by Linda Seed
“Well, that is a problem,” Will acknowledged.
Chris nodded, and they both sat with that information for a while as the noise of the coffeehouse buzzed around them.
“Maybe if you told me the actual nature of the asslike behavior,” Will prompted him.
So Chris told him about the date: Martina’s initial attempt to set him up with Benny; Benny’s double-cross of Martina; the delightful evening that had followed; their mutual admission that they didn’t find each other revolting; and the drive home, loaded with expectation and longing that he assumed was mutual.
“So then what happened?”
“Then … I didn’t do anything,” Chris shook his head in exasperation at his own ineptness. “I didn’t kiss her, even though she was standing there clearly expecting me to. And then I patted her and left.”
“You patted her.”
“You know, like …” Chris reached out and gave Will a companionable pat on the shoulder to illustrate.
“Oh, boy.” Will’s voice was full of dread.
“Yes.”
Will sipped his coffee and looked thoughtful. “I don’t get it. You’ve never seemed to have problems with women before. There was Alexis, and Juliette, and before that, Melanie …” Will winced at the mention of the ex-girlfriend the two men had in common.
“Yeah. And look how all of those turned out,” Chris reminded him.
“Well, not all of those breakups were your fault.”
“Sure,” Chris agreed, “but I’m the common denominator, aren’t I?”
It all came down to that. You could break down the issues of who had done what to whom, or who had failed to do what for whom. But in the end, if you were analyzing the relationships, how they’d ended, and what they all had in common, it pointed back to him. He was the one element all of those scenarios had shared.
“Has it ever occurred to you …” Will stopped himself, seeming to think better of whatever it was he’d been about to say.
“Go on,” Chris prompted him. “Has what ever occurred to me?”
“Well … just … has it ever occurred to you that before Martina, you kept choosing the same type of woman?”
Yes. It had. Chris had met most of the women at the social functions he attended—usually high-priced fundraisers or parties held for the purpose of professional networking. The women had all either been from wealth or were closely associated with it.
These were women who made personal maintenance a full-time job, spending their time being professionally dressed, styled, and waxed until they looked like they’d been run through a selfie filter—even in person. They were poreless, flawless—no cellulite, no patches of dry skin, no bad hair days, no awkward clothing choices, no skin blemishes, not even a freckle or a stray chin hair. He had to admit, with some embarrassment, he’d been proud of the way they’d looked on his arm—and in his Instagram feed.
Not only had he worked hard to keep these women from leaving him, he’d worked equally hard to keep them from revealing things about themselves that might prompt him to leave them. He’d actively avoided getting to know them.
At some point, he’d convinced himself the appearance of happiness was more important than the real thing, and he’d paid dearly for it.
Will was watching him carefully. “Chris … look. I didn’t mean—”
“No. It’s okay. You’re right. I do choose the same type of woman for all the wrong reasons. I was just thinking about that. About why I do that.”
“Martina Russo isn’t that same kind of woman,” Will pointed out.
Maybe that was why he’d lost his nerve when it had been time to kiss her. And maybe that was why it all seemed to matter so much more than it ever had before.
“She’s different,” Chris said. “She’s real.”
“Well, she doesn’t seem to be half constructed of silicone,” Will conceded.
Chris let out a barking laugh. “Okay, I deserve that. But you dated Melinda, too, so …”
“I know. It wasn’t one of my better decisions. Live and learn.”
That was what Chris wanted, wasn’t it? Not just to live, but to learn. To do better. To grow and to avoid the old mistakes he’d made over and over again.
“So, what do I do now? I like Martina. And it’s got to be a step in the right direction that she’s not like the others. But … I don’t know how to be with someone like her. I don’t know what to do.”
Will gave him a wry look. “Listen to yourself. You just told me you don’t know how to act around a real, genuine woman who might possibly like you for yourself. You might take some time thinking about how it got to this point. I mean, I would get it if you’d always been wealthy. But you used to be one of the little people, just like the rest of us.”
The time when he’d been like everyone else had been only about fifteen years before. A blink of an eye, really. But it seemed so distant it might have happened to someone else.
“Things change, don’t they?” he said.
“They sure as hell do,” Will agreed.
15
It occurred to Martina that during the date that wasn’t a date, she’d never gotten Chris’s approval of her schematic design for his kitchen. She’d showed it to him, but then the call from Sofia had come in, and that had derailed any talk of business.
That meant she had to talk to him, but the thought of that was mortifying after the way she’d tipped her face up to him, eyes closed, lips parted, full of eager anticipation, only to have him pat her.
Still, work was work, and she was a professional. She had to get his signature on the contract so she could proceed with the next phase of the project.
E-mailing was always less fraught with peril than actually talking to someone, so she sat at the kitchen table with her laptop in front of her and composed a message, keeping it crisp and businesslike.
