by Fifi Flowers
I had to know what had made her want so many of the paintings and what she was going to do with them. That curiosity was why I called myself a journalist rather than an art critic. Within the blink of an eye, my approach to the article I had planned to write about the showing changed to something totally different. I was lucky that the people I wrote for—mainly a blog site called Fashionista Forward at that time—allowed me that freedom.
The woman reminded me of an artist or a dancer dressed all in black—pencil-leg slacks, turtleneck, and ballerina flats. Think Audrey Hepburn with a beatnik look. She had me imagining her life in an ultra-modern New York apartment with stark white walls featuring bright works of art. I had one part right; she did live in a modern structure, but I had picked the wrong coast.
“I hope you don’t mind…would you be willing to give me an interview?” I didn’t want to beat around the bush—barrage her with questions and then find out that she would not allow me to use her answers.
When I started out, reporting about functions, I quickly found that many art purchasers prefer to remain anonymous.
“I plan to hang them in my new house once I get rid of…gift my old one to the right person. Just the title alone, ‘Escape’ called to me. I love the paintings and the concept behind each one—the artist is brilliant…and I love Paris.” She took a sip of her white wine and looked me over as if she was assessing me. “Are you in the market for a new home?”
“I would love a home of my own someday.” I mean, who didn’t want to own a piece of property, but the prices in California—where I desired and what—were crazy.
“How do you feel about unique architecture? Older homes? Keeping the original or tearing them down in favor of a cookie-cutter mini-McMansion?” She leaned back, putting her weight more on one leg, and folded her arms across her chest—perhaps bracing herself for my answer.
“If I could select any type of home and in any area…I would pick a place that had a variety of homes…I prefer an older home.” She had to be asking about my dream house, so that was how I answered.
I could picture an old neighborhood with great houses, old Hollywood, glamorous with lots of character and I found myself smiling. That smile never left my face as the woman told me about her home that could be mine for only two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That was a chunk of money that could’ve bought me a nice condo in some areas, but not her one point five million dollar house in the Los Feliz area.
It did!
She was in the middle of a nasty divorce and she refused to give her soon-to-be ex-husband a dime more than she had to. Although it was her house to sell and she had purchased it in her name only, because it was during their marriage, he would be getting half of the profit.
Such an amazing deal, I couldn’t afford to not buy it. Unfortunately, the ex-husband did not take kindly to the sale and before the paperwork was final, I received a call from the woman that I needed to come to the house. She told me that she understood if I wanted to back out after I saw the damage. That didn’t sound good, but it wasn’t as bad as I had thought. The ex-husband had gone into the home and took away a lot of its charm—its original elements such as built-in bookcases, banquettes, window benches, and even the kitchen cabinets. It really didn’t hurt the seller or even me, the buyer, it hurt the integrity of the house and the architect who had created such an amazing house.
That was why I had hired Tate & Sons Construction who specialized in old home restoration and unique cabinetry to fix my home. Even with the elements missing, I saw potential to bring it back to life…and at such a steal, I had equity in the house to make repairs. I also saw it as an entry in my future book…my dream book; California Eclectic Style by Daphne Chastain. What I hadn’t seen coming my way was the dreamy man.
He was the epitome of sexy construction worker—wearing well-worn, paint-splattered blue jeans that hugged his ass and a fitted gray-blue t-shirt that nicely showed off his pronounced pecs and arms that stretched out the sleeves. The only thing missing was camel-colored work boots, a tool belt around his narrow waist…and maybe a hard hat. I nearly laughed to myself at my stereotyped Village People construction performer from the disco era. Too bad he wasn’t going to be working outdoors in the heat and need to take his shirt off… Hmmm…maybe I could crank up the heater while he was working.
“So when can you start work?” I had no idea if he wanted the job or could do the job or what he was going to charge me to fit the puzzle pieces back together…but I wanted him! He was the right man for the job which may or may not involve extras on the side. “Is your wife okay with you spending a lot of time on this project?” That may have been a warning sign to him or a clue that I was fishing—I didn’t care—but inquiring minds wanted…needed to know.
“I’m free to begin immediately. And, for the record, I don’t have anyone to be accountable to.”
He grinned and I thought silently to myself, not yet!
Chapter Three
Caldwell
Back in the truck, I tossed the clipboard on the seat next to me and drove off in a bit of a hurry—I didn’t want Daphne to see me fist pumping the air. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Ashton my good news, that he was off the job, and thank him for getting sick… Oh, right, I promised to bring him back to the land of the living. First stop, swing by our favorite Thai place and pick up the cure to just about any ailment, along with the other two key ingredients.
Sitting and waiting for my order which included spicy mint pork with glassy noodles for me, I got to thinking about the missed words that were flowing from two luscious lips that would be perfect…
“Order up!”
Not a good place to space out and think about all of the naughty things I would like to do on the job. I wasn’t sure that the grocery store was any better, but I couldn’t get the picture of that blonde bombshell stripped naked out of my head. Not that I knew what she would look like, but I had a pretty good imagination about how I would fuck her all over that house. Some of my fantasies would have to be put on the backburner since it required some cabinetry to be installed first.
