His By Design (2 page)

“Yes. We are.”

“No.”

He could see the determined set of her jaw, but he wasn’t giving up. Not this time. “Listen, bug. You cannot live the rest of your life this way.”

“Sure I can.” She took a swallow of milk and immediately swiped at her chin with a napkin to catch what dribbled out of her mouth. “Shit.”

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. When he opened them, moisture rimmed their edges. “Well, maybe you can, but I can’t. I can’t bear to see you hide yourself away here when we know that plastic surgeon in Baltimore can do amazing reconstruction on your face. You may not be as beautiful as you were before the accident, but you’d be pretty enough to go out in the sunshine without worrying about . . . about . . .”

“Scaring small children?”

He slammed his fist on the table hard enough to make the plates jump. “God damn it, Jen! How can you joke about it?”

She rubbed her hand up and down his arm, trying to soothe away the guilt and anguish. “I’m so sorry, honey, but we don’t have the money for cosmetic surgery, and neither does Dad. And you know if we try to sell my paintings at a gallery, they’ll want to meet the artist.” She sighed. “I just can’t do that.”

“Okay, listen, I know your work is good. Once it gets out there, it’s going to sell like hotcakes. Maybe in as few as six months we’d have the money for your surgery.”

“Yes, but—”

“How would you feel if I passed them off as mine?”

“Yours?”

“Yeah. I’ll do some fancy verbal footwork and intimate to Zoe, the lady who’s opening the gallery, that they’re mine. Somehow I’ll convince her to hang them for her Grand Opening. Once we sell a bunch, you can have your operation.”

“Operations, plural. The doc said it would take more than one.”

“Okay. Operations. When you’re all healed, we’ll tell Zoe who the artist really is and you can meet your adoring public.”

“I’m not so sure there will be an adoring public, Jeff. I think you’re overestimating the salability of my paintings.”

“I’m not. They’re terrific, Bug. Remember what your art instructor at Towson University said?”

“Well, yeah, but that was . . .”

Back before he’d driven her home from modern dance class that fateful day. Now not only could she not dance anymore, she had to wear a damn brace to walk any distance. His heart twisted in his chest every time he thought about her future.

“. . . a long time ago,” she finished in a whisper.

She sounded dubious, but at least it wasn’t a flat out “no.”

Now all he had to do was figure out a way to convince Zoe.

Chapter 2

“May I speak with Mr. Petrosky, please?”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Petrosky doesn’t live here. This is his son, Jeff. Can I help you?” He’d recognized her voice immediately but couldn’t resist busting her chops just a tad.

“Jeff, are you always such a pain in the butt?”

“Probably about seventy-five percent of the time, so I’m told by my closest friends.”

“And how many close friends do you have, Jeff?”

“Okay, you got me there. Not many, but I’m looking forward to adding you to the short list.”

“I’m not interested in becoming your friend, Mr. Petrosky. I’m interested in becoming your boss.”

“First, Mr. Petrosky is my father, so if you’re interested in hiring me you’ll have to use ‘Jeff’. Second, I’d much prefer the term ‘employer’. Boss sounds so . . . dominating.”

“You know,
Jeff
, maybe this was a mistake. I thought from our brief conversation yesterday that you were looking for work. But if I have to spar with you over semantics every time we chat, you’re going to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

Ah, crap! Why did he always go the one step too far that put him on the wrong side of the humorous/annoying dividing line? He didn’t want to do that with Zoe Silvercreek. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d like to add her to his list of friends.

“A thousand pardons, Ma’am. It’s early, I haven’t had any coffee, and my smartass gene seems to be in overdrive this morning. If we could start over, I would be delighted to entertain an offer of employment from you.”

He heard the sigh and held his own breath for the few seconds it took her to decide.

“Fine, Jeff. I’m at the gallery and have a Thermos full of coffee. Why don’t you come by and we’ll talk about what I need done here?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Good. And stop ‘ma’am’-ing me. I’m not over fifty and if I have to call you Jeff, we can both be on a first name basis, okay?”

He almost said, “Yes, boss” but caught himself in time. He’d be on his best behavior, for a while at least. “Okay, Zoe, see you in ten.”

