“He’s not an asshole. It’s just how people down here are. They’re not afraid to speak their minds…in the kindest way possible.”
“Well it’s very unprofessional, so explain to me why you’d want to work with someone like that?”
“The neighbors say he’s really good.” I press my lips and rub the little ball on my ankle, cross-legged on the bed. I have to admit, I’m a little upset with Kyle. I was so happy to tell him about the new backyard we would have. At first, he only nodded and said his “mm-hmms”, but as we sat at the dinner table, sharing a meal of baked salmon and garlic crusted asparagus, he simply said, “Call the landscaping off. We don’t need it right now, Gabby.”
“What? Why?” I asked, mid-chew.
“Because we’ve just moved, and the last thing I want is a mess in the backyard.” He took his last bite of salmon. “I know I said you could do some research, but I didn’t say set it in stone. The pictures you showed me on his website aren’t all that spectacular.” He stood from his chair, picking up his empty plate and carrying it to the sink. I felt him come behind me and he capped my shoulders with gentle hands, placing a kiss on the top of my head. “There are much better candidatres out there, I’m sure. Plus, the price you told me is a bit much for what you’re asking. We can find someone else at a more convenient time and with a way better package deal.” And then he walked off, saying, “Dinner was good!” on the way out.
I remained slumped in my chair. Suddenly, I’d lost my appetite. I dumped my half-eaten meal into some Tupperware, and then washed what little dishes we had. I didn’t speak to Kyle much for the rest of the night, and was slightly relieved he’d fallen asleep after I’d taken a shower.
Now, I can’t stop thinking about the email Mr. Ward sent back. I feel awful, knowing he’s probably already started a design, and I believe him when he says we won’t find anyone with better prices. I’ve searched, and landscapers in Hilton are pretty expensive. He’s given the cheapest quote so far, compared to some of the others I’ve emailed.
“I really want this backyard before the housewarming,” I plead with Kyle. “Can we just give him a try? Please?” I climb off the bed and walk to him, lightly swatting his hand away and straightening his tie. “He said he would have it done in plenty of time before our housewarming even happened. I’m thinking sometime in May, we could do it.”
Kyle sighs, dropping his eyes to look down at me. “You waste money on things we don’t need, Gabs.”
“But this is different. It’s permanent. An investment. I can’t give it away or shove it aside, like a new shirt or a pair of shoes.”
He knows I have a point, because one of his eyebrows shifts up.
He pulls away from me, turning to grab the jacket of his suit. As he slides his arms into it, glancing at me one more time, I give him a hopeful look.
“Please, Kyle?” I beg, because begging is so not beneath me. “You wouldn’t even have to pay for the whole thing. I have money saved!”
He groans, mumbling beneath his breath. When he meets my eyes again, he says, “Oh—fine, Gabby! Fine. Email him back and have it built, but he better have it done in the timeframe he says, and it better look beyond spectacular.”
“Oh my gosh! Thank you!” I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. He tries to fight a smile but ends up chuckling. “I’ll make sure they finish on time. It’ll be great. You’ll see, babe.”
“Yeah, sure.” He plants a kiss on my mouth. “Well, I have to go meet Mr. Cress for lunch. Let me know what you want for dinner. I’ll pick something up.”
“Okay, I will.” I give him one more kiss as he cups my ass in one hand. “Love you. Thank you.”
With a squeeze on my butt, he smiles on his way out the door, and I watch him go. When I hear his car door shut, I pretty much dash to my studio, popping my laptop open and sending Mr. Ward an email back, telling him to disregard my last email and that he can continue with the job.
He doesn’t reply right away. I’m ten-fingers deep in glazing a sculpture when I hear my laptop ding.
It takes a few moments to get my hands clean enough to type in my password and get to my emails.
Miss Gabby,
Glad your husband came around. Also glad to know there are still people out there with good taste in yard work. Let’s hope I don’t fail either of you.
Working on the prints. Will email proofs to you within 24 hours. Looking forward to building the dream backyard for you.
