Totally Inevitable Intent

by Michele Lenard

  I’ve only dreamed about one woman for the past ten years, so the image of Jen is both unsettling and unwelcome. I don’t want her in my dreams, and the more I see her the more likely it is she’ll invade them. I should just decline this project regardless of what's inside, but her damn eyes are sparkling even brighter than they were yesterday, and I don’t want to be the guy responsible for putting out that flame.

  “Hi!” Jen waves as she jogs up the walk, her long hair swinging wildly behind her, even in a ponytail. “Thanks again for meeting me here on such short notice.”

  “No problem.” I exhale. “I walked around outside a bit. So far everything looks to be in decent shape. No foundation issues that I can see.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” She brushes past me to reach the door, and my whole body stiffens. She’s too close. I take a step back as she enters the combination on the lockbox and retrieves the key.

  “I don’t bite.” She looks at me over her shoulder and cocks an eyebrow.

  “So you had an inspection before you bought the place?” I ignore her quip and lean against the railing on the porch. “And they didn’t find any foundation issues?”

  “No inspection.” She opens the door and steps inside. “But I didn’t see anything to suggest there was a problem.”

  “You know what to look for?”

  “Yes.” She turns to face me and levels me with her gaze. “Do you think you could stop assuming that I don’t know anything about houses or renovation?”

  I stay put at the railing, not sure where the hostility is coming from, but feeling the need to tread carefully. “My career is based on people not knowing anything about houses or renovation. You want to hire me, is it wrong to assume you don’t know everything?” I tap my pen against my leg.

  “There’s a difference between assuming I don’t know everything or anything at all.” Her eyes flare.

  “I assume most people don’t know how to inspect a foundation. It’s just not a skill they typically need. I wasn’t trying to single you out.”

  She blinks slowly and sighs. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little sensitive.” She looks right into my eyes, and in that moment, I know that whatever this woman says, be it flirty or funny or serious, it will be honest. I can respect that. “I’m tired of people worrying that I’m in over my head or telling me I made a mistake. I took that out on you.”

  “Are you in over your head?” I ask gently.

  “No.”

  “Okay then. Show me around.”

  “That’s it?” She cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not going to try to convince me otherwise?”

  I hold her gaze and shake my head. “You believe you know what you’re doing. I believe you. I’m good.”

  The corner of her mouth ticks up, and the glint in her eye comes back. “Good. Where do you want to start?”

  “Wherever you like.” I have to fight the urge to smile myself, because we had a little moment just then, and that’s not something I want to think about or even encourage. But it’s hard not to admire her confidence and even harder not to get caught up in her excitement. She’s like a kid with a shiny new toy, if an 1,800-square-foot dilapidated bungalow can be considered shiny and new.

  “Okay, kitchen first. That might determine how everything else plays out.” She makes a beeline for the back of the house, and I have to leap off the railing to keep up with her.

  “Good idea,” I say and am rewarded with a sweet smile that I feel all the way in my gut. Shit.

  I follow Jen into the kitchen, a basic square with cabinets on the perimeter and back door to the yard in the far corner. The wood floors span the entire length of the house and into the kitchen, and they look to be in good shape. The cabinets less so, but they aren’t broken or anything, just worn. It might be possible to salvage them with some sanding and staining or a good coat of paint. The problem is the layout, a boring box shape that’s closed off from the rest of the house. It isn’t a large kitchen, but being closed off makes it seem smaller than it is.

  “So, what did you have in mind in here?” I ask.

  “Well, I’d love to keep the floors and salvage the cabinets if possible, but I’m not in love with the layout. The sink is in the wrong spot, and it makes the room look small. But I’m concerned changing the layout will mean either need new cabinets or new floors or both.” She chews on her lip in concentration. “I’m not sure the existing floors run underneath the cabinets.”

  I wander to the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen. “Do you want to keep this wall here? The existing layout might feel bigger if the room isn’t boxed in.”

  “Is that wall load bearing? I’m not sure I can afford to take it out if it is.”

  I try to keep my expression neutral, but I’m impressed that she’s staying focused on the budget instead of running wild with wants instead of needs. “If it is, we can leave a section of the wall, sort of like a column, and still open up several feet. It might frame the kitchen nicely.”

  Jen steps back and tries to visualize what I’m saying. She starts to nod her head, almost imperceptibly. “I like it. But if the wall isn’t load bearing, I might want to rearrange the whole space, so instead of a U-shape we have an L shape with an island.” She walks around the room, gesturing where she would put the island. “That would give more space to move around in here, especially since it’s the only path to the back door.”

  Damn. If this were my flip, that’s exactly what I’d do. The woman really does have a good handle on what makes sense in the space.

  “That layout would be my preference, but it depends on your budget. If the floors don’t run underneath the cabinets, you’ll either have to match the existing wood or do a different floor. Would you want the sink in the island?”

