Designed for Love (Texas Nights) (8 page)

Shit. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings, and he sure didn’t want to piss off Mrs. Chappell. Living out by Lily Lake was one of the few things that had kept him sane after hauling ass out of Dallas. His digs weren’t exactly the Taj Mahal, but they suited him for now. “No, all I’m saying is I’m not the guy for the job.”

Rather than rail on him more, she simply nodded. A tiny movement somehow full of disappointment. Before he could recover from the odd pain that set off inside him, she tugged out of his hold and walked away.

“Ashton,” he called. For some odd reason, he was desperate for her to understand. “I’m just not the man you need.”

Hell, he wasn’t the man anyone needed.

* * *

Clearly, Ashton needed help convincing Mac to work with her on the project since he’d turned her down flat last night. After leaving Harry’s, she’d sat up half the night, rubbing Napoleon’s Kibble Kare–bloated belly and watching HGTV.

The one person who seemed to understand human nature better than anyone else she knew was Jessup, so as soon as the sun was peeking through the windows, she called him and made a lunch date. That afternoon, as she strolled across Southeast State’s campus carrying lunch, students flowed by her. Chatting, smiling, flirting. They were...babies. Bright futures before them. Optimistic about their upcoming successes. Just like she’d been once upon a time at Virginia Commonwealth. Before she’d been sucked back into the Davenport family’s sphere. The expectations. The lack of expectations.

Interspersed in the sea of youthful faces were a handful of more mature people. Some were professors if she had to guess. But others carried messenger bags and books. One lady she passed must’ve been seventy if she was a day. Reinventing herself? Now that...that took guts. Grit.

The kind of grit Gigi had. The kind Ashton
wanted
to have.

She rolled her shoulders back, squared them.

A person’s chances at making something of herself didn’t suddenly disappear when she hit thirty. Or any other age. The only thing that held her back was her own mindset.

Through the buzz of activity, Ashton found her way to a fountain in the center of campus. The picnic tables where Jessup had said she could find him should be nearby. She twirled in a circle and spotted him. Wasn’t hard. She could pick him out anywhere. His close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. His perfect posture. His general air of distinction.

She headed in his direction, studied him while he studied a book through a pair of reading glasses. Instead of his normal black suit and bright pocket square, he wore sharp-creased khakis that would do a fraternity pledge proud. His loafers—shined, of course—matched the belt. But his polo shirt was an eye-popping blue with yellow trim at the sleeves and collar. He was intent on the book before him and wore a little smile.

He was happy.

If his smile and outfit weren’t adorable enough, the backpack propped on the table was. A muted navy with lime-green piping.

Ashton’s heart did a fist-pump. This had to be how every mom felt when her baby went to kindergarten, a strange combination of pride and loss. However much she might want to keep her child close, she let him go because it was the best thing for
him.
And in that moment, Ashton lost her claim on Jessup. On him as anything but her friend.

“You know girls have a thing for guys in glasses.”

Jessup’s head slowly lifted, and he slipped the tortoise-shell frames from his nose. “Ms. Ash—”

“Please don’t do that anymore.”

He drew back slightly. “Don’t do what?”

“Call me that.”

“That
is
your name.”

“Do you still work for my parents?”

“You know my current circumstances.”

“Did you ever work for
me?
”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“I want you to call me Ashton.
Just
Ashton. You—” she shook her head and threw one leg over the bench to sit across from him, plopping the brown paper bag to the picnic table, “—you could argue with a cinderblock wall.”

“I believe I would win over that particular debate opponent.”

“Jessup.” She flipped the bag on its side and began sliding out containers of chicken salad, pasta medley, and pecan pie. “Are we friends?”

“I’m not certain what you mean.”

Adorable, yes, but also infuriating. “Friends. I’m pretty sure you understand the concept. Is that what we are?”

He cocked his head, scanned the trees towering above them. The way Ashton’s life was going, if she tried the same thing she’d probably end up with bird crap in her eye. “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered our relationship in that particular light.”

Yeah, no more fist-pumps for her heart. “When I left Houston, you said you were proud of me. That you felt like a—” she had to swallow to allow room for the word that was so important to her, “—a parent.”

“I suppose that’s why I can’t answer your question about friendship. In my experience, parents and children aren’t meant to be friends. They are...more.”

“More what?”

“Ms. Ash—” he cut himself off. Sighed. “Ashton, I’ve never had the pleasure of fathering my own children. You know that. But I would imagine what a parent feels for a child is more everything. Sharper. Fuzzier. More intense. Most discombobulating. Perhaps like riding a roller coaster without the benefit of a safety bar.”

