Page 11 of His Build
“What are you talking about?” he said, his voice casual.
“Thought your eyeballs might pop out of your face.”
Graydon scowled and gave Chris a punch in the arm.
“Ow!”
“That’s what you get for watching me watch her.”
“Well then, you get one too,” Chris said, punching him back. “For watching her.”
Graydon rubbed his arm, glad he could hear Lucy exploring the upstairs and not witnessing this juvenile punch-off.
“I was just surprised, that’s all,” Graydon said. “I ran into her in town yesterday.”
Chris’s eyebrows went up again, but Graydon didn’t elaborate. No sense embarrassing her. “Anyway, enough lollygagging, Slade. Get back to work.”
“Yes sir,” Chris said, still grinning. He began whistling an irritatingly self-satisfied tune as he finished rolling up the building plans.
Graydon scowled and tromped down the hallway in search of Lucy.
He found her a moment later, standing halfway up the grand stairway off the great room with her hand gripped on the temporary handrail. She hadn’t seen him yet. He lingered for a second, enjoying the way she looked with unfettered awe at the irregular shapes of the room’s windows. Giant blue tarps hung on this side of the building too—protecting the open frames until the windows came in.
“Those are the showstoppers,” he said, looking up at the windows himself. “They’re always the centerpieces of the homes in Miyazaki builds. But really, the whole thing is going to be incredible. She makes houses look like… art pieces.”
“The architect?” Lucy said, her voice making something warm swirl in his belly.
Graydon nodded, trying to focus on the elderly Japanese designer to keep himself out of trouble. “I got to meet her at the beginning of the project. Let’s just say I was very close to turning into a geeky fanboy.”
Lucy laughed, as if trying to picture him begging the celebrity architect for an autograph. Which he had in fact had to restrain himself from doing.
He couldn’t help but feel that warmth inside of him expand at the sound of that laugh.
“Even half-built, it’s breathtaking,” she said.
He was warmed, too, that she seemed to appreciate the art of this place.
Alfred had warned him ahead of time that Lucy wasn’t a design professional anymore. She was some kind of personal development person. But Alfred had also said she knew what she was doing, and that he trusted her completely. To Graydon, that was better than a stuffy designer—especially considering the last one, who had come so renowned, hadn’t bothered to let anyone know when they jumped ship. Jones had been apologetic about wanting his designer onsite, but if he hadn’t said it, Graydon would have suggested it himself. Having the designer at the build who could act as a proxy for the homeowner was good. They knew what the homeowner wanted but had enough distance to not be emotionally attached to every decision. They had objectivity.
He just wished he had objectivity around this woman. He already knew if she suggested doing the whole place up in chartreuse, he’d have a hard timesaying anything. Even though he sincerely hoped she’d do Miyazaki justice.
Graydon tried not to follow Lucy with his eyes as she took the last few steps down to the main floor again. He tried not to watch as she wandered around the space, running her hands along the oddly angled walls. He tried to give her enough lead time as she went into the future kitchen—a high-ceilinged room that stretched out in a beautiful open concept flow that still maintained the feeling of a new space.
As she stepped into the taped off rectangle where the giant kitchen island would go, Graydon found himself wondering if she liked cooking or preferred being cooked for. He was a decent cook himself—his sister Casey, the recipient of most of his home cooking—would say more than decent. But she hadn’t spent time around real culinary experts like he had working in restaurants back before he went to trade school. Graydon had even toyed with the idea of going to culinary school at one point, but that would have had him living in New York, and he couldn’t stomach that place for more than a weekend at a time.
He cleared his throat. As much as he wanted to, he knew he shouldn’t just stand around watching this red-headed goddess admire his most deeply personal build and thinking up ridiculous thoughts like these.
He did have work to do.
“I’m going to check on progress down at the boathouse,” Graydon said, his voice rough, like it was coming straight from the strange mix of feelings percolating inside of him. “But grab me when you need to. I’ll be here for the next hour or so.”
Lucy looked up from her clipboard as if remembering he was there, and he was filled with the sudden absurd urge to close the distance between them; to run his fingers through that wild hair. To cup the back of her head and gently tug so she gasped with surprise and pleasure as he…
Jesus, Graydon.
“So, see you in a bit,” he said, turning away so she couldn’t see any part of the front of him.
“I’m going to go, too,” she said. “I’ll come back tomorrow sometime. Alfred said you could send me the schedule today?”