He flung himself out of bed and dove for the shower. He’d worked in his studio till two a.m. last night, which was pretty routine, as was sleeping in until ten. Zoe apparently liked to get an early start since it was only eight, but for a boss who looked like her he’d be willing to get up at six every day and five on Sundays. Since he told her he’d be there in ten, he’d be there in ten. Which meant no shave. He raked a brush through his unruly hair, donned his cleanest pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt, grabbed his keys, and was out the door in seven minutes. He’d make it to the gallery with seconds to spare.

Zoe paced off the length of the store
from the front windows to the wall that separated the office and restroom from the main studio. She made a note on her clipboard and added a question mark next to floor covering. The hideous vinyl that currently covered it would have to go and she hoped she’d find a hardwood floor beneath that could be refinished.

She already regretted the phone call to Jeff. She’d asked Marjorie about him and got a good report. He’d done some work for her at the bed and breakfast and when she checked out his carpentry she was impressed. But if every conversation with him was going to be a struggle, it didn’t matter how skilled he was, she simply wasn’t up for the annoying banter.

She glanced at her watch. He’d said ten minutes, nine minutes ago. “Let’s see how prompt the man is,” she mumbled to herself, and went to unlock the front door.

By the time she got there, he was standing on the other side, looking like a Renaissance angel in grunge clothes. He took off his helmet and damp brown hair, too gorgeous to belong to any guy, sprang into soft curls around his face. Oh Lord, this guy was going to be trouble. She tried to swallow on a suddenly dry throat and opened the door. “Good morning, Jeff. I—”

He thrust a brown paper sack at her and curved his incredible lips into a smile. “You said you had coffee so I brought the danish. I hope you like lemon filling.”

“You had time to stop for pastry?” She opened the bag and the heavenly scent of fresh-baked breakfast rolls drifted out. How could he possibly have had time to . . .? Who cared? Her stomach was already rumbling.

“Yeah, well, the lady who runs the bakery knows me, so she let me in a few minutes before opening time to get these.”

How old was the lady who ran the bakery and how well did he know her? Not my business, she told herself sternly. She relocked the front door. “Come on back.”

They settled at her desk and she refilled her mug and poured a fresh cup into the Thermos cap for Jeff. “I hope you like it black, I don’t have creamer or sugar.”

“Black’s fine, thanks.”

She fished out two danish and some napkins, handed one to him, then bit into hers. Her eyes half closed as the sweet-tart taste of lemon filled her mouth. “Oh my god, this is delicious. That bakery will be my first stop every morning from now on.”

“Yeah, Mario Donnatelli’s sister, Olivia, runs the bakery. She bakes all the breads and desserts for the restaurant as well as selling to the public. She does have a way with flour and butter.” He followed Zoe’s example and devoured his danish in four quick bites, while he looked around the room.

Zoe wiped her hands on her napkin and picked up her clipboard. “Here’s the deal, Jeff. There’s a lot of work that needs to be done and although you said you were a jack-of-all-trades, I’m not sure you’d be able to take on such a big project. Frankly the only reason I’m talking to you is that I don’t have a lot of money to put into renovations and I’m hoping you’ll work for less than the multiple contractors I’d need to hire otherwise.” She saw no point in beating around the bush with the man. The sooner he knew how tight her budget was, the better.
On the other hand, you got what you paid for . . .

“I’ll need someone who is licensed to do electrical, plumbing, and carpentry work as well as pull whatever permits are necessary. This is a public building, so while I’ll be watching costs like a hawk I can’t afford to take any shortcuts where safety is concerned.” She sat back and drained the remains of her coffee. “So tell me now if this is more than you can handle. Marjorie told me you’re honest to a fault, so if you say you can take my project on, I’ll believe you, and if you say it’s too much for you I’ll understand that too.”

“As far as the licenses and permits go, I’ll bring my general contractor’s and electrical contractor’s licenses for you to look at. Permits are no problem either. Although I know a lot about plumbing, I’m not a licensed plumber but I do know someone who is and I can vouch for his skills and integrity. He’ll give you a good deal on pricing as well. So let’s talk about what you want to do here and see how it goes. Once I know what you’re planning, I can get a time and materials estimate worked up for you. Then you can decide if you want to hire me.”