For some reason, the picture of him cinched into the front car of Six Flags’s Titan roller coaster swept through her mind. Hands in the air, short hair sticking straight up, big grin on his dark face. Oh yeah, no doubt he’d braved that ride. She tapped the book he’d been so engrossed in earlier. “You said you’re studying to be a teacher. What do you want to teach?”

His glance darted away and back. He reached for the food containers, but she snatched them away. Surely he wasn’t embarrassed to tell her. The breath he drew through his nose was long and steady. Finally, he met her gaze. “English.”

She should’ve known. That copy of
Rilke’s Book of Hours
he’d always hidden in the desk in her parents’ kitchen. The way he talked. “High school?” He’d probably be killer with the analogies, but it might take them a while to understand him.

“Possibly,” he said. “Although it might be a bit ambitious, I believe a community college position would suit me best.”

And she’d considered stealing him away from her parents so he could work for her. What an ass she’d been. He was meant for way bigger and better things than working for anyone in the Davenport family. And it was time for her to stop running to him every time she had a life boo-boo. “You’re going to be brilliant.”

He avoided direct eye contact and picked at the pasta in front of him. “I’m not an impatient man, but the time it will take to reach that goal...I’m just not certain...I’m not a young man.”

“So you’re saying that just because you’re getting a late start, you should only go for the sprint instead of the marathon? Maybe not even get in the race?”

His smile, full of beautiful ivory teeth, was as wide as Ashton had ever seen it. It wasn’t a polite social smile. This was what joy—real joy—looked like. And it robbed her of breath. “You are an exceptionally wise woman. And I’m an exceptionally lucky gentleman to have you in my life.”

And that was what this was all about. Jessup’s life. Not hers. And that was exactly the reason they would have lunch with no mention of her latest problems.

He went back to his food with renewed interest. “When you called, you mentioned you needed to discuss a professional challenge. You described it as
do-or-die time.
I’d be delighted to help in any way I can.”

“You know what, Jessup?” Ashton reached across the table, squeezed his hand. “You already have.”

Chapter Seven

Since she was on her own, and yelling at Mac in the middle of Dirty Harry’s sure hadn’t gotten Ashton what she wanted, she had to find another way to connect with him. Maybe if she hadn’t been so desperate last night, so scared of failing—again—she could’ve held it together. Explained exactly why helping her would benefit him. Because everyone was motivated by something.

The trick was to find out what Mac’s something was.

And fast, because her deadline for hiring a GC was today.

Now that she’d moved into the old cabin, she and Mac were practically neighbors. So for her trek around the lake this afternoon, she’d dressed for the job in jeans and lug-soled boots. Since she was working in the construction industry, maybe she could buy herself a cute flannel shirt...

God, her bank account was flatlining, and here she was, thinking of shopping. Maybe Mac was right about her. A project this size was about business, not fashion.

She started at the end of the dirt track where she’d met Bill Cravens, trying not to look toward the lakeshore where the reeds were still flattened from the weight of his body. She turned away and hugged Napoleon’s warm little body closer to her chest. He wriggled in her grip.

“It may not be dark, but there are things out here,” she told him. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not at the top of this food chain.”

Still, he struggled.

“Have it your way.” She set him on the ground, and his little pink tongue shot out in doggie bliss. “But don’t come whining to me when your paws get wet.”

Mac’s place had to be relatively close since he’d heard her yell for help the other day. And he’d come from the north, so that was the direction she’d head. She strode through the hip-high brush with Napoleon following behind, leaping and barking his joy at being outdoors. A few weeks ago, she never would’ve guessed she had a nature-loving dog.

Within fifteen minutes, she spied a sliver of white through the pines and oaks. “I think we’ve found him.”

Napoleon yipped his agreement.

Ashton pushed through some saplings into a small clearing. Mac’s little piece of the woods was immaculate, she’d give him that. Or maybe it was simply stark. Within the circle of trees stood a fifth-wheel trailer, a hammock strung between two trees, and a tarp stretched over something wrapped in another tarp. Not exactly the Ritz.

Then again, Mac was a simple guy.

First, she tested the canvas hammock, falling back into its wide hold, lying there rocking with the sunlight polka-dotting her body. Surprisingly comfy, but it didn’t tell her much about Mac except he did, on occasion, relax.

She eyed the door on the trailer. It had to be locked. Who, in this day and age, left his home unprotected? So if it was locked, what would it hurt for her to test the knob? Without a shred of grace, she rolled to her side and out of the hammock. The metal steps to Mac’s trailer were spotless, not a pine needle or mud clod anywhere.

Stepping onto the first one, Ashton reached for the screen door’s knob. It turned in her hand.
Yes!
My luck is changing.
She wedged her body between it and the interior door. When that one opened with no resistance, her heart ran from first base to third inside her chest.

