They pulled into Danny’s driveway, the sleek, modern lines of his house gleaming against the backdrop of the lake.
Peter let out a low whistle. “Thisis Danny’s place? I guess I should have figured. Hedge funds and all that.”
Vivien climbed out of the front. “All that indeed,” she murmured to herself.
Peter joined her at the hatchback and flicked a fake olive. “Nope, not what I expected in amanlyman cave.”
“He’s manly,” she said, and almost bit her tongue for defending him and not her design choice. “And it really finishes the space.”
“I’m not questioning his masculinity. It was on full display at Tessa’s fashion show as he followed you around and took up all your time.”
“Oh, please,” she said, feeling her cheeks burn.
He hoisted the massive pot with two strong arms, barely swaying under the weight as he gently set it on the ground. When he did, he looked up and into her eyes. “The guy likes you, Viv. Not that I can blame him.”
“He needed a designer.” Even as she said the words, they sounded hollow. “Come on. I have the garage code to get in.”
“Of course you do,” he muttered, bending over to grab the pot, oblivious to the branches that swatted his face.
She didn’t answer—did she have to?—but got them inside, grateful Danny’s expensive car wasn’t there. Not only did Peter not need to see the obvious display of wealth, it meant Danny wasn’t home, so they could drop this off and get out.
They entered the house, the air cool with a subtle scent of freshly ground coffee lingering from the kitchen.
She instantly pictured Danny on the back deck, barefoot, maybe bare chested, looking out over the water as he sipped his morning brew. It made her feel…achy. Interested. Wondering what it would be like to be there with him.
Pushing the thought away, she gave Peter a chance to do what any person with a pulse would do—take in the beauty of the waterfront home. He did, but only with a cursory glance.
Of course. He was a police detective who happily lived in a bungalow in Pensacola Beach. Danny Sullivan was a multimillionaire with two homes and cars that probably cost what Peter made in a year.
“Upstairs with this beast?” he asked, leaning over to grab the olive tree pot.
“Sadly, yes. Thank you, Peter.”
He responded with a grunt as he hoisted a hundred pounds of stone and fake tree, carrying it to the stairs and all the way up without even taking a break.
“Impressive,” she said as she joined him on the top step when he finally put it down.
“Gotta do something to outshine Mr. Money Bags,” he joked. Maybe joked.
“It goes next to the wall unit.” As she stepped into the loft, she couldn’t help taking a moment to appreciate how quickly it was coming together. He’d chosen the most subtle of wallpaper and she’d gotten a fantastic carpenter to do the custom built-in. “That wall unit will be painted a deep green and I think that will just go perfectly with the olive tree.”
He plopped the pot on the floor. “Dreamy,” he teased, adding a wink. “He can put little white lights on it for Christmas.”
Actually, he could, but she didn’t want to walk right into Peter’s playful trap. Instead, she came over to turn the tree for the best angle of the branches. Then Peter stepped back and, for the first time, really surveyed the space.
“Let me guess—this used to be nothing but a TV on a stand with a fifteen-year-old orange crushed velvet sofa and big speakers. No, wait.” He laughed. “That was my place after my divorce.”
She laughed with him, appreciating his humor and attempt to lighten the mood. “Actually, you’re close. It was essentially a barren room.”
“Well, it’s not now. Honestly, Viv. You have real talent. This is nice.”
“Thank you,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looking around to see it through his eyes. “There’s going to be a bar over there and he’s adding a pool table.”
“Of course he is.”
Leaning into him, she jabbed his side with her elbow. “Don’t be jealous. He can’t handle a gun or a mini-golf club the way you do.”
He chuckled. “I’m just praying he’s a jerk.”