“That will be eight, eighty-five, sir.” I had forgotten that I was in the checkout line as I scrambled to pull my wallet out of my back pocket. How was I going to work with her near? Just having her in my head was more than I could handle. Thankfully, I was able to concentrate enough to start the truck and make it back to my brother’s house. Walking into the kitchen, I found Ashton leaning on a doorway that opened out to his backyard and he was texting on his phone.
“I start work tomorrow…what do you think I should be charging?” I asked, pulling a large Styrofoam container filled with garlicky Thai wonton soup with extra shrimp from a brown paper bag. Then I poured a pale-faced Ashton a glass of icy cold ginger ale and put the gallon tub of rainbow sherbet—he texted me that he wanted more than just orange flavored—into the freezer.
“You start work on what? And how would I know what you charge?” he asked, following a big burp that I hoped wouldn’t have him projectile vomiting on me, again.
“The Streamline house.”
“Oh. How did that go? Great house, isn’t it? I knew that you would love it… What do you mean you start work? You were just supposed to take photos, write things down that needed to be done, and maybe measure for material purposes.” He was scrunching his face as he spoke and I was pretty sure that it had nothing to do with the way he was feeling and a whole lot like “what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Yep, she is fucking mine!” I announced, ladling soup into a large white ramen bowl and sliding it across the island. I nearly laughed at the way he had perched himself on a stool, waiting with a spoon and packets of hot sauce.
“I know what she wants and I’m prepared to give it to her.” The latter part of my sentence had the crotch area of my pants feeling a bit tight.
“Why do I get the feeling that you are talking about a woman and not the Streamline house?” he asked after
slurping up a few spoons full of the hot and spicy soup.
“Just let me start by saying that you were a hundred…a thousand percent right when you labeled the potential client ‘Hot House Daphne’ because she is beyond hot…” I stopped to take a bite of my order of glassy noodles. “Oh, and by the way, take her name and number off your phone. She is off-limits to you now!” He just looked at me like I had grown another head…or completely lost my mind.
“You don’t do construction work!”
“I do now…and I used to work for Dad before you did, little brother.”
As soon as we were tall enough to safely reach the table saw, my father had us building stuff. And even before handling heavy equipment, we learned to make wooden birdhouses, mailboxes, and other simple things. Easy for kids to construct, we were training for bigger projects to come. I remember him making us build our own bedroom furniture—desks, bed-frames, bookcases, side tables…pretty much whatever we wanted in our rooms. Ashton even made his own lamp—he was far more excited about his achievements. I kept thinking that it would be easier to go to a big blue warehouse store that sold boxes filled with furniture that needed to be constructed with the help of step-by-step instructions and an Allen wrench.
My brother was a better designer than I was for sure; paying great attention to details and flourishes. That was something that I was going to have to work on for the Streamline job. Oh my God! I was about to work on my dream house! Too bad it belonged to someone else. That had me thinking…what did she do for a living to afford that house? Was she a trust fund baby? Was she divorced and got the house in their settlement? Was she married? I had noticed there was no ring on her finger. And she did casually…in an obvious way, ask if I was married. Why hint around if you’re not interested? She seemed totally interested or I wanted to believe that.
I was definitely interested and totally excited to get to work the next morning. Waking early, I gobbled down some oatmeal along with toast, and grabbed a to-go coffee mug before I took off to the Tate & Sons’ work yard. It was time to load up my father’s old work truck with tools, a tool belt, a ladder along with anything and everything I might need.
“You’re really doing it?!” I heard Ashton say, coming up behind me.
“Yep. I cleared my schedule until after three o’clock every day,” I said proudly, lugging stuff into a few hard plastic crates. “I’m using Dad’s truck too.” I waited a click to see if Ashton was opposed, but he didn’t flinch. Then again, he knew that I couldn’t fit work equipment into my sporty little car. “Well, I’m out of here. Will I need to jump start the truck?”
“Nope. I start it every couple of days and I drive it around the block once a month.” He was looking at me funny and I wasn’t sure if he was maybe thinking about our father. I was almost waiting for him to say something like “Dad would be proud of you.” Those weren’t the exact words I heard before I slipped into the cab of the old beat-up truck. Instead, I heard, “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
Did I truly know what I was getting myself into? No! Did I want to go back to the house and see her? That was a definite “yes.” I was sure that I could make things, build things…bring things in that would bring the house back to what it once was. She had pictures. She had ideas. She knew what she wanted. I wanted to spend time with her and I loved that house. It felt like a connection between us:
The house had always been on my list.
Daphne bought the house.
She wanted to revitalize it.
Harrison gave her my brother’s number.
Ashton got sick.
I stepped in.
It all had to mean something and I intended to find out how we fit together.