Chris,
If the schematic design I presented to you at dinner is acceptable, I’ll need your electronic signature on the attached document. If you require any modifications, please let me know.
Best,
Martina
There. It was exactly the e-mail she would send to a client whom she hadn’t expected to kiss. She just hoped he still wanted to work with her after the way she’d misread the situation and made a fool of herself.
Maybe when he’d said he didn’t find her unattractive, that was exactly what he’d meant—he didn’t think she would scare small children. She’d simply read more into it than there was.
She hit SEND and tried to think about other things—other clients, other opportunities, other men.
Anything and anyone other than Chris Mills.
As Chris read the e-mail, he peered at it in puzzlement and dismay.
The tone of the message sounded like she was trying to sell him life insurance.
It all had to do with the kiss that hadn’t happened, he knew. She’d been so warm, so open, so willing. And now she was either offended or pissed off. Or both.
Nice job, Mills, you dipshit.
He was in his garage looking at the car, which was still missing its passenger side door. It was possible he would need to hire a mechanic to reassemble the door, which had been broken down into an alarming number of pieces.
But he wasn’t ready for that yet. He was still determined to try.
He’d been hunting around on his phone for an online tutorial when he’d seen the e-mail from Martina.
He pulled up the documents she’d sent, added his electronic signature, and sent them back. Then he sent her a text. He preferred texting to e-mailing. It was so much more immediate.
I’ve signed the document you sent. We can proceed with the project as scheduled.
There.
He sent the text and immediately regretted it. The tone of the message had mirrored hers—businesslike and direct—because it had seemed advisable to take her cue on their demeanor toward each other. But he didn’t feel businesslike and direct when it came t
o her. He hadn’t felt that way when he’d failed to kiss her, and he didn’t feel that way now.
So why was he acting as though she were just another person he’d hired to perform a service?
Martina read the screen on her phone. Proceed with the project as scheduled? She’d thought they were developing a personal relationship. Now, she was beginning to think he had a stick lodged so far up his ass that he could taste wood.
Well, that was fine, she told herself. She’d thought maybe something was developing, but it wasn’t. So what? There would be other men. There would be other dates, other potential kisses. And he’d signed the document, so she still had the Cooper House job.
Sure, she was attracted to him, but again, so what? He wasn’t even that great-looking. The world was full of men who were more handsome than Christopher Mills.
Except, it wasn’t about handsome, was it? It never had been. It was about the way he occupied space in a room, as though the energy and the light and the very molecules of air were drawn to him. It was about his eyes and the way they held a sadness that made her want to soothe and comfort him. It was about the way he smiled at her as though he knew all her secrets.
It had never been about how he looked—not for her.
She was intrigued, that was all. But she would be intrigued by other men—men who knew when to kiss a woman and when to pat her and leave.
She was still pondering it when her phone pinged with another incoming text message.
I should have kissed you.
She stared at her phone, a delicious tingle running through her. She didn’t want to tingle for someone who might not want her. And yet …
Yes, you should have. She hit SEND and waited, watching the phone.
His answer came a moment later: Mistakes were made.
She couldn’t help it: a giggle escaped her lips, and she put a hand over her mouth to contain it.
Don’t let it happen again, she responded.
Then she waited, thinking, please. Please.
Does that mean there will be other opportunities? he asked.
She thought about what to answer, considering and then rejecting a number of responses—some because they weren’t flirty enough, and others because they were too flirty and might be the text message equivalent of her standing there fruitlessly waiting to be kissed.
Finally, she wrote: Only if you’ve learned from what you did wrong.
He sent back a smiley emoticon—that was it. Just a yellow circle smiling at her. What was that supposed to mean? Did it mean yes, he’d learned from his error? Did it mean he wanted to see her again? Or did it mean he was amused by their conversation but had no actual plan to pursue anything with her?
“Well, damn it.” She tossed her phone onto the table and scowled.
At the time, Chris had thought sending the smiley emoticon was a brilliant move. It was flirty, certainly. Positive. Friendly, but at the same time, mysterious. It didn’t give away too much. It hinted at exciting things to come without prematurely tipping his hand.
But, not long after he sent it, he began to doubt himself. What if sending an emoticon seemed immature? What if she misinterpreted it as lack of contrition for his failures? And then there was the practical aspect: the wordless smiley face had effectively ended the conversation before they had another date planned.
The question of when he might follow up on the hinted promise of the emoticon had been left wide open, with no future potential kiss in sight.
Damn it.
He put down some random part of his car door that he couldn’t identify, went to the worktable in his garage, picked up his phone, and stared at it. He’d hoped maybe she’d texted again, giving him another opening. But she hadn’t.
The ball was still in his court—he just had to decide how, exactly, to hit it and what kind of spin to put on it.
While he was still holding the phone in his hand, it rang, startling him.
Will’s name came up on the screen, along with a photo of his face.