  “I’m thinking the back wall.” She walks over to the space she has in mind and makes an imaginary square high on the wall. “Maybe with a window above it to add light?” She looks at me over her shoulder to make sure I’m keeping up, something she seems to do often, which I’m shocked to realize I find more adorable than annoying. And in those leggings? Sexy as hell, too.

  “Anything’s possible with the right budget.”

  I do not miss the way her eyes light up, and for a moment I think I've misjudged her, that she’s going to fall in love with an idea no matter the cost. But she doesn’t let me down.

  “We’ll make that option A. It’s my first choice, but whether we can do it will depend on the rest of house. Let’s check the bathrooms next. Those are going to be other big-ticket items.”

  Jen waits for me to take some measurements and make notes, then I follow her through the house to the bathroom, trying to pay more attention to it than to the way her ass looks in those stretchy pants. I have never acted so unprofessional with a prospective client before, but on top of the fact that she’s stunning, she’s clearly done her research, and I respect that. Too much.

  There are two baths, one full and one half, both a little on the small side but not overly cramped. In fact, the full bath could be made to feel substantially bigger with a different layout, but I want to hear what Jen has to say.

  “What are you thinking here?” I ask as we stand in the doorway of the full bath. I genuinely want to know her thoughts, but standing side by side with her head just below mine makes me acutely aware of how great her hair smells. I’m not sure what they call it, cocoa, coconut, but whatever it is reminds me of summer and being outdoors. I try not to inhale too deeply, because she’s still a prospective client and totally off-limits, but that scent damn near overpowers me. Or maybe it’s her shoulder brushing against my arm. Whatever it is, I feel it down to my knees.

  Jen takes a deep breath. “I’m hoping to refinish the tub, but it might not be salvageable. I want to replace the vanity and get new floors. I was thinking a laminate.”

  “Why laminate?”

  “Tile gets cold, and I can’t afford heated floors. Laminate looks like tile.”

&nb
sp; “I’m not sure laminate is the best option. It can warp in humid areas like a bathroom.” I rub my jaw.

  “Only if it’s not properly ventilated.”

  “And you think you can properly ventilate this room?”

  “You’re doing it again.” Jen rolls her eyes.

  “Doing what?”

  “Assuming I don’t know what I’m doing.” She throws her hands up.

  I rub my jaw. “No, I assume you know what you’re doing. I’m just disagreeing with your decision.” She starts to protest, but I cut her off. “Hear me out, okay? If you move the tub to the far wall and put the toilet next to the sink, the room flows better, and you could add a double vanity so there’s less surface area to tile. Heated floors might fit in your budget then.”

  Jen’s eyes dart to the mine, and I know she’s weighing what I said and whether I’m disputing her idea or her knowledge. She’s a distrustful little thing, and for a moment I wonder what happened in her past to make her that way. Then I remind myself that it doesn’t matter, because she’s strictly a client, and I don’t get involved in my clients’ personal lives.

  After a moment, she looks away and scans the room like she did the kitchen, visualizing what I suggested. “That involves moving plumbing. Won’t that drive up the budget?” she asks.

  Good girl, she’s keeping cost in mind. “It will, but not excessively, and your resale will be much higher with a double vanity.”

  She studies the space a bit longer before mumbling, “You are good,” although I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that.

  “Okay, I can see it.” She turns to face me. The intensity of her gaze pins me in place, and even though I’m the one interviewing her, so to speak, I feel like I’ve just won her over. “Can you help me?”

  I haven’t seen any red flags during the walk-through, so this could very well be a job Wes can manage day-to day. But that doesn’t change the fact that agreeing to this job would put me in closer proximity to Jen than I want to be.

  Even if Wes would be on site more than me, I’d inevitably see Jen throughout the project, and that terrifies me. I’m really starting feel intrigued by this woman and how she charges into any obstacle head on, like it’s an adventure. That brings back memories I still can’t process. My head is screaming at me to say no, to walk away and protect myself, but my mouth won't form the words. I feel pulled toward Jen—whether to protect her or to simply see what she can pull off, I can’t say—but that pull is stronger than the warning bells.

  “Yes, I can help you.”

  I feel her smile all the way to my gut. “Great! What do you think we’re looking at for everything? The outside, too. I know it needs some work.”

  I nod in agreement. “Some of that will depend on materials and things we can’t see yet, like load bearing walls and whether the electric and plumbing are in good shape. I may have a good solution to manage labor costs, though.” I rub my jaw.

  “Okay, spit it out,” she says.

  “What?” I freeze.

  “You rub your jaw when you’re deep in thought.” She shrugs, and I have to admit, I’m surprised she spotted that little quirk of mine in just a few short hours together. “So you’ve got an idea you’re not sure I’m going to love. Spit it out.”

  I take a deep breath. “My crews and I are scheduled for the next several months. But my son Wes and his friends work for me during the summers, and they’re available. They’re cheaper than my full-time employees, so that can help manage costs.”

  Jen’s gaze narrows, and I swear she glances at my hand for evidence of a ring I don’t wear. Then it’s gone, and she’s regarding me warily. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but I don’t know if I’m comfortable with a bunch of kids working on my house. How much experience can they really have if they only work summers?”