Have a great week.
Marcel Ward
CEO of Ward Landscaping & Design
I laugh at his email, especially the part about my good taste in yard work. I reply “sounds good,” and leave it at that, but while I finish glazing my sculpture of a mama and baby elephant holding their own balloons, I can’t help thinking about his email from last night.
“Don’t give up so easily on something you really want.” I hadn’t read that part out loud to Kyle, and with good reason, because Kyle would have felt challenged by a man he didn’t even know. Still, it’s almost like Mr. Ward knew Kyle had shut the idea down. That one sentence pushed me, in a way, the screams inside me demanding that I don’t give up on it because I really do want it.
Kyle wouldn’t have found another landscape architect worth the price. I’d done my research after finding Mr. Ward, and most of the landscape architects I found do only commercial work. Not residential. The ones who do residential are way too pricey.
I really want this. I daydream about waking up in the mornings, brewing a fresh cup of tea or coffee, and sitting on a cushioned chair to watch the sun rise, or even enjoying a nice glass of wine while bathing in the sunset. I want the fresh scent of newly buried flowers and air doused in salt engulfing me. The vision is so crisp and clear I can taste it.
So yes, this is something I have to push for, and for once, I’m glad I didn’t shove the idea aside all because Kyle told me to.
SEVEN
GABBY
TO MY LUCK, my backyard is going to be started on much sooner than expected.
I got a call from Mr. Ward two days ago, saying that if it was okay to get started, he could bring his crew on Thursday. Apparently, he wants to get this job done before a big one he has coming in May.
It’s now seven in the morning on Thursday, and I’m standing on my porch with a mug of coffee in hand, watching as they carry tools and supplies to the backyard.
I smile as each guy passes by and they return the smiles. A familiar black Ford pickup truck pulls into the driveway moments later, stealing my attention.
Mr. Ward steps out in a plaid blue and white button-down shirt, but the buttons aren’t done up, and the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. It’s wide open, revealing a white, ribbed tank. It doesn’t look like he did much with his hair—almost like he rolled out of bed and ran his fingers through it. It’s kind of hot. When he spots me, he puts on a small smile, then walks up the stoop.
“Mornin’, Miss Gabby,” he greets, stretching his arm out and giving me his hand.
I reach to shake it, catching a whiff of him. He smells like Irish Spring soap and sandalwood, a complete contrast to Kyle’s Bleu De Chanel. “Good morning, Mr. Ward. Glad to see you here, and a few minutes earlier than you said.”
“Well, I think it’s safe to say my team is eager to get this job started.”
I laugh. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got.”
He smirks at me as he reaches under his arm for the clipboard that I didn’t even realize was there. “I just need you to sign a few papers for me. Basically givin’ me the consent to destroy your yard before makin’ it look all nice and done-up again.”
He pulls a pen from behind his ear, and I gladly accept it, signing on the dotted line. Once signed, he tucks it back under his arm and replaces the pen. “Thank you. It’ll turn out nice. Let me know if you have any questions. My crew won’t be in your hair at all, so carry on with your day.”
“Thank you
, Mr. Ward.”
He chuckles. “You aren’t gonna let that name up, are you?”
“Only if you let up on calling me Miss Gabby.” I sip from my mug—the one that says Mrs. Bitch. There’s a matching one that says Mr. Asshole that belongs to Kyle. Teagan bought them for us as a gag wedding gift. Let’s just say Kyle hates his mug.
He walks down the porch steps. “Ain’t happenin’…unless you want me callin’ you the name that’s on that mug you got there.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “That wouldn’t be very professional.”
“I agree, so Miss Gabby it is.” He winks over his shoulder, then heads toward his truck. I watch as he places the clipboard inside and then he walks to the bed of it, taking out a set of tools and papers.
As he walks on the path that leads to my backyard, I yell, “Wait—are you really going to be working with them?” I’m so shocked. I truly thought he was kidding about it in the emails and during the consultation we had, just to make himself seem more professional. I mean, he owns the company for Christ’s sake, and he has plenty of men back there to work.
