By Design

by Denker, Jayne

  He looked down at the tiny seat suspiciously, but he gamely wedged himself into the little wooden trap. Graham shifted in the seat, his knees going every which way. “Comfy,” he said, unconvincingly. He looked around the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Very retro.”

  Emmie rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why my parents left my bedroom like this.”

  “I’m sure they’d say it’s a tribute to a wonderful daughter.” Emmie blushed again and studied the candle snuffer. It was engraved with vines and leaves, and she traced the lines with a trembling fingertip. “Nice,” Graham was saying. She looked up to find him peering into the dollhouse. “I can see certain ‘Emmie touches’ in there. May I?” She nodded, and he opened up the dollhouse on its hinges. He murmured, “Sophie’s been asking for a dollhouse. I was thinking of getting her one for Christmas. Well,” he amended, “I wanted to make her one, but I’ve been so busy with work, I just didn’t have time.”

  Emmie studied his profile—that gorgeous face she’d been obsessing over for months—and she found it was even nicer than the images she conjured up in her daydreams. She drank in his handsome profile, the crow’s-feet around his brilliant blue eyes, the slight curl at the base of his black hair and the touch of gray at his temples, the faint trace of stubble on his chin. But as perfect as his face and body were, somewhere along the way she had come to realize that she liked what was inside even more.

  Then, suddenly, Graham blurted out, “Emmie?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I . . .”

  Emmie caught her breath. What was he going to say? Oh, she desperately needed him to declare his love for her. Right now. Nothing else would do. Surely that’s what he was going to say . . . right?

  “I . . .”

  And . . . ?

  “I’m sorry, but I really have to get out of this chair.”

  He looked so comically uncomfortable that she couldn’t help but laugh. As Graham fought his way out, Emmie dared to stand up as well. And she didn’t quite mind so much anymore if the chair was still adhered to her butt, because somehow she felt that Graham wouldn’t mind, either. Still, just to make sure, she planted her hands on the armrests to help separate the chair from her behind, and found that one of the arms was jammed into her sweatpants pocket. So that explained it; she didn’t really have that broad of a backside. At least that was something.

  She got to her feet and stumbled a little. Graham caught her by the elbows and steadied her. She looked up once again at that warm smile and in one step closed the short distance between them. She shocked even herself, leaning into him—and was mortified for a moment, as Graham, startled, drew his head back a fraction of an inch. Then relief and warmth flooded through her as she felt his arms close around her, his broad hands spread across her back. She slid her arms around his neck, felt her heart hammering in her chest. She dropped her gaze and noticed a pulse throbbing at the open collar of his striped oxford.

  Their foreheads touched, their noses nuzzled, and then Emmie’s mouth sought Graham’s. Or his sought hers. She wasn’t sure anymore, and it didn’t matter. Emmie gloried in the sensation of the length of his body fused to hers. They fit. They fit! She always knew they would . . . but she had no idea just how perfectly. The tip of her tongue grazed his bottom lip. He pulled her tighter and his tongue found hers—just a little, just enough to draw a little gasp from deep in her throat.

  “Uh-hum.”

  Oh, the air was cold between them when Graham pulled away. She needed to find him again—she leaned in once more. She opened her eyes and followed his gaze. He was looking over his shoulder, at—

  “Dad!”

  “Sorry! Sorry,” her father blustered, holding his hands up in protest.

  Emmie felt herself deflate when Graham pulled his arms from around her. Even if it was temporary—she desperately hoped it was temporary—it was a miserable feeling.

  “No, no, my apologies, Mr. Brewster,” Graham stammered awkwardly. “We were just . . . uh . . .”

  “Going to go check out my house,” Emmie filled in. “You know, assess the damage.”

  At this, Emmie’s father felt more comfortable looking them straight on again. “Ah. Good. About time you started thinking about what to do with the place.”

  Emmie rolled her eyes. Trust her father to expect her to pick herself up within hours of the fire and charge ahead with repair plans.

