“It’s damn hard to offend me.” He picks up a blueprint and reads over it. “But I do have one condition for you: if you’re makin’ conversation with me, then there won’t be any more of that Mr. Ward shit. Just call me Marcel.”
I laugh. “But Mr. Ward is much more formal.”
“Formalities are bullshit.” He looks over his blueprint at me.
“Okay. Fine. Marcel it is. And if that’s the case, you can just call me Gabby. Not Miss Gabby.”
“All right.” He places the blueprint down, and his men have already picked up shovels and tools to get back to work. “Gabby it is.” His Southern drawl is heavier as he says my name, and I look away, fighting the blush I feel creeping up on me out of nowhere.
I step back, going toward the doors with a grin. “Let me know if you need anything, Marcel.”
“Sure will, Gabby.”
I grab the door handle, but not without noticing the smirk on his face. When I close the doors, I can’t help sneaking a peek as I put my tea back in the fridge.
Mr. Ward—Marcel—is standing with a shovel in hand. He stabs it into the ground, leaving it standing upright, and then he crosses one arm over the other, reaches down for the hem of his shirt, and pulls it up, right over his head.
With the sun beaming directly on him, of course he stands out. His tan skin is unmarked minus one long scar right below his right rib. He’s sculpted but not bulky, almost like he does just as much cardio as lifting to get his lean, toned appearance. His abs lead down to a sharp vee that disappears beneath his belt buckle and jeans. A few hairs jump out from beneath the buckle as he grabs the handle of the shovel.
As he snatches the shovel out, he pauses midway. My eyes travel up to find his, and it’s then I realize I’ve been staring. He narrows his eyes a bit, but a smug smile lightly tugs at the corners of his lips.
“Oh, shit!”
I back away, bumping into the nearest counter edge. When I hear one of the men yell something, I look again, glad Marcel has moved away from the windows of the doors to tend to the person. I hurry back upstairs, and this time I don’t look back, even though a small part of me is dying to see those abs one more time.
EIGHT
GABBY
I DON’T KNOW what possesses me to make lemonade for the Ward Landscaping crew. It’s their second day of hard work, but unlike the six men they had yesterday, who handled the brunt of all the work by digging a large square in the back for the stone patio I’ll soon have, there are only three today.
There’s Marcel, who introduced two young guys to me when he arrived this morning, Alex and Jacob. Alex is tall with a lanky build. He takes his shirt off like Marcel, but it does nothing for me.
Jacob is much shorter than Alex. He doesn’t take his shirt off, but he does roll the sleeves up really high over his shoulders, revealing toned arms. He has dimples that he doesn’t mind flashing and dark skin that I’m sure is constantly kissed by the South Carolina sun. I can tell he’s of Latino heritage by his downward mustache and goatee.
Alex and Jacob goof around a lot, I notice. Sometimes I catch Marcel getting annoyed with them, snapping at them to get back to work, and other times I catch him trying not to laugh as he indulges in their shenanigans. I find it interesting on Marcel’s behalf, especially when he laughs or smiles, because he doesn’t seem to do it much.
One thing I didn’t expect was to lose my creative flow with the remodeling of the backyard. I want to watch how it transforms from this ugly duckling to a beautiful swan, like he promised. I’m sure it’ll make it much more enjoyable for me in the end, too, seeing the final product and knowing the hard work that was put into it.
After I finish squeezing lemons and adding sugar, water, and a special ingredient my mom always uses, I put the glass pitcher on the tray I sculpted and glazed myself, grab a few plastic cups, and then carry it all to the backyard.
The landscaping crew has a folding table in the corner with their lunch boxes and cell phones scattered over the top of it, so I carry the lemonade there.
Marcel looks at me curiously. “What’s all this?”
“Do you know it’s eighty-nine degrees today?” I ask, setting the tray down. “And humidity is at eighty-four percent, so it actually feels hotter than that?”
