Fool For You (Made for Love Book 4) (3 page)

I
t’s six-thirty when I enter my walk-in closet, heading toward the island of drawers in the center of the room. I pull open the top, black finished drawer, where my collection of watches is stored, and I scan the case for the one I have in mind. Once found, I slip it over my left wrist and clasp it closed, my eyes surveying my surroundings. I’m still getting used to this space—my home.

I purchased this house at the beginning of the year, a couple of weeks before my scheduled relocation. When I first saw it, it was really nothing more than an old structure on a beautiful stretch of road. The shell, a brick-faced exterior, was certainly pleasing to the eye, but the inside was never going to work for me. I remember walking around, my realtor giving me the history as she knew it, pointing out all of the details that gave it the charming character people envied. I wasn’t really paying attention; I was too busy worrying about the bones of the place—knowing that if I bought it, that was all I ever intended to keep.

This house on Mountain Avenue had just the right amount of potential. It was only the third available home I had seen, but my head was so full of ideas, I couldn’t turn it down. I made the offer, screwed my realtor in the kitchen that is now no longer, and then headed back to her office to start the paperwork.

I kept her number until closing. She was very flexible.

For my first three months in Fort Collins, I stayed in a hotel—The Archibald, a remodel project that I had overseen for Eddalyn’s Interiors over a year before my stay. I gutted my new abode, making it uninhabitable, and had it rebuilt and designed to my specifications. Now, three months later, I find that I still have moments when I’m impressed with all that I’ve manage to accomplish in my thirty-one years—including my home.

My
first
home. It belongs to me, and I won’t deny that I’m proud of it.

I take one last look around, sliding my billfold into the back pocket of my grey khakis before tucking away my phone. I reach for my light jacket, shrugging it over my shoulders, covered by my navy polo shirt. Sliding my feet into my loafers, I reach for my golfing shoes, and then head for the door.

In the garage, I load my clubs into the back of my Land Rover before sliding into the driver’s seat. My drive is a quiet one, the streets almost bare at this time on a Saturday morning. Before I moved to Fort Collins, I wondered how much I would miss Denver. The city, while not the biggest I’ve ever lived in, definitely has a different personality than this seemingly quaint, college town. Though I’ve found, aside from my brother, Benjamin, and my favorite restaurants and bars, I don’t mind the change. My work challenges and sustains me, my bed is full when I wish it to be, and I’m starting to feel at home here.

I’ve been working for my Aunt Eddalyn since before I graduated from college. She always told me I had a designer’s eye—my attention to detail something she noticed and praised as I grew up. Even from a young age, I felt most comfortable in places that were esthetically pleasing. When it was time for me to decide on a course of study, I didn’t even have to think twice. Especially considering Eddalyn’s Interiors was already a reputable company by which I could enter the designing world.

Contrary to what people might believe, every position I’ve ever held for Eddalyn has been based on merit and hard work. We may have the same last name, but that only ever got me as far as the front door. I’ve worked my ass off for the last ten, almost eleven years. The forty-nine percent of her company that I own—I fought hard for that shit. I didn’t even contemplate discussing a buy in until I had made her millions.

When she offered me the position of managing partner in her Fort Collins office, I knew exactly what she was doing. I didn’t bat an eyelash before I agreed. I know that she’s grooming me. One day, when she’s ready to step down, the company she built from the ground up—it’ll be mine. I look forward to that day; but in the same breath, I will admit that I’m not in any hurry for that day to come. Eddalyn St. Michaels is a genius. It is my privilege to work alongside of her.

She’s my mother’s older sister. They’re only three years apart, but they are so different. It’s like night and day. My mother is soft, warm, and tender. Eddalyn is driven, ambitious, and passionate. If she hadn’t sworn off having children long before I was born, I would swear that I had been switched at birth—that my parents had been wrongfully assigned. However, my mother explains away our differences claiming that I must harbor many of my father’s characteristics.

She didn’t know him very well.

I don’t know him at all.

I discard all thoughts of my parents as I pull into the parking lot of the golf course. After changing my shoes, I grab my clubs and head inside, certain that Eddalyn has beaten me here. She usually does. Upon my entrance, I spot her almost right away. Sitting up at the bar on the far side of the clubhouse, she’s sipping at her coffee as she watches whatever news is on the hanging television. Before I’ve closed the distance between us, she looks my way, offering me a welcoming smile.

Ms. St. Michaels exudes great taste in all things. It’s who she is. It’s why I admire her. Even now, dressed in her designer clothes, her pixie blonde hair styled, and what she refers to as her
mask
painted on to perfection, she looks put together enough for a business outing.

That’s another thing I learned from her—any occasion is the perfect occasion to look your best. Not that I needed much encouragement in that regard. I believe a body as well kept as mine should never be shoved into anything less than what it is worth.

“Good morning, dear.”

“Good morning,” I reply, dipping my head in greeting.

“It’s a gorgeous morning for golf.”

I chuckle, noting the glint in her blue eyes. “You mean, it’s a gorgeous morning for you to beat me again?”

She smiles a crooked smile, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “A fine young man like yourself, beat by an old woman like me? Nonsense.”

My chuckle from a moment ago turns into a laugh. At fifty-five, she’s certainly far from old, and she’s kicked my ass at golf more times than I’d like to remember.