  “Well, we do need to take a look at it as soon as possible,” Graham said, “because, well . . .” He turned to her. “I want to offer my architectural services, and put my best workers on the job. Free of charge,” he hastened to add.

  Emmie gasped. “Graham . . .”

  “That’s awfully nice of you, young man,” Bob Brewster chimed in.

  “Graham, I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Please,” Graham interrupted. “I want to. Really.”

  She smiled through the tears threatening to spill over again. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Graham smiled back, looking deeply into her eyes, melting her again with his soft gaze. After a second, which felt more like an hour—a blissful hour—he said, “Well. Ready to go check out your house?”

  She blinked. “I—I should change first.” And she started looking around frantically, trying to figure out what to change into, hoping the bag that Trish had sent with Graham had something that would fit her—then she heard her father speak.

  “Come on downstairs with me, Graham, while Emmaline gets ready. We’ll talk.”

  Graham gave her a tiny desperate look, although he dutifully followed Bob out of the room. She waved and smiled. Graham raised an eyebrow as he shut the door behind him.

  “Oh.”

  It was all Emmie could manage to utter as she stared into her bedroom—or what was left of it—from the yard. Black, cracked timbers were all that stood between her and her charred bed, nightstand, antique linens trunk, dresser, and chest of drawers. Her round area rug was filthy and sodden, her framed prints were lying on the ground, the glass shattered. Heaps of swollen, soaked, and frozen drywall slouched where it had fallen. Emmie could barely take it all in. Her house—her home—the place she had worked so hard to make perfect, utterly ruined and open to the sky.

  Behind her, Graham was on his phone. “Yeah, hey, Steve, sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Can you scare up some tarps—those really big ones—and find a couple of the guys, head out to 147 Hickory? . . . Right. Had a bit of a fire last night at Emmie’s . . . Yeah . . . House needs a little protecting from the elements—I hear it’s going to snow again tonight . . . No, no plywood—we can get to that tomorrow . . . Yeah . . . Nope, not too pretty right now. But it’s nothing that can’t get fixed soon enough.”

  Emmie half smiled to herself; she was sure that last comment was for her benefit. Graham had spent the drive over trying to cheer her up with optimistic talk about how quickly they could get the repairs done. Now he was taking the initiative to protect the remnants of her home, because he could tell she was completely at a loss about what to do next. She liked leaning on him (emotionally in this instance, but of course physically, too—and she shivered a little as she thought of their kiss). It was such a nice feeling to have someone supporting her instead of dragging her down. Last night—well, heck, up till just half an hour ago—she couldn’t have imagined that anything good could come of this disaster. Funny how life worked.

  Graham approached her tentatively, checked her expression. “Well? How are you holding up?”

  Emmie nodded as she continued to stare at the innards of her house laid bare. “Okay.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded again, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, with eyes a little too wide. He said nothing, only put an arm around her shoulder. She fell against him, buried her face in his jacket, and let it all out while he stroked her hair and held her close. After a few minutes, when Emmie’s tears lessened, he murmured, “Let’s get so
me of your things out of the house. I’m sure it’s safe to go through the front door. Okay?”

  Emmie found it pretty strange to be opening her front door and walking through it, then closing it behind her, while the back of the house was wide open, but it gave her a feeling of normalcy at the same time. The interior was dark and cold, littered with the remnants of her party. Emmie stood stock still in the middle of her living room for a few moments. Then she made a beeline for the bookshelves and picked up a framed picture of her and her mother, taken at her mom’s birthday dinner several years ago. She hugged it to her chest and looked around again, certain that she needed nothing else but this one treasured memento.

