Page 30 of His Build
“Now you know what it’s like to be me,” Lucy said.
“What do you—” then he grinned as he understood she meant her blushing. “Yeah, but it looks so good on you.”
Her cheeks lit up again, and he grinned even harder. “Sorry.”
She snorted, and he lifted his brows. “She snorts, too?”
She laughed, and then snorted, and soon they were both laughing so hard that when Aubrey came by practically a half second later with their food, she gave an exaggerated eye roll like she had walked in on a pair of goofy teenagers.
“Oh my god. I haven’t laughed like that in years,” Lucy said after Aubrey had left with her hands in the air. “Except with my sister. I don’t even remember what was so funny.”
“Me, obviously,” said Graydon.
Lucy held up a warning hand as she stuck a forkful of waffle in her mouth. “Don’t start,” she said, the words muffled around her food. Then she realized what she’d done—she wasn’t normally so rude—and raised a hand to cover her chewing.
“Still can’t believe you didn’t order the flapjacks,” Graydon said, not even noticing.
She took a sip of coffee to wash her food down. “I can’t take your word on everything, can I?”
“I’m good for my word,” he said. They were still joking around, but she knew, in this, that he was serious.
She smiled. “Well, the waffles are also delicious.”
“I mean, they’re basically checkered flapjacks.”
Lucy snorted again, but she was too famished to devolve into laughter again.
Their first stopwas a place calledThe Wooden Table,and it was so good, Lucy had to stop herself from buying everything she saw. There was a whole mid-century modern section with bureaus, two matching bedroom sets, several couches, and a table with fold-in leaves.
“Did Alfred give you any direction or anything, or did he give you free rein?” Graydon asked, sinking into a chaise in the Victorian section, which abutted the 1960s MCM. It was a strange juxtaposition, just like the sexy man in front of her reclining on a delicate piece of furniture made for a proper ladies’ sitting room. He was too big for it too; his feet hung off the end. But it worked for her. Extremely well. He’d look even better on it without the t-shirt straining against his chest.
“It’s all me,” she said, turning away, a heat rising in her cheeks. “I can’t believe it, actually. But I’m not going to argue.”
They looked around the store in silence for a few minutes longer, but it was an amicable one, once she got her mind out of the gutter. They decided to hit a few more shops before she made any purchases. Lucy was in no hurry; and besides, she’d have to get them to hang onto anything she bought for another month until the house was furniture-ready.
“So why’d you take this job, if you’re not a designer by trade anymore?” Graydon asked at the third shop. Lucy’s feet were getting tired by then. Her back, too, from bending over and peering in drawers, under chairs, and lifting heavy lamps and mirrors.
“Well, Alfred’s paying me a mint,” she said, too exhausted to think up anything more eloquent.
Graydon laughed. “Me too.”
“And I like him.” Lucy ran her hand along the top of a bookshelf, admiring the polished sheen of the teak. “If I had money like him,” Lucy said, “I’d do what he does. Except for the working himself to the bone part. You know he says he still argues cases in court he could give to junior attorneys, because he says he likes the rush?”
“I get that,” Graydon said. “It’s why I still like to swing a hammer on my jobs.”
Lucy had an image of Graydon hammering, his muscles flexing as he pounded a nail into place. Heat swam down low inside of her.
“Alfred’s firm makes a ton of money,” she said, forcing herself to keep her thoughts out of the gutter. “But he pours half of it back into the organization. He pays all the clerks and paralegals almost double what they’d make anywhere else. He gives his janitors two months' vacation. More if they want it. He’s really a good guy, for a hotshot lawyer.”
Graydon pulled open a drawer on a bedroom bureau, his fingers giant on the delicate knob. “Actually, that makes sense—he was one of the major investors at a camp this guy I know runs over on Ruby Lake. Gave him the land and everything. Was a bit of a mess for a while, though.”
“That must be the property he used to own!” Lucy said, the pieces clicking together. “When he first became my client last year, he said there had been some kind of dispute with a neighbor. It’s why he’s building his new lake house. He said it had driven him to become a better person.”
Graydon looked over at her. “Is that what people come to you for? To be better people?”
Lucy ran her fingers over the bookcase’s shelves, inspecting them for dings. “Sort of. I’m clear with them I’m not a therapist. Even though half the time I feel as if I act like one. My role is to help them make goals and create a plan to achieve them. We focus on specific areas they want to change or improve, and it’s different for every person. But honestly, I feel like I learn a lot from Alfred. The only place he’s self-indulgent is with his own space. It’s really important to him. I think that’s so admirable. It’s what I tell clients to do, you know? Cultivate the life and space around you that makes living each day a joy.”
Graydon seemed to think about this for a while—long enough that she was sure he’d moved on.