“I enjoy workin’. I didn’t open this company just to sit on my ass all day.”
I open my mouth to argue, but really I don’t have much to say to that. Most owners I know come to check things out, not to do the work themselves. He seems to be in a position where he can sit and relax, yet he works. It’s interesting.
“Shall I continue?” His Southern timbre is much stronger as he raises a dark, slightly bushy brow.
“Uh—yeah, sure. By all means.” He hikes the strap of his tool bag higher on his shoulder and continues down the path. I watch until he disappears around the corner before going into the house.
From the double doors in the kitchen, I see the men setting up. Some have already started digging out the old flower beds, scooping the dirt out like it’s sand.
I finish my tea and head up to my studio, although I have very little inspiration today. Instead of sculpting, I hop on my laptop and visit ArtMeUp to check for any messages or notifications. There are none, so I check out the market, but mostly the sculptures. Some of them are so intricate and beautiful, selling for thousands of dollars.
I study one by an artist named Big Hands. His work is amazing, so detailed, and the way he colors and glazes his sculptures blows me away. He has to have a top notch kiln.
Shit! Speaking of kilns!
I jump out of my chair and rush out of the room, hurling myself down the stairs and out the double doors in the kitchen.
“Hey! Wait!” I yell, looking to my right. As soon as I do, I realize how much of a fool I’ve just made of myself.
Mr. Ward and his crew are standing in the far left corner. His papers are on a small folding table the crew brought along, and all of the men peer up at me with confused expressions.
“Oh…um, sorry.” I wince, then point to the white shed that’s on the left, a short walk from the door. The shed isn’t very small, but it has my kiln inside, and I need it to bake my sculptures. I would have it inside, but Kyle feels like it’ll cause a mess. “Please be careful around this shed.”
Mr. Ward nods, glancing sideways at the oven before focusing on me. “You got it, Miss Gabby. We’ll be careful.”
I sigh. “Thank you. Okay—I’ll leave you alone.”
He bobs his head once more, and I turn on the heels of my feet, rushing back inside, completely embarrassed.
The crew works for four hours straight before taking a break. By the time they do, it’s my lunch time, so I go to the kitchen and make a hot turkey sandwich the way my dad always makes it, with American and provolone cheese, Dijon mustard, mayo, bacon, and lettuce.
As I sit down to eat, I notice Mr. Ward in the backyard again. He’s sitting on the short cement wall near our private beach entrance with a lunch box in hand. He digs into it, taking out a sandwich and a bottle of water. He guzzles some of the water first, then bites into his sandwich.
For a while, I watch him. His eyes are on the ground and his head is hung low. He seems so…lonely.
Suddenly all these questions start to hit me. I wonder if he has a family? A wife or a girlfriend, maybe? Not that that is any of my business or anything, but I am curious. I wonder if he has any pets, or maybe a fish that he tends to when he gets home?
His eyes veer to the left, and he focuses on the door, where I’m sitting. I look away, finishing my sandwich and then going to the fridge to take out a green tea. Walking to the double doors, I step outside, going toward Mr. Ward.
“Everything going okay so far?” I ask, because how else do you start a conversation with your landscaper?
“Everything is all good.” He bobs his head, balling his sandwich bag up and stuffing it into his lunch box.
“Oh. Good.” I take a look around. The flower beds are completely gone and some of the grass has been dug up. “Man, you weren’t kidding about it getting ugly,” I laugh.
“Think of it as an ugly duckling. Starts out lookin’ real ugly, but blossoms into a pretty swan. In the next few weeks, your yard’ll be a swan, Miss Gabby.”
I smile.
“Tell your husband I was gettin’ started today?”
“No—haven’t had the chance.” I sigh. “He’s busy, doesn’t get the chance to talk much. He’ll text or call when he’s free though, I’m sure.”
“What does he do exactly?”
“He owns an investment banking company in New York. He’s supposed to be moving his office here really soon.”