  But then she saw Graham standing patiently near her dining room table, beside the dishes of withered appetizers from last night, and she remembered something important. She retrieved her laptop case and work bag from the front hall closet, where she had put them for safekeeping before the party. Now she was grateful she had taken a moment to tuck away her work items. The bag held all the notes, lists, sketches, fabric samples, and paint chips for Graham’s project; if she had put them in her bedroom, she’d have had to start all over. She also grabbed her warmest coat, a hat, and some gloves. Because they had been in the closet, they only smelled slightly of smoke, unlike the rest of the place, which absolutely reeked.

  Graham accepted everything from her and took it out to his car. Alone in her house, Emmie tried not to cry again. Graham came back inside saying, “I’d bet anything you need more clothes.”

  Emmie half laughed. “Well, yeah. Female. But I’m pretty sure they’re all torched.” Then she brightened. “Except . . . I dumped a ton of laundry in the basement before the party. What do you think it’s like down there?”

  Graham pulled a small Maglite out of his pocket and twisted it on. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  “Aren’t you well prepared!”

  “Would you be surprised to find out I was a Boy Scout?”

  “I would be surprised to find out you weren’t.”

  Graham’s flashlight revealed that the lower half of the staircase was covered in giant lumps of ice, and icicles dripped from one step to the next. “Must’ve come through the floorboards,” Graham said.

  Emmie sighed. “Is there any part of this place that hasn’t been trashed?”

  “It cleans up, I swear,” Graham reassured her. “But for now, better let me go down.” Emmie hesitated, concerned for his safety. Graham said, “I promise not to even sneak a glance at your unmentionables.”

  Emmie had no problem with that—heck, at this point she was more inclined to give him a peek at the unmentionables she had on at the moment, never mind the ones in the basement. As she let her mind wander along some naughty avenues, Graham picked his way down, gingerly stepping around the inches-thick drips of ice, then returned with her laundry basket piled high with so many of her clothes she almost wept again, this time with relief. She appreciated Trish lending her clothes that might fit her, but a borrowed track suit was hardly going to make her feel as good as being reunited with at least some of her own things.

  As Graham slid the basket into his car, he asked, “Anything else you want to get from inside?”

  Emmie shivered in the cold breeze that had kicked up; it was deep twilight already, and there was really nothing worth going back into the dark, cold house for. They were just things—and mostly things she really could live without, she’d just come to realize. “No. But thank you, Graham. You’ve been a lifesaver.”

  “It was nothing.” He closed the hatch, then opened the driver’s side door, leaned in, started the engine, and turned up the heat. “Get in and warm up,” he said. “I have one more thing to take care of.” Turning the flashlight back on, he explained, “I want to check that the water’s turned off; otherwise your pipes are going to freeze, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.”

  Wow, she thought, watching him jog back up her front walk. Smart, resourceful, thoughtful. A girl could get used to this.

  While she waited, she checked the cars on the street. No Land Rover. Emmie wondered if Juliet had even noticed the state of her house when she’d retrieved her car. She doubted it. But she didn’t care; right now, Emmie had Graham and, if there was any justice in the world, all Juliet had was a vicious hangover.

  Even better, when Graham joined her in the car, rubbing his cold hands together, he said the words she longed to hear—well, not those, but ones that came a close second: “You must be starving. Let’s get you something to eat.”

  Graham took her to a little pub the next town over—his favorite place, he said, with incredible food, including soup as thick as stew. Soon Emmie was warm inside and out—from the soup, the basket of warm bread, the glass of wine (okay, two), the table by the fireside, the soft, high-backed chairs, and, of course, from being able to gaze as much as she wanted at the man across the tiny table from her.

  By the time they had finished dinner—and Graham nearly elicited a marriage proposal from her when he said, “After all you’ve been through, don’t you dare say no to dessert”—Emmie was feeling pretty open and expansive. She told him about the party, and the more details she shared, the more absurd it sounded, even to her own ears. And she discovered that she really loved making Graham laugh.