It was interesting to me how quickly she opened the front door—the day before and the first morning I reported for duty—and I loved the big smile on her face. It took every ounce of restraint in me not to pull her into my arms. Although, it really wasn’t possible without me dropping all of my tools on the floor first. But, if I knew that she would welcome the embrace, I would’ve gladly thrown them down.
“You’re bright and early.”
“You’re up and ready.”
“I am.” She bounced backward like before and waved me inside. “Where do you want to start?”
Would mentioning her bedroom be too forward?
“Why don’t we sit down and you tell me what you know about this house. Show me the photos you have of its original state and tell me if you like all of them or if you would like a variation. We can build in simple things and we can probably acquire others…we can look at antique shops…Harrison—”
“—knows of a great place on Melrose.” She finished my sentence with a laugh. “Sorry. I’ve already been there and met Alexa. She’s great. I pop in when I can. Some of the small decorative pieces I have, actually came from there. The rest of the furnishings are reproductions or complimentary pieces to the modern era.” She stopped talking and put her finger to her lips. “Sorry again, I’m talking too much.”
I assured her that her talking and excitement was enjoyable and welcomed. I silently told my body to settle down because otherwise I was in for a very painful day. I, also, had to tell my mind to stop thinking of ways to quiet her down…like my mouth covering hers. Or maybe my cock in her mouth when she told me to tell her to shut up at any time. But truthfully, she was enchanting and her love and enthusiasm for the house equaled mine.
The photos were great and I could see how we could make the house even better, but I had to know how she was able to nab the house…not financially necessarily…these style houses didn’t stay on the market for long. Especially not like the one she got, collectors usually swooped in and purchased them. Not to mention they rarely went on the market as people tended to keep them forever.
“How long have you had this house? I didn’t even see it up for sale?” Good question without being too nosey. It was also true, I had not seen a for sale sign or been alerted to it as it was on my list of dream houses—I was always waiting for the right one.
“You will never in a million, trillion, bizillion years ever believe me, like ever… But, I swear that it is one hundred percent, honest to God unbelievably true.” In that instant, I imagined her being extremely energetic in bed and I had to, casually, adjust myself, so I asked for a glass of water or coffee before she continued. “Oh sure.” She was up and moving about making coffee and telling me details about how she had practically stolen the house.
Her movements of bending, leaning, spinning her curvy body around while waving her arms which made her breasts bounce were not helping me at all. Her story thankfully captured my attention enough that I was able to keep myself from ripping her clothes from her body and taking her fast and hard from behind.
Chapter Four
Daphne
Oh my God! The first few days of having Caldwell in my house were literally painful. I never knew that my nipples could get hard so fast and stay that way whenever he was near me—close enough to rub up against him like a cat in heat. I had never had the urge to mate like an animal, bent over, and swiftly taken from behind. I admit to thinking about enticing him with my goods and trying to get his attention, wiggling my ass in front of him while standing still or walking. He either wasn’t interested or was very good at being professional.
I guess I should’ve been happy that he wasn’t some slick operator making rude comments…but a little innocent grope might be enjoyable. I was loving our interactions and conversations every day and I made a point to be home when he came to work. Unfortunately, a few days didn’t pan out and I had to give him a key to my home along with the alarm code. More importantly, I was sad that I had missed him and hated when he finished working for the day.
Some of the best days were when Caldwell needed my input and the best day was when he asked me if I wanted to help decide on a paint color for my library. Not only did I pick out the color when I went with him to buy it, but I talked hi
m into letting me paint. He probably didn’t want me in the way. He was such a nice guy though and didn’t protest.
It was all good until I got a little daring and climbed up on a ladder to work on my custom bookcase while he rolled paint on the walls. Word of advice, don’t watch the way your fellow, handsome painter’s arm muscles flex as they move the pole up and down. And don’t even think about how their butt looks perfect when they lean over and reapply paint to their roller. But if you are going to fall off a ladder, be thankful that you have two big strong arms ready to catch you.
“Holy shit!” I heard before my paintbrush went crashing toward the floor with me following its direction. Then close to my ear, his voice was alarmingly husky, deep…and unbelievably sexy as he asked, “Are you okay? I gotcha.”
My heart was beating like a tribal drum and I was finding it hard to breathe while I attempted to think straight.
Don’t press your lips against his just because you have your arms around his neck and you are being cradled to his firm chest.
I couldn’t have perfected my clumsy move any better even if I had tried. How was he so quick to catch me? Why was he still holding me and why was I not trying to squirm out of his arms that held me so tight? All I know is that my mind was running wild imagining a whole scenario:
“You have dazzling eyes.” That was my innocent comment.
“You have kissable lips.” My whole body tingled at his words that were only in my head.
“Why don’t you prove it?” Definitely not innocent on my part.
Just like that, I envisioned his mouth crushing mine, exploring my mouth with a hunger that I welcomed with opened lips and shut eyes. Yes, I could see it all unfolding in front of me…but it ended too soon…
“I’m going to set you down.”
I guess that was the cue that told me to open my eyes, leave my fantasy behind, and disengage my hands from around his neck.