to-mouth, I wouldn’t stoop so low as to work exclusively with this bunch of tormentors. “Why don’t we begin with a tour?”
We walk through the kitchen towards the back of the house. “Scott, will you join us?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Morrow. I have a call to make.” Yeah, I bet you do. Call my friendly neighbour and tell him his life is about to get a whole lot worse. “Izzy.” He nods goodbye.
“Scott.” I respond with cool indifference. Our two subtle gestures are missed by our mutual client as she finds a spot on the wall to rub clean.
The construction is much further along than Mrs. Morrow let on during our phone calls. Now that I see the house, I get the impression she’s the type of person who’s never one hundred per cent satisfied with anything. In her mind, the place isn’t close to move-in ready. In reality, she should have ordered light fixtures and furniture three months ago.
We spend a couple hours together and I leave her after organising several shopping dates where we will go to lighting, hardware, and furniture stores. Her husband wants nothing to do with this part of the project, so I have one person to please, making my job easier. It would be close to the ideal job if Black Ladder wasn’t involved.
THE ASBESTOS GUYS ARE coming next week to test Gran’s house.
My house.
I have a memory of Gran doing some interior work when I was young, but I have no idea if the toxic insulation was taken out then. Judging from the colour of the linoleum and its implied vintage, I’m guessing the place is packed full of the cancer-causing crap. I want to do the demolition myself—for fun and for budgetary reasons—but if the walls are full of asbestos and it has to be abated, I won’t be able to do that.
“Does that mean you’ll be moving into my place right away?” Kelsey asks after we clink glasses in cheers. It’s Saturday night and we’re checking out the Headless Horseman pub a few blocks from the house. I nod in response. “You sure you don’t want to camp in your backyard for a couple weeks? You know, to keep an eye on things next-door.”
“I would, except I have a couple very busy weeks with Mrs. Morrow, which means I can’t shower from the garden hose.”
Kelsey squints at me, wondering if it’s something I would really consider. We both love the outdoors, if in two vastly different ways. Kelsey is a fitness fiend and will run, bike, or hike any trail out there. I take it to a level that she can’t handle, even if I am joking about showering from the hose. She’s good with a weekend in a tent, but beyond the forty-eight-hour mark, she gets crabby with the warmish showers and public outhouses.
“If you get to do the work on your own, can I swing the sledgehammer with you?”
“If I say yes, will you want my Evolve Award when the job is done?”
“Probably.” She winks at me.
While Kelsey is giving me the rundown of her week at work as a physiotherapist and the crazy ways people have injured themselves, the door to the pub swings open. A group of four men, two-by-two, parade in. They seem to be known in here and a few tables of people, including all the female servers, wave at them. One practically swoons. I roll my eyes in revulsion at the obvious show the two men in front put on, but Kelsey is too busy gawking like everyone else to catch my reaction.
While her tongue drags on the tabletop, she also fails to see my shock when I notice Owen is part of the posse. An unwanted quiver tugs in my gut as I watch him acknowledge people in his own silent way. I tell the butterflies in my stomach to knock it off, but like Kelsey’s eyelashes, they don’t stop fluttering.
That’s fine. Assholes can be good looking. Especially when they wear muscle-hugging shirts and polished black work boots that have clearly never seen a day of work. I’m not too proud to admit that he’s physically attractive. I am, however, smart enough to know that a strong jaw and broad shoulders aren’t enough to be the complete package.
I don’t recognise the two men who lead the way to the rear of the pub, with Owen and Scott following closely behind. One is slightly slimmer than the others and looks less like a guy who carries a wrench and more like the guy who pays for the work to be done. He’s wearing tailored, mid-wash designer jeans and a nautical t-shirt that probably costs as much as my kitchen sink will. A grotesquely large watch adorns one wrist, while a simple leather bracelet with a single silver bead graces the other. If I were to stereotype him, I’d say he’s a salesman, albeit for luxury items. I’ve never seen a guy so well-dressed before, and it’s not only compared to his monochromatic friend.
The other guy is the middle ground of the bunch. Muscular but not huge, well-dressed but not in top-end labels. He wears dark, fitted jeans and a light denim button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. He looks like the type who keeps everyone together; the one who maintains the peace by staying neutral.
The foursome has a spot picked out in the pub and makes their way there with purpose. I kick Kelsey’s shin under the table and she yelps. I didn’t mean to kick her so hard—it was literally a knee-jerk reaction. I get her attention, as well as that of the people I was hoping to avoid. All eight eyes square on us.
“Oh, shit,” Kelsey says in a low whisper when understanding sets in. I meet her declaration with a low growl, then order her out of her seat so that I can sit with my back to them.
“Owen hangs out with some good-looking guys, Iz. Are you sure you don’t want to be friends?”
“Kelse!” I slam my palms on the table.
She watches them over my shoulder and licks her lips.
“Don’t even think about it. They are off-limits.” I punch her arm to show her how serious I am. She doesn’t flinch, but she does shoot me pleading eyes. To avoid misunderstanding, I spell it out for her: “O-F-F-L-I-M-I-T-S.”