“Have you talked to Martina yet?” Will asked when Chris answered the call.
“We haven’t talked, exactly. We’ve texted.”
“You texted.”
“Well … yes.” Chris held his head in his free hand as he contemplated his ineptitude. “I sent her a smiley emoticon.”
Will was silent for a moment that seemed steeped in judgment. Then: “You’re falling apart, man.”
“I know.” Chris sighed. “I know it.”
He was going to need a new plan, something other than what he’d done with his previous girlfriends. A new plan, meaning Martina wanted real interaction, not just the appearance of perfection. A new plan, meaning he couldn’t rely on his bank account to make him more attractive. A new plan, meaning he would actually have to get to know Martina in a way he’d never really known the other women in his life.
That scared the hell out of him.
“I’m not sure I’m up for this.” He massaged his forehead with his fingertips.
“I’m not sure you are, either,” Will said.
16
Martina didn’t know what the smiley face meant, and she didn’t have time to think about it. She had a lot to do. She needed to work on the final, more detailed plan for Chris’s kitchen; she had to move her other projects forward, including two currently in the construction phase; she needed to work on her assignments for Sofia’s wedding; and she needed to come up with a plan for how she was going to buy the Hall property—an idea she hadn’t yet given up on despite her lack of money.
The Monday after the text exchange, she got an early start, eating a quick breakfast of muesli and yogurt before grabbing her bag and heading to a house on Park Hill where she and Noah were working on expanding a client’s master bathroom.
The house, which had been built in the 1970s, had an exterior of green stucco with a steeply arched roof and a front deck that had seen better days. She would have loved to redesign the whole thing—she could imagine a completely updated exterior with new paint, new landscaping, and a more inviting entryway—but the client only had a budget for the bathroom.
With the homeowner off at work in San Luis Obispo, Noah and his crew had the front door wide open, dropcloths on the wood floor as they carried old fixtures, flooring, and broken pieces of drywall to Noah’s truck to be hauled away.
Martina caught Noah as he walked out of the house carrying an avocado green toilet.
“How’s the demo coming?” she asked.
He put down the toilet and straightened up, putting a hand to the small of his back. “Not bad. We got the bathtub and the sink out already. This is the last of the fixtures.” He motioned toward the toilet.
“It’s green,” Martina observed.
“They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. I’m almost sorry to see it go.”
“Really?” Martina wrinkled her nose.
“No, not really. Thing’s too ugly even for somebody’s ass.”
As workers went into and out of the house behind them, Noah updated her on their progress. The demo would be done today, with all fixtures and flooring removed, the wood paneling taken out, and the wall separating the bathroom from a storage closet removed. Tomorrow, the plumber would come to install the pipes so they could build a walk-in shower where the closet used to be.
Noah had hoped he could get the electrician over there tomorrow, too, so he could put in a new exhaust fan and light fixture combo, but the guy had called to say he couldn’t make it because his wife was sick.
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Martina said.
Noah made a pffft sound with his mouth. “Eddie’s wife manages to get sick whenever the surf’s good at Pismo. Kind of a funny coincidence. When he shows up for work, he’s gonna have a nice tan that ends at the neck of his wetsuit.”
If Martina were a more controlling person, she’d have given Noah a hard time about it, insisting to know how this was going to affect the timeline for the job and whether he should fi
nd another electrician to replace Eddie.
But one of the reasons she and Noah worked so well together was that she let him do his job, and he trusted her to do her own.
Instead of pushing him, she blew out a breath and nodded. “Okay. Well, keep me updated.”
“Will do. Meantime, the floor tiles came in. You want to take a look?”
With that done, Martina had intended to go home to start work on the final design for the Cooper House kitchen. Instead, she found herself driving right past Happy Hill and toward the other side of town so she could get another look at the Maxwell Hall house.
When she reached the woodsy parcel Riley Whittaker had shown her, she parked on the street, got out of her car, and picked her way up the overgrown path toward the house. She was trespassing, of course, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would care—especially if she ended up making an offer on the place.
Which I can’t do, Martina reminded herself.
When she was standing in front of the house, looking at its sleek lines and bold silhouette, she knew she had to think of something. She had to try.
She did have some savings, and she wasn’t entirely without assets.
This called for a family meeting.
“… So I thought you could buy out my share of the house, then I could pay rent to continue living here until the Hall house is finished,” Martina concluded as her sisters, TJ, and Patrick listened.
The four Russo sisters had inherited the house after their parents had died, and they each owned a quarter of the property. Because the place had a sliver of an ocean view, because it was a historic building, and because the senior Russos had renovated the house so beautifully, even a quarter of the value of the place was a substantial sum. That sum, along with her savings, would give Martina enough to make a good-sized down payment on the Hall house.
“Oh.” Sofia frowned and looked at Patrick as the others considered her proposal.