“Nothin’ I ain’t used to,” he says, cleaning off his hands with the towel that was previously hanging from his back pocket. He steps up beside me, and even though he’s about two steps away, I can smell him very clearly. Sweat, and the last remnants of whatever soap or body wash he uses.
“I’ll take some of that!” Alex calls out as I fill the empty cups.
“Yeah, me too,” Jacob chimes in. They come over, and I hand them each a cup. They walk off with it, taking big gulps before setting the cups down and getting right back to work.
I hand a cup to Marcel, who nods his head once while accepting it. He takes one sip. Then another. “Good,” he notes, eyebrows shifting up like he’s surprised.
I smile. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”
“What’s in it that makes it taste sweeter than usual? Can’t just be lemons, sugar, and water.”
I pretend to physically zip my lips. “It’s a secret. Not supposed to tell.”
“Well, I can guarantee you I won’t be makin’ lemonade, so your secret’s safe with me.”
“I don’t see you as a lemonade-making man, so perhaps that’s true.” I pour myself a cup and take a sip. “Between you and me, she uses organic agave syrup.”
“And just like that, I’m fuckin’ clueless. Got no idea what that even is,” he laughs, and I laugh with him.
“It’s a natural sweetener. More of nectar. It’s good and good for you.”
“Well, I like it. I’ll have to look into this agave stuff.” He takes another sip, then his eyes bounce over me as he turns and looks at his men, who are now doing some deep digging with shorter hand tools. “You know you don’t have to do this, right, Gabby? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you’re payin’ us for this job. We don’t expect special treatment.”
“I know, but I don’t mind treating you guys every once in a while.” I sip from my cup. “It’s just…well, never mind.”
“Just what?” he asks, looking me over.
I wave it off. “It’s nothing.”
“You’ve got my attention. May as well fill me in,” he adds smoothly.
I smirk at him before turning and looking up at the arched window on the second floor. “Normally, around this time, I’m working on something. Sculpting a crazy new masterpiece. But let’s just say I’m having somewhat of a block.”
“A block?” He narrows his eyes and I face him again.
“Yeah, a creativity block. Ever since you guys have started on the yard, I can’t concentrate, for some reason.”
“Are we too loud?” he questions, and I can tell it’s a serious one by the way he lowers his cup and his eyes get bigger. He’s worried. “If we’re causin’ too much of a distraction, just let me know, Mrs. Moore. Alex and Jacob are goofs and can get pretty loud, but I can always have different crew members here, which means less noise—”
“No—God, no! It’s fine. It’s totally fine. And please, Marcel, don’t call me Mrs. Moore like that. It’s just…it’s weird to hear. You don’t have to be so serious.” It’s insane how he switched from personable to business all in the span of a few seconds.
His eyes drop down. I look with him and realize my hand is on his arm. His skin is hot beneath my palm. I pull my hand away quickly, looking into his eyes briefly before focusing on the window again. “That window up there is where my studio is,” I tell him, and I don’t know why. I just figure he should know. “What’s funny is I was wishing there would be more noise around here—more commotion. This house is too big for just one person to be in. Without Kyle here, it’s just so…boring.”
He nods. “I bet it is. I’d hate to be in a home this big by myself too. It calls for company.”
“Yep.”
“And Kyle is your husband?” he asks, sipping from his cup.
“Yep, that’s him. He’s looking forward to the outcome of all of this. I sent him a picture of how torn up it was last night, and he freaked out.” I snicker, just thinking about the shock-faced emoji he sent back.
“It’ll be fine.”
“I know.” I shift sideways. “I think my block is coming from our move, too. I’m still getting used to this new work space. At first it was inspiring, but—and I hate that I’m even saying this—I miss being upstate. The weather is better here, yes, but I’m craving a cold night and a blanket right now.”
“And maybe you miss your husband too,” Marcel suggests. “It’s tough being in a new city alone.”
I meet his eyes. They’re a bright tropical blue with dark-blue flecks surrounding them. “Kyle works a lot. He’s always been a busy guy. I’m used to him being away.”
“Right.”