She shrugs and begrudgingly turns her focus away from them. “Owen is off-limits. There are three other guys there who haven’t harassed a single member of our family yet.” She mentions them all but only looks at Scott, showing her attraction like I knew she would. “Look at all those muscles. I wonder how much he can bench press.”
“She was your grandmother too,” I remind her. “How can you look at them without contempt?”
“Easy.” Her shoulders lift and drop in a quick second. “I’m less emotional than you.”
I prefer rational with a bent for sentimentality.
She reads my displeased expression. “It’s not a slight against you. It rounds you out and softens you a little.”
Softens me—like I’m hard and bitchy? After a mocking laugh, she qualifies her comment.
“Izzy,” she says pointedly, “you can swing a hammer with better precision than any woman I know. If I were to get lost in the woods, you’re the only person I’d want to be lost with because I wouldn’t starve or freeze to death. But you’re emotional. You cry at the opera even though you don’t understand a word that’s being sung, you drag me to the zoo every time a baby is born, and you hold a grudge like nobody’s business. You. Are. Emotional.” She stands and places a peck on my cheek. “And I love you for it.”
“Where are you going?” I jump off my stool.
She moves behind me, backing awa
y from our hightop table.
“To the washroom.”
“You’re lying.” I point a finger at her.
She looks down her nose at me. “Add astute to your list of qualities, cousin. You’re right, I’m going to make this better for you.”
“You’re going to ruin our night.”
A devious smile plays on her lips. “Define ruin.”
Chapter 10
Owen
The grumble that vibrates from my chest is low and hard, and it rattles the floor with each step. It’s a warning—as much for her as for the guys—to be on guard. I don’t want to watch Princess as we make our way to our usual spot in the pub by the pool tables, but the others are ogling her and her cousin, so I do too. Our eyes lock and that same tenacity she showed when outside her house with Asher oozes. That is, until she spins around and puts her back to me. I grunt again.
“This is her local pub, just like it’s ours.” Scott reads my mind without me asking what the fuck she’s doing here. “Who’s her friend?”
“Cousin. Kelsey. Stay away.” I already know why he’s fishing. Her toned arms that ripple beneath her t-shirt are all Scott needs to fall in love. One gym junkie to another. “She’s trouble. Just like Princess.”
We reach the back of the pub and settle on to four stools along the ledge.
“I thought you said she wasn’t a princess,” Scott questions without making it sound like a question.
“The name stuck.”
I can’t call her Izzy, it’s too friendly. And I can’t call her Isabella because I jerked off to the thought of fucking her hard from behind, gripping her shoulders, slamming into her slick channel while gritting out all four syllables of her name. You can’t do that shit with someone named Princess. Princess is something you hum on your lips, and since whispering sweet nothings doesn’t get my rocks off, I prefer thinking of her in that way. Especially in public.
“I’m going to invite them to play pool. See if I can’t lessen the tension between us, especially since we’ll be seeing her at the Morrow house.”
“Don’t.”
Scott turns away from me and stares at Kelsey and Princess in complete defiance.
“You’re not the boss of me.” He mocks, pissing me off on purpose. I am precisely the boss of him, and those women have a direct relationship to my livelihood.
Greg slides off his stool to rack the pool balls. “Want to tell us who your friends are?”
I say, “No one,” at the same time that Brett says, “My ride home.”
Scott and I glare at Brett while Greg laughs in the background. I don’t like the reason Scott’s taking my side right now, but I’ll use him if it helps. Neither of the women will go home with Brett or Scott. Especially Brett. He’s a friend and a great realtor for my business, but he’s also a playboy, and I don’t need him making things harder for me.
Jenn, our usual Saturday night server, drops off our beers, knowing exactly what we’d want without ordering.
“Boys, how’s it going tonight?”
“Hey, Jenn.” Brett tips his chin at her. His attention span is shorter than that of a squirrel in a field of acorns.
“Heya, Brett.” She quickly nods at him, dismissing the silent offer he makes every week.
Jenn points to my forearm. “New ink?”
I hate that she’s spent enough time looking at me to know that I’ve filled in a three-inch gap on the inside of my right arm. The guys all look at the new design, noticing it for the first time in unison. The red irritation has almost faded around the rosebush that’s nestled neatly between a tall ship and a Scottish flag.
Scott pulls Jenn’s attention away from my body before she’s tempted, once again, to ask what any of it means. “What are those girls drinking?”
“You know them?” Her voice bears the hint of jealousy at the prospect of competition.
Scott leans on the pool table, curling his fingers around the felt edge. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Which one are you interested in?”
“Both,” he replies.
I hop off my stool and fold my hands over my chest, daring him to pursue this. Jenn turns her head to see what’s with my suddenly threatening stance.
Misreading my reaction to Scott’s comment, she asks, “Which one is he interested in?” There’s a spiteful emphasis in her tone as she tips her head towards me.
“The brunette.”