  Eventually Emmie got around to all the more unpleasant events as well—including the fact that she had driven Juliet home (but not what Juliet said about him). Emmie definitely didn’t want him thinking about Juliet at a time like this, so she rushed on to what it was like to see her house in flames in the snowstorm. When she got to the part about the fire, Graham told her that Trish had shared a bit of information—“Something about a candle . . . ?”—but he waited for her to say more.

  “Yeah,” she murmured, spearing a forkful of pie and touching it to the dollop of whipped cream on the warmed plate, where it was melting into a white puddle, “that was only . . . part of it.” Graham waited. “Kyle Yates. My ex-boyfriend. One of my biggest mistakes. He, uh, showed up uninvited, with his new girlfriend. His new drunk girlfriend.”

  She managed a brief description of how their presence had led to her house burning down, then fell silent as he placed his hand over hers on the table, squeezed her fingers. She looked deep into his blue eyes, so much darker in the firelight, and she didn’t realize till that moment that a heart could, in fact, skip a beat.

  “Emmie, I don’t know what to say. The fact that you’re not going to pieces over this . . .”

  Lucky he didn’t see me hunkered down in my kiddie bed just before he showed up today, she thought, but instead she gave a casual what’re-ya-gonna-do shrug and put on her courageous face. Yes, she was a brave little toaster, and she didn’t mind one bit that Graham was gazing upon her with admiration for surviving everything she’d gone through recently. At the very least she could enjoy that. And the pie.

  The house was dark, the only light coming from a small lamp in the corner of the living room. Emmie’s father had gone to bed. Graham quietly set down the laundry basket as Emmie found a place for the rest of her salvaged items. Then, Emmie noticed, he adopted his familiar stance, hands jammed in his pockets, which she now knew meant he was feeling a bit awkward. Well, so was she . . . mainly because she couldn’t figure out how to coordinate another attack without freaking him out. Because she so wanted a little more of what happened that afternoon.

  “Graham, I really can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done today. I’m so grateful. And dinner, too—wow.” He smiled at her, so she rushed on, “Do you want to sit down for a minute?” Oh, God, it’s worse than coming home after a high school date, she thought.

  He hesitated. Then he said, “Sure,” and followed her to the couch. In the silence that followed, Emmie stared down at the giant brown and yellow flowers on the upholstery and wondered why her parents had never let her give their home a much-needed makeover. This was the same furniture, the same draperies, the same carpet that had a
dorned the living room in the old foursquare home for as long as she could remember.

  She was trying to think of something to break the silence when Graham burst out, “Emmie, there’s something we need to talk about.”

  Oh crap.

  “I just want to . . . clear the air, I guess,” Graham started, a little hoarsely, staring at the floor between his feet.

  Time to drag out the brave little toaster face again, because, sure as shootin’, one of the next ten words out of Graham’s mouth was going to be “Juliet.” Emmie held her breath. Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .

  “I, er, like you, Emmie. I like you a lot. You’re so great. Beautiful, and smart, and talented. Funny. Brave, too, in all this.” He risked a sideways glance at her, and she forced herself to breathe. In, out . . . wait for it . . . “But . . .” Shazaam, there it was—the evil “but,” the scourge of hopeless romantics the world over. Emmie couldn’t say she was all that surprised; she had a feeling it was coming. “I think . . . what happened this afternoon . . . probably . . . shouldn’t have.”

  He paused, and Emmie tried to pick her innards up off the floor. She always hated this part—and God knew she’d heard this speech plenty of times before in her life. Up next: “not ready for a relationship,” “let’s keep things casual,” and probably even the dreaded “I like you as a friend.” But this time it was different. She didn’t want to hear that sort of thing from Graham. The more she’d gotten to know him, the more she realized that he was someone worth fighting for. She had been half joking when she told Trish that she was going to steal Graham from Juliet; now she was 100 percent serious about it.

  “. . . Emmie?”

  She blinked. Graham had stopped talking and was waiting for her response. “Um . . . sorry . . . what?”

  “I said, ‘Are you okay with that?’”

  “With . . . ?”