“But not while living here,” I continue. “It was easier before, because I could just pack a bag and drive a few hours to see my friends or family, or even visit him at work. Here, I have no friends. I guess I should start making some, though, huh? Sign up for some of those book clubs that are on the posters I see in town.”
“Yeah, better you make some lady friends and catch drinks and nights out with them. It’s much better than servin’ lemonade to hired landscapers,” he teases.
I laugh again, and it feels good to do. Kyle hasn’t gotten in touch with me all day. He’s probably in meetings. He will usually text me if he has meetings and can’t call, but he hasn’t done that either, and I’m worried. Another reason why I’m too distracted to work today.
“Well, since you’re distracted and bored, how about you do a small task for me?” Marcel says, placing his cup down on the table behind him and picking up the garden fork.
“Sure. What is it?”
“I was going to ask you once we got closer to laying the concrete for the patio, but we never discussed what kind of flowers you want in the gardens.” I watch as he digs the fork into the ground and scoops some of the grass out of a section. “How about you look for a few, let me know which one you’re leaning toward. You can choose two types if you want.”
“Okay…I can do that.”
“I suggest lookin’ for flowers that bloom best in late spring and early summer. That’ll require some research, so that should keep you occupied for a few and not so bored around here.”
“Okay. I’m on it.” I start to turn, but a thought hits me and I catch myself, looking at Marcel again. “Um…look, if I’m bothering you in any way, please tell me. I feel like I’m annoying you, which happens a lot, trust me. I’m too friendly sometimes—which my husband always says isn’t such a great thing—but I try to do what I can to make people feel welcome and—”
“Gabby, Gabby.” With a slight chuckle, Marcel cuts my ramblings off. “I already told you, I don’t mind chattin’ with you. You aren’t botherin’ me, and I appreciate your hospitality. It’s rare around here, especially in Venice Heights.” He takes a look around, as if he can see the whole neighborhood. “People around here aren’t usually so kind. It’s a nice change.”
I can’t fight my smile, or the blush that creeps up on me. AGAIN? Gah! What is up with me and blushing around this guy?
I tuck a few loose strands of my hair behind my ears, nodding. “Well, it won’t happen often, promise. Besides, I’m mostly coming out to see how everything is going, making sure my little clay oven is okay back here.”
He returns the sarcasm with, “Yeah, yeah. I get you.” I turn for the door and open it, but I don’t walk in without looking back at him. “Find those flowers, Miss Gabby. Make sure they’re good ones, too.” He quirks a brow at me, and I close the door, unable to get rid of the smile he sent me in with.
NINE
MARCEL
MY CREW WRAPS up on the yard work for the day, and I haul my supplies to the truck. I feel something scrape me as I collect my pliers and sheers, but I think nothing of it, lugging it all to the bed of my pickup.
As I toss my lunch box through the window, I catch a glimpse of the clipboard on my passenger seat, a clear reminder that I need to give my client the run down and prepare her for what comes next. I head toward the Moore’s front door, giving it a knock. Gabby answers, smiling up at me.
“Just want to let you know we’re wrappin’ up for the day.”
She steps outside, nodding. “Okay, cool.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll be stakin’ the yard and framin’ it, gettin’ it prepped for where we’ll lay the stones you chose. Most likely won’t get to the stones ’til about Tuesday or Wednesday.”
She takes a long blink before looking me in the eye and laughing. “I’m not sure what any of that means, but I’ll keep that in mind!”
“Landscaper talk, that’s all.”
She looks down, and her eyes stretch a bit as she focuses on my arm. “Oh—shit. You have a cut on your arm. Are you okay? You’re bleeding.” I look with her, noticing it too.
“Oh, it’s nothin’.” I wipe the blood away with my thumb, but more of it accumulates quickly. I guess it wasn’t just a scratch. “Must’ve happened when I was grabbing my tools. My shears are pretty sharp. Happens all the time. Nothin’ to worry yourself about.”