This is wrong.
Not to mention illegal.
You’re invading Mac’s home.
His privacy.

But it was for a good cause. The more she knew about the man, the better she could connect with him. In the end, that connection would benefit them both.

Inside, the trailer was as tidy and clean as the outside. No little knickknacks sitting around on the tiny kitchen counter. No salt and pepper shakers on the table. The bed in the overhang was made with plain white sheets folded sharp at the corners.

She poked her head into the teensy bathroom. Barely enough room for the small duffel wedged between the toilet and sink. How in the world did a man Mac’s size shower in here? When she pictured his shoulders getting wedged between two walls, she allowed herself a snicker. But honestly, this must be miserable. The two steps down the “hallway” led her not to a bedroom, but an area housing a folding chair and a desk made from sawhorses and plywood.

The desk was neatly piled with papers and a floor plan of Roxanne’s old retail space. Ashton ran her fingertips over the sketch—a perfectly scaled counter, merchandise shelves, a pet grooming area. He’d really thought of everything. She peered closer. He’d even added a little space for self-service treat samples. Napoleon would totally go for something like that.

In the windowsill over Mac’s desk sat a picture of what had to be him as a teenager, four beautiful young women, and most likely Mac’s mom and dad. His father was an older version of the current Mac, with a touch of gray in his mahogany-colored hair. His hand rested on his wife’s shoulder and his grin to the camera said
Yes
,
these people are mine and isn’t that a helluva kick?

Why hadn’t Mac mentioned his dad when he talked about renovating the shop for his mother? Surely a family that happy hadn’t been split by divorce. Then again, looks could be deceiving. Everyone would think the Davenport family—with their reputation and money—had it made. When in reality, that River Oaks mansion was cold and barren. Jessup had brought the only warmth and color to her parents’ home.

Beside the picture frame was a beautifully crafted wooden bird—a bluebird if she had to guess. Each feather on its wings had been meticulously carved. The tiny eyes, beak and feet were works of art in and of themselves. The piece was painted with just as much care, the royal blue head smoothing into sky wings, a rust breast, and snowy body. Her hand clenched around the bird, and she turned it over. M.E.M. was carved into the bottom.

Mac was an artist. And a man who created something this intricate valued something more than money.

He had a thing for beauty.

And whether or not it was right to use that against him, Ashton knew something about being beautiful.

* * *

When Mac drove up to his modest home in the woods, a rabbit darted in front of his truck, and he stomped on the brakes to keep from pancaking the little guy. He wasn’t against hunting, provided you planned to eat what you shot, but roadkill was another thing.

He climbed from his truck, down-to-the-ass tired after working since sunup on a kitchen full of custom cabinets. He stilled as soon as his feet hit the ground. Something was different. Nothing out of place, but the air felt different. Smelled different. Smelled like a cool ocean breeze.

Mac rubbed his forehead, tried to breathe away the ache there. He’d just planned to stop by the trailer for some supper and one beer before he headed over to the square to work on his mom’s shop.

That scent on the air told him that plan was about to get kicked right in the head. He rounded the trailer, didn’t see anything out of place until he glanced at the tarp covering his motorcycle. There, near the back tire, Ashton was hunkered down, lifting the cover.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Ashton tried to twist around on the balls of her feet, but only succeeded in losing her balance and landing flat on her sweet little behind. “Mac!”

“Were you expecting someone else? And haven’t you ever heard the story about the Three Bears?”

“Goldilocks found a just-right spot.”

“If you think those bears just let her wander around their place, sleeping in their beds—” interesting she should wince at that, “—and chowing down on their porridge, you’re more sheltered than I thought.”

“I was just—”

“Trespassing.” Not only on his property, but on his memories. Painful ones. “And don’t go spouting something about your grandmother owning this land. I rent it from her, and you do not have the right to come poking around anytime you like.”

“I was looking for you.”

Feet spread, Mac pushed his ball cap back on his head. “That right? Most people work. Or did you think I just lounged around here all the time?”

“It’s after six. No one can work twenty-four hours a day.” Ashton rose and brushed off her backside, which only made Mac’s palm itch to double-check her for any lingering dirt. She nodded toward the tarp. “What’s under there?”

“If I wanted you to know, I wouldn’t keep it covered.”

“I know it’s a motorcycle, but I’ve never seen you ride it.”

She never would either. “Doesn’t run.” He turned away, stalked toward his trailer. But there on his front step sat the damned rabbit he’d almost run over. Only it wasn’t a rabbit. It was Napoleon. “You need to keep an eye on that dog.”

“He’s right here.”

