How did I know this?
I’d looked up the flower when I couldn’t sleep. Even with the drumbeat of the rain on the roof of my Airstream, I’d found myself scrolling far too late into the night.
She paused at the top of the hill and took off her shoe. She picked up a rock and whacked off the heel, then put it back on to match the other broken one. Then she resolutely picked her way down the rocky decline to my private beach. Her skirt was now ripped, showing off far too much leg for me to ignore.
Her arms were scraped up and a gash on her forearm was actively bleeding all over the rocks and sand.
“You’re hurt.”
She looked down. “Could be worse. That was a lot of porch that came down around our heads.”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“If I wasn’t here, you might have been more hurt, you know.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Is that right?”
“All that could have come down on your stupid head because you don’t know what you’re doing.”
I whipped off my respirator and tossed it on the bench I’d bought to look out on the water. “I’m not a complete novice, Hellcat.”
“Dahlia.”
I just arched a brow at her.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I came here.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“I just so happen to own a design studio.”
“How fortuitous for me.”
Her lips twitched. “Isn’t it? Look, I know you think I’m certifiable.”
“Bet you’d look good in white.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I look spectacular in white. With and without buckles.”
I resisted the urge to laugh—barely. Instead, I gritted my teeth, waiting her out. She couldn’t stop talking as far as I could tell from both of our interactions.
“This house is special. Let me help you bring it back to life.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because I already love it. I’ll do everything in my power to make it great again.”
“And what? Take away all the character?”
“What? God, no.” She twirled around to face the house and spread her arms out. All the lithe muscles of her arms were marred with long scrapes and made me swallow down a growl. She was battered and bleeding because of me. “Technically, it’s a Victorian, but Harriette had a taste for Gothic romance. The dangerous angles of the roof with the iron, the twin towers with their turrets. Even the stone details that make up the arches...all of it is so beautiful.”
All the things that had drawn me to Gothic churches and homes. I’d always loved the macabre. Something that me and my sister had always shared. When we used to speak to one another. Sometimes when we’d needed to get away from our dad and his rages, we’d hide under the blankets and watched Halloween just to block out the noises.
Each of us sharing an earbud with the volume turned way up.
I blinked away the memory as Dahlia spun back around. “I don’t want to change anything.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I want to add some modern touches.” When she opened her mouth, I held up a finger. “It’s my house. You’re supposed to want to work with the client, aren’t you?”
She closed her lips for a moment. “Of course.” She skidded her way down the rest of the hill to where I was standing, her shoes pointing up ridiculously since they were now missing the four inches of heel. “I owe you for the truck and the save up there—even if it was your fault.”
I gave her a bland stare.
“Well, it was. And I’m damn good at my job.”
I knew she was. In my endless scrolling, I’d searched out her website. Designing Women was a relatively new firm, yet they already had a dozen high-end properties in their portfolio.
But she was pushy and made my blood boil more often than not. I just wanted peace.
There was nothing peaceful about Dahlia McKenna—I could feel that in my aching bones. She was pushy and opinionated, and while she talked a good game about working with me, I had a feeling she’d be anything but cooperative.
The wind off the water came up and blew her hair around her face and shoulders. Christ, she looked like a goddess with her torn up skin and ripped clothes. With her chocolate hair whipping around and her wild, dark eyes. Her high cheekbones and just a hair too pointy chin. Just imperfect enough to make me want to grab my sketchbook.
The sketchbook that was locked in a trunk at the bottom of a storage unit.
One I didn’t want to take out, dammit. Ever.
“Not interested.”