“Are you sure? Looks like there’s dirt on it. It might get infected. I actually have a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I can grab it—”
“No, Gabby—it’s fine. I can take care of it when I get home.” I hold my hands up but she shakes her head, turning away from me and rushing back inside without a word. I sigh, pressing a hand to the wall outside the door. She comes trotting back my way with a small black case in hand.
“Sit right there,” she demands, pointing at one of the cushioned chairs on her porch.
“Gabby, really, it’s fine—”
“Marcel, don’t be such a guy. It looks like a deep cut, and it will get infected if you don’t clean it out.” She cringes. “Sit down. At least let me flush it out.”
“Jesus,” I groan, walking to the chair. I slump down in it, watching her pry the case open. “You’re a demandin’ little thing. This what your husband has to deal with?”
“No,” she says, trying to fight a blush. “My husband isn’t as oblivious to things like this. Besides, I’m just trying to help.” She pulls out a small water bottle. “Put your arm up here, please.” I do as she suggests, placing my arm on the arm rest of the chair. She squats down, spraying my arm with the water, or at least I thought it was water.
“Shit!” I hiss, yanking my arm back, and she quirks a brow at me. “The hell is that?”
“Isopropyl alcohol. Nothing to worry about, my ass,” she mutters with a smug smile. She grabs a folded paper towel and wipes the wound off, then digs into the kit for ointment. She smears some over the cut before taking out a large bandage that’ll cover that area and more, ripping it open, and placing it over the cut. She brings my arm closer, and as she does, my eyes drift down to the V-neck of her long-sleeved shirt before lowering to her tanned thighs. I have no idea why she insists on wearing those hot-ass shirts. It must be her thing. She did just move from upstate, so I guess it’s all she has in her wardrobe.
She’s careful not to let my knuckles brush across her chest. For some reason, I’m wishing she weren’t so tentative. I clear my throat and look away. She’s my client…but she’s making it damn hard not to look.
“It wasn’t even that bad,” I mumble as she finishes up. “Could’ve waited ’til later.”
“Well, knowing you, I’m pretty sure you would have just let it dry up and get infected.”
I laugh, pushing out of the chair. “Nah. I know how to take care of myself, Miss Gabby.”
“Yeah, the same way most men take care of themselves. By not bothering at all.” She collects her stuff, putting it all back inside the kit. “My brother never used to cover his wounds. Such a pet peeve of mine.”
I step off the porch. “You think you know men well, huh?”
She folds her arms. “Never said that, but I know most men.”
“What could you possibly know about most men?”
“Um, just because I’m a little younger than you, doesn’t mean I don’t know much,” she says matter-of-factly.
“I’m ten years your senior, Gabby. And other than your husband, you probably don’t know much about other men at all. Real men.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Just means he’s probably your one and only. He’s all you know. There’s nothin’ wrong with that. But it proves my point. Good girls usually stick to one guy, and that one guy is all she really knows.”
Her eyes are rounder. She’s tongue-tied. Her arms fall to her sides, then she turns to pick up the first-aid kit, inching toward the door. “You think you know me well…huh?” She’s mimicking me, looking me right in the eyes.
“Not at all.” I walk to my truck, still peering over my shoulder. “But with time, I’m sure I’ll figure you out.”
She huffs a laugh and grabs the doorknob, pushing the front door open. “You’re so full of it, Mr. Ward!”
“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow, Miss Gabby!” She doesn’t look back, but by the way her shoulders shake, I can tell she’s laughing.
When her door is shut, I hop into my truck, start the engine, and leave her driveway, but during my ride to the liquor store, I can’t get our conversation or that altercation with the first-aid kit out of my head.
Her hands were on me—not once, but twice today. I can tell she’s just being nice—trying to fulfill her Samaritan role in life—but the girl doesn’t know a damn thing about personal space.
Maybe it’s the way she grew up. I can tell she and I are complete opposites. I’m not the one to reveal how I feel. I repress my emotions, yet she lays it all on the table and doesn’t care how awkward it might make one feel. Hearing her talk about her family was strange, but in a way, I couldn’t stop listening, because at least she has a family to talk about.
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