“I’ve brought my A-game, Aunt Eddalyn. I intend to make you work for it today.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She pushes aside her coffee and stands, reaching for her golf caddy cart before we head for the first hole. “I’d love it if Ben could travel our way for a game. You need to invite that brother of yours up for a weekend.”

“You know Benjamin’s schedule. A whole weekend would be a stretch. He works even more than we do, which is saying quite a bit.”

“True. I bet you could get one day out of him, though. Check your calendar, I’ll check mine, and then let’s see if we can coerce him up here for a game.”

“I’ll do my best,” I assure her, truly appreciating her suggestion. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve spent any time with my brother. Now that we don’t live in the same city, meeting for drinks isn’t quite as easy as it once was. I’ll have to get him on the phone soon.

For now—I’ve got a golf game to win.

Saturday brings with it a hangover I hadn’t planned on. I don’t even remember how many glasses of wine I had last night, only that I didn’t stop Geoffrey from ordering me more. We were having too much fun, picking out guys and ranking them in our intoxicated state. I was happy to put a smile on his face, so we all stayed until last call, splitting a cab ride to each of our respective homes in the wee hours of the morning.

Knowing that I’ll need to go get my car, I force myself out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I look a fright, which just makes me laugh, and I’m quick to remedy the situation by pulling my long, red, wavy locks into a messy bun on top of my head. I then brush my teeth and wash my face, grabbing a couple of ibuprofens out of my medicine cabinet before making my way to the kitchen. I’ve got to shake this headache before I leave. I down an entire glass of water, swallowing my pills, and start a pot of coffee.

I live in a pretty tiny, one-bedroom apartment. My one-butt-kitchen—a term Geoff introduced me to, even though two butts can definitely fit in here, as long as they are friendly—is just big enough to accommodate my eating habits. I suck at cooking, so my collection of pots and pans is minimal, and I live alone, making it easy to store all my dishware and food-stuff in the allotted cabinet space. My sink is usually full of coffee mugs that need to be cleaned, and my coffee maker is probably the most used thing in my entire apartment.

Well, that’s not true. My camera is my most prized and beloved possession. I use it as often as possible.

I decide to drink my coffee black this morning, hoping it’ll kick in faster without any added sugar. As I sip, I make my way into the living room. An obnoxious amount of light pours into the space and, without even looking at a clock, I know that most of the morning is probably gone. I ease my way onto my couch, curling my legs underneath me as I continue to nurse my beverage.

Looking around my space, I make note of all of the changes I’ve been able to make this summer. I’ve lived here for just over a year. I moved in after I finished my junior year of college. Back then, it was sparsely decorated. Of course I had visions of what I wished it looked like, but no funds to make it happen. After a bit of saving, a lot of patience, and a few donated pieces from my favorite artsy men, I’ve managed to turn it into the eclectic and artistic space that it is now. I think it’s finally starting to reflect who I am.

I bask in the mid-morning sun, waiting for my headache to ease up a bit. When I’m finished with my liquid breakfast, I suit up for a jog. I shimmy my way into a pair of fitted gym pants—the bright pink ones that stretch down over my knees—and then I throw on an old CSU t-shirt with my favorite worn tennis shoes. I look a little bit like shit, but it’s totally the look I’m going for right now. I want to repel people away from me. My only intention is to make it to my car without dying. Or puking. If I set a good pace, I can make it back to Old Town in about twenty-five minutes.

After a quick stretch, I plug my headphones into my phone, shove my earbuds in, hit
shuffle
on my favorite workout playlist, and head out. I last all of fifteen minutes before I get a wicked stitch in my side. I push through it, hoping to sweat out some alcohol. Thankfully, I make it to my car in the time I had anticipated. I’m so relieved that I don’t have to jog back home, I decide to treat myself to a muffin.

Which is not at all counterproductive.

Last summer, when my sister Harper was in town for a visit, she introduced me to
the best
muffin I’ve ever had in my life. If I thought my pocket book and my waistline could get away with it, I’d have one for breakfast every day. But Brandon, the bakery owner, assured me there was nothing nutritious about his signature pastry. In exchange for his honesty, he’s my go-to when I want a sweet treat. Plus, there is the bonus of Sarah’s presence almost every time I drop by.

When I enter Little Bird Café, I spot her right away. She’s laughing from behind the counter. Her whole face is lit up, her long blonde hair pulled into a side braid. She looks both absolutely gorgeous and maddeningly happy. Then again, why wouldn’t she be? She does what she loves everyday—subbing elementary school kids, or baking at Little Bird. She’s also got a kick-ass best friend, who happens to be my sister, and the man in her bed is just as delicious as his baked goods.

For a second, I wonder if my craving is worth standing in front of that goddess in my current state. Before I can make up my mind, she glances toward the door and spots me.

“Teddy! Hey, girl.”

Her warm welcome makes me smile, and I realize I, too, have reason to be just as happy as she. What I told Geoff and Andy last night is true. I like my life just as it is. That hasn’t always been true, and I need to embrace all the ways in which I have grown over the last few years.

“Hey, Sarah,” I reply, closing the distance between us. When she makes her way from around the counter, I hold my hands out, preventing her from coming any closer. “Oh, no. Please. I’m disgusting, I swear. You don’t want to hug me.”