“Am not.” I sound like a petulant teenager and tread away to grab a pool cue from the rack on the wall. This conversation is done.
Jenn leaves tasked with getting the girls’ next beer and Scott hovers, taunting me as I bend to take my shot.
“Move. Before I miss and shove this up your ass.”
He exhales with a whistle. “She’s got you all worked up. That was almost a complete sentence.”
I do miss my shot and thump my cue into the floor. I don’t bother glaring at Scott like I want to; it’ll give him the satisfaction he craves. Instead, I swallow a sizeable gulp of beer to cool my boiling blood. It doesn’t work, and things get hotter when Kelsey slides off her stool and approaches us.
Brett, who’s running the table and never stops for anything when he’s on a roll, stands as she approaches. Greg pushes away from the wall and Scott’s chest rumbles like he’s suddenly developed pneumonia.
“Who’s winning, boys?” she asks in a voice meant to draw trouble her way.
“I am, but I’ll forfeit if you’ll join me,” Scott says, despite not playing this round.
She hums a disapproving note. “No can do. I don’t fraternise with the enemy.” Those words are aimed at me. “But if a challenge was thrown down, I’m sure I could get my cousin to defend herself.”
She places a loonie on the edge of the pool table with a decided clink, marking her spot in line for the next game.
“I’m out,” I declare, and hang my cue in the rack.
“No, you’re not.” Both Kelsey and Scott say in unison. They look at each other and he licks his lips like a wolf on the hunt.
“Be right back.”
Kelsey sashays to her table and, after some hushed and apparently harsh words, drags Princess to us. Kelsey’s fingers grip like a vice around Princess’ unwilling wrist. She knows she’s being led straight into the lion’s den.
Scott stands shoulder-to-ribs with Kelsey and introduces Brett and Greg before motioning towards Princess, who stands as far away as possible with her arms folded tightly around her body and a ferocious scowl on her face. How about that? We have something in common.
The girls place their beers along the ledge and I notice Princess is drinking a red ale. Of course she is. She can’t be drinking a cosmopolitan or a piña colada or some other princessy kind of drink.
“Doubles?” Scott turns his smile on Kelsey, sharing silently that he’s onboard with the parlour game she proposed. Kelsey looks at him like he devised the cure for cancer.
“Only if I get to be your partner.” Kelsey purrs, making his ego soar. Can she be any more obnoxious?
Princess is glowering like she’s trying to figure out the slowest and most painful method to make me die. Kelsey could be more obnoxious. Only that role seems to be filled.
Scott rolls the balls behind the line, effectively ending my game with Brett.
“Hey!” Brett calls. “We were in the middle of playing.”
Scott continues to arrange the balls in the rack. “You were going to lose anyway,” he says. Brett grunts his disagreement. “But if you want to keep playing, you can be Izzy’s partner.” He’s baiting me, pitting me against Brett’s philandering lifestyle.
Princess beats me to reacting and throws her hands in the air. “I’m not surprised that Black Ladder is bullying me into taking a partner in a game I don’t want to play.” Kelsey runs a hand along Princess’ arm trying to calm her, but it will require more than that. More like a horse tranquiliser. “I choose that guy.” She thumbs aggressively towards Greg, who’s m
inding his own business off to the side.
“Brett hasn’t hit on her yet and she’s already shutting him down,” Greg jokes.
“Guys, let’s play a game, have a few drinks and we’ll all feel better once we get to know each other.” Scott tries to prevent a neighbourhood war by calling my business a game. Next time he asks for a raise, I’ll be sure to bring it up.
“Isabella,” Greg extends a pool cue to her. “Would you do me the honour of being my partner in this charade?”
“I’m glad you see it for what it is.” She pins her eyes on me as if I orchestrated this madness.
Greg grabs the chalk and twists it slowly around the tip of her cue, saying something to her I don’t hear. Princess’ focus moves from the suggestive way he preps her cue for the game to his face and she smiles lightly. My rule of no mixing business and pleasure extends to everyone here. No one touches Princess.
Chapter 11
Izzy
I know Owen’s type. He’s a planner and wouldn’t dare enter any situation without having an exit strategy. I bet Scott eye-fucking Kelsey is part of the plan—he’s separating me from my herd. Turns out I have a plan of my own, although I’ll have to fly solo. I love my cousin, but Kelsey is useless when it comes to men. She also doesn’t follow instructions. If the sex-crazed look on her face as she rubs her hands across Scott’s burly arms tells me anything, my threat of him being off-limits fell on deaf ears.
Owen glares at me and I give it right back because he has no reason to be angry with me. I didn’t masquerade as a nice neighbour to cover the fact that I’m a blight to old ladies. Gah! I’m still angry at myself for letting him move my stuff in and for helping with the truck. And for the other things. The behind closed doors things.
Scott tells Kelse to break and when the cue ball glances off the tip of the triangle, making the smallest ripple roll through the balls, Greg turns to me and asks, “Do you know how to play?” I tip my head side-to-side giving a vague answer because I don’t care about winning or losing this game. I’m saving myself for the big win.