“That sounds fair.” Zoe gazed thoughtfully at him for a few more seconds. What happened to the smart-aleck from this morning’s phone call? And the hyper-inflated ego from yesterday? Granted, she liked this version better, but was afraid he had a Jekyll-Hyde personality that might cause her to grind her teeth on a daily basis. Since she anticipated three to four months of work here, getting along with her employee was important. Compatibility couldn’t be overshadowed by getting to watch him work every day. She was already half-enamored with his hands. His long fingers, wrapped around the cup of coffee, looked competent and strong yet somehow graceful too. As an artist herself, hands were something she noticed about everyone she met and his were, well, beautiful.

She jerked her gaze away from his hands and back to his face where a smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes made her wonder if he could read minds. Holding her clipboard protectively in front of her heart, she stood abruptly. “Let’s walk through the place and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

She led the way toward the front, then changed her mind and did a quick about-face which brought her smack up against the solid chest of her potential employee. She backed up quickly but not before she got a good whiff of soap mixed with . . . linseed oil?

“Sorry.” Jeff put a steadying hand on her arm but dropped it immediately when she stepped away.

“My fault,” she said. “Actually before we can begin to get the gallery space ready, I need to turn the second floor into a studio apartment for me. I need to move in as soon as possible to reduce the financial drain of staying at Marjorie’s B and B.” She pointed to a set of stairs at the end of the room. “Let’s go up there first.”

“After you, ma’am, er, Zoe.”

He looked business-like but she swore she saw a glint of humor lurking behind the serious facade. She went ahead of him up the stairs, sure that his gallantry had more to do with his view of her butt than good manners.

The second story of her building was one large undivided space with high ceilin
gs, tall windows along the front and a smaller one on the side. The wall separating her building from her neighbor’s was exposed brick.

Zoe surveyed what she’d done so far. She’d cleaned the grime off the windows and dust motes danced in the sunshine pouring in from the east. The space was plenty big enough to carve out a living area and studio for herself and a storage area for future works of art awaiting their debut in the gallery below.

“Okay, I need two areas for myself. A bedroom with bath and a studio area where I can paint. Basic kitchen stuff along one wall. I don’t need much—a fridge, sink, cook-top and microwave, with maybe a small island in front of it where I could pull up a stool to eat. I figure from the front wall to about here”—she paced off about fifteen feet—“will be enough for me. The rest will be for storage, so I want a wall dividing that from my private space.” She sketched as she spoke then showed him the result. “What do you think?”

He took the clipboard and pencil from her and with a few quick strokes modified her plan, then handed it back to her.

“Here are a few suggestions you might want to consider. Instead of putting the mini kitchen along the outside wall, use it to divide the space into your public and private areas. Back your bathroom up against it on the bedroom side and you’ll minimize the amount of plumbing you’ll have to install as well as putting it above where the restrooms will need to go downstairs. Also, let’s make sure we give the bedroom area at least two of these windows.” He gestured at the four windows in the front of the building. “The storage area doesn’t need windows but your studio does. You might think about putting in a skylight or two in that area as well.”

She studied the drawing for a minute and realized how much better his plan was.
So, not all hot air and ego, after all. Let’s hope his skills matched his vision.

“I’ve got to admit your plan is much better than mine, Mr. Petros”—the small shake of his head stopped her—“Jeff. And I completely missed the need for a second restroom on the first floor as well. Needless to say, I want to keep the cost down up here. Bare bones functionality for now. Standard fixtures and surfaces. I’m not into glamour anyway. We’ll spend the beauty dollars downstairs. What little there’ll be of those,” she finished ruefully.

“I understand but I don’t see you living in a cardboard box either. Let me see what I can come up with that doesn’t bust your budget.”

“All right. Let’s go down to the main attraction and talk about that disaster area. I imagine you’ll come up with more good ideas down there.”

This time he took the lead and she purposely did not look at his butt or that gorgeous head of hair or the broad shoulders which stretched the plain white T-shirt taut across his muscled back.

Nope, she didn’t look at any of that.

Jeff led the way into the main space and they talked about the basics first.

The electrical panel app
eared to be sufficient for adding the mini kitchen and outlets in Zoe’s apartment as well as some additional track lighting in the showroom.

“Okay, let’s see if we get lucky with the floor.” He pried up the