  “I understand your concerns,” I say honestly, because her concerns are the same ones I have about the kids working on Colt’s project. “But these guys have been working with me for the past two years, and Wes has been with me longer than that. I’d like him to oversee the work here. He’s capable of it, and it would be good experience for him. But I won’t just turn him loose on a project without any oversight. I’ll visit daily to monitor what’s happening and keep things on schedule, and I’m only a phone call away if there’s a problem.”

  She looks at me from the corner of her eye, still skeptical. “I think it’s great you have so much confidence in your son, but I’m still concerned about seasonal workers leading this project. It may be a small project for you, but it’s important to me that it’s done right.”

  “I want it to be done right, too,” I assure her. “Look, if you want me to get you a freelance crew with more experience that's an option, but they’ll cost more, which will impact the layout you’re considering. Besides, I trust the guys I’ve worked with more than guys I don’t know, regardless of how old they are. They can do this.”

  I can tell she wants to object, but she doesn’t have a ton of other options, particularly this close to the date she’d like to get started. I hate that part of me is happy about that.

  Jen shakes her head, her long hair swinging behind her. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” she mutters. “Fine, you’re trying to do me a favor, so I’ll go with it, but tell those boys I have high standards.”

  “I know.” I try not to smile.

  “And I expect them to be on time and stay on task.”

  “I wouldn’t hire them otherwise.”

  “And no special favors because it’s your son.” She points to my chest.

  “Yes, ma’am.” This time I can’t hide my smirk. Even though her spunk sometimes terrifies me, it’s entertaining.

  “Okay then, what’s the next step?”

  I gesture to my notebook. “Next I price the two different plans and meet with you to decide which way you want to go.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “A few days.”

  “You’ll call me then?” She raises her eyebrows. Another challenge.

  “I will.”

  “Good.” She sticks her hand out. “I look forward to working with you.”

  I take her hand in mine, and she gives it a firm shake, sliding her fingers along mine as she lets go. That light touch sets my whole arm tingling, and I immediately drop my hand. Holy shit.

  “You good to lock up?” I need to put some distance between us, fast.

  “I’m good.” She beams. “Thank you.”

  “Okay. Sure. See you later.” I turn toward the front door and make my way back outside, careful to keep my eyes focused in front of me and not on the gorgeous figure at my back.

  ***

  The garage door barely swings closed before I hear the fridge open. Typical. Wes never makes it more than five minutes before searching for food each time he gets home, as if the kid doesn’t have access to food throughout the day. I remember being hungry as a teenager myself, but the amount of food he consumes is nothing like what I went through. Then again, I had a mother who was constantly telling me not to ruin my dinner, and while I’ve learned how to cook for the both of us, I certainly don’t put out the spread my mother did, so nothing will be ruined if Wes has something to hold him over.

  The fridge closes and the microwave opens, and once again I regret letting him fill up on junk. I just don’t know what else to keep around. Our meals may be healthy, but there are rarely any leftovers, so snacks tend to be of the frozen variety. Oh well, I can at least be thankful that he has an active lifestyle to balance the junk.

  The microwave beeps, and I hear him rummage for silverware before his rhythmic steps come down the hallway.

  “Hey, Pop,” he says from the office doorway with a mouthful of food. “Whatcha working on?”

  I swivel my chair to face him and not for the first time see his mother looking back at me. She would say the opposite, of course, but the only thing Wes gets from me is size. He has her coloring, light brown hair and
amber eyes, and a smile that’s pure joy.

  “A new project I picked up for the summer,” I reply. “It’s a small flip. I thought you and your friends could work on it. I was actually thinking of putting you in charge.”

  Wes freezes, his fork midway to his mouth. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You’ve been shadowing me long enough you know what to do, and it would be good management experience for you.”

  Wes flinches. “Pop, you know I don’t want to do construction, right?”

  “I’m not trying to force you into my footsteps, Wes.” I remind him. “The ability to manage people is a good skill no matter where you apply it.”

  “Don’t I get that on the field?” he asks, genuinely confused. “I mean, I’m the guy telling everyone else the plays.”

  I try not to laugh at his naivete. Wes does not have a big ego, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to getting caught up in what many people often assume, that the quarterback is the most important player on the field. “You tell everyone the plays the coach calls. I’m talking about something where you are the coach. You’re the one who looks at the game plan and tells everyone how to make it happen. You’re the one who makes adjustments if you run into a problem.”

  “But I’d be following the plan you give me, right? How is that any different than calling the plays coach gives?” He takes another bite.

  I didn’t see that question coming, and I can’t help the smile that creeps up. Damn, the kid is smart. He never fails to make me proud. “Yes, you’d be following the master plan. But you’d assign the work based on who you think is capable. You keep everyone on task, so the project wraps up on time. And if there’s a hiccup, you figure out how to fix it.”

  Wes rubs his chin, a habit he picked up from years of watching me.