Mr. Ward sits up straight, raising a brow. “Oh, really?”
“Yep.”
“And he’s ‘bout the same age as you, ownin’ a company like that?”
I laugh. “No. He’s thirty-three.”
“And you are?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Not to sound rude, but how does an older guy end up gettin’ with you if you’re in college?”
“He used to come to lunch a lot at a restaurant I worked at. Mostly whenever he was in town for work. He started requesting to sit in my section. We got to know each other well through that.”
“Oh, that kind of thing.” He puts on an arrogant grin and takes a swig of water.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t fight my smile, probably because his accent is both intriguing and slightly attractive.
“Nothin’.” He chuckles. “You’re a good-looking girl. I could see why a man would want you to keep servin’ him.”
I laugh. “Sure. Thanks, Mr. Ward.”
“You know what? That Mr. Ward thing is really blowin’ me. It’s all everyone ever called my dad. I need you to start callin’ me by my real name.”
“Marcel?” I tease.
“Actually, my real name is Marcellus.”
“Marcellus. You know, I saw that on your website. It’s a cool name.”
“It’s Latin for ‘young warrior.’ Also means hammer, or somethin’ crazy like that. My mother said it was a powerful name. The kind of name that no man would overlook or disrespect. She always told me it was a name she loved callin’ because it always made her feel protected…but then that Ross character from the show Friends got a pet monkey and named him Marcel. For years, everyone thought my name was hilarious because of it. Guess my name doesn’t sound so solid anymore.”
I break out in laugh. “Oh my gosh! You know what? I remember that monkey! Wow, now every time I think of you, I’ll picture a monkey on your shoulder.”
He laughs at that. “Oh, you got jokes?”
I giggle, then I sip my tea. “There was actually a character named Marcel on a show I really loved called The Originals. His sire always called him Marcellus, all passionately. I always thought the name was so unique, but the kind of unique you’d only hear on a TV show or read in a book, not in real life.”
“Well, I have no idea what a sire is, but I’m glad you like the name. I like the fact that it’s rare. I’ve never met or heard of another man named Marcel.”
“Neither have I. Does your family live close to Hilton? Your mom?” I’m trying to feel him out. I’m curious if he has any family or friends here, but as soon as I ask that, his eyes fall, and his eyebrows narrow.
“No. She doesn’t. Don’t have any family here.”
“Oh. Okay.” I shift on my feet before taking a step back. Maybe asking about his family wasn’t the way to go. “Well, I should probably let you get back to work. Don’t want to hold you up.”
He stands up, and his height, just like the first day we met, catches me off guard. He’s several inches taller than Kyle for sure. His shoulders roll back, and I’m just now realizing he took his plaid shirt off and is only wearing the ribbed tank. He looks down at me, tipping his head sideways.
“You aren’t holdin’ me up. Just makin’ casual conversation on my lunch break, which is fine by me.” He studies the side of our house. “You spend a lot of time alone, I assume?”
Me? Hell, I was just thinking the same about him. “Yeah, I do now, but it’s fine. I get a lot done, plus I’m starting to get used to it.” Okay, that’s a lie. I’m not used to it yet. When I lived upstate, Kyle drove home to me every night he could. But now, there are flights that stand between us, and by the time he gets home now, he has to fly right back out.
He works a lot—it’s been that way ever since his dad had a mild heart attack. He took on the company, and he wants to make sure it stays afloat, and I don’t blame him. I almost feel bad that I wanted to move to South Carolina, but he agreed that it would be good to have a fresh start, plus he hated the rain and snow of New York, too.
“Well, if you ever wanna have a chit-chat, I won’t mind it one bit,” Marcel says, looking sideways at me. “It’s better anyway, especially while workin’. Makes time go by faster.” I hear some men talking and a few of his crew members are walking our way.
“Okay. As long as I don’t bug you. I tend to ask a lot of questions. I’d hate to offend you.”
The Man I Can't Have (Ward #1) (Ward Duet) Page 5