“He was almost under my front tire five minutes ago.” Mac climbed the first step and nudged Napoleon with his work boot. The fluff ball growled and attacked Mac’s foot as though it was threatening his very canine existence. “Off, dog.”

All that did was change Napoleon’s strategy from fighter to lover. He hopped on Mac’s foot, wrapped his paws around Mac’s shin and went to town. “I said
off
, not
get off.
” Mac grabbed him under the belly, swung around and dumped him into Ashton’s waiting arms.

He opened the trailer door and tried to close it behind him, but Ashton was as fast as she was nosy, wedging one foot in the jamb. He didn’t need to be this close to a woman his body wanted but his brain knew he shouldn’t. Wait a damn minute, his fifth wheel also smelled like the ocean. “You broke into my house.”

She squirmed her way in behind him. “It’s not really breaking in if the door’s unlocked.”

Mac palmed his cell phone, started punching buttons. “Why don’t I call Beck Childress and see what he has to say about that?” Anything, anything to keep him from putting his hands on her the way he wanted.

Quick as a wink, she snatched the phone from him. “There’s no need to involve the sheriff. For God’s sake, Mac, it’s not as if I stole anything.”

Of course she hadn’t. She didn’t need anything he had. “Then why were you sneaking around my private space? I realize it’s not much compared to some of the places you’ve probably lived, but it’s home.” For now.

“Because...because I wanted to show you something.”

“Oh, right. Because you thought I was here. Maybe I’d suddenly gone deaf and that’s why I didn’t answer your knock.”

“I didn’t—” She cut herself off.

“Knock, did you? No, you just trotted your little self inside.” Which meant she’d seen pretty much everything he had to his name. Heat tried to crawl up his neck, but he rubbed his face with his palms to drive away the feeling.

By this time, Napoleon was snuffling his way through the trailer. Wasn’t a helluva lot for him to get into around here so Mac just let him go.

“I want to show you something.”

What he wanted to see of her was probably the last thing in the world she wanted to show him. But rather than hustle her out, he at least owed her the respect to listen to her this time. He hadn’t been completely fair last night. No, she wasn’t qualified to run the project her grandmother had given her, but Ashton was proving that she was so much more than a spoiled little rich girl.

“If I say okay, will you leave once I look at it? No questions, no cherry-lip-gloss pouting?”

“I’ll have you know this is watermelon, not cherry.” She pursed her lips at him, tempting him to back her against his flimsy door and kiss them until she didn’t know either of their names. “But fine, if you take a look at this and are still able to say no to the Lily Lake project, then I’ll leave.”

“Hit me with your best shot.”

Those pursed lips spread into a smile. Not pouty, not sultry, not seductive—just straight-up optimistic. “I think you’ll love this.” She pulled a roll of papers from the bag on her shoulder and spread them on the table between two built-in dining benches. Then she looked over her shoulder, obviously realizing she needed something to weigh them down to keep them from rolling up again.

Mac grabbed four cans of generic brand green peas from a cabinet, plunked them on the corners of the paper.

“You actually eat those things?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They do this smushy kind of popping thing in your mouth.” Her entire face scrunched up, and it was about the cutest damn thing Mac had ever seen. “And they just plain stink.”

“Remind me not to invite you over for dinner then.” And that was way off the topic here. “You brought site plans?”

“When I talked with Bill Cravens before he—”

Took a dirt nap.

“—passed on, I explained to him that I wanted to kick off the Lily Lake development with something that would engage the entire community.”

“Usually lot sales happen first. That’s where a chunk of your development capital comes from.”

“I understand that, and selling home sites is part of my overall plan. It’s just second phase. But with the money my grandmother is willing to invest in the project, we can afford to build a couple of what I think of as
goodwill
amenities first. I just need you to sign on, Mac. And then it’s all a matter of meeting a handful of checkpoint deadlines.”

Her well-drawn sketch showed an open-air pavilion, but it was nothing like a crappy public-park deal with bolted-down picnic tables. This one sported wooden trusses curved into sensuous lines. On one side sat a massive stone fireplace climbing the height of the structure and beyond. Although the space itself was intriguing, what it connected to was even more so. A gently sloped bridge spanned from the pavilion to a smaller matching structure that appeared to float over the water.

In a blink, Mac visualized a beautiful bride gliding over that bridge, the sunset at her back, to meet the man she would pledge herself to from now until the end of time. He also pictured a gaggle of ten-year-old boys ringing the covered deck, fishing poles in hand, grins on their freckled faces. He saw a private picnic with a plaid blanket, champagne and strawberries. But when that picture sharpened further to include Ashton and him, he shook his head to clear out the image.

“What about your own business? You planning to just let that die on the vine while you take on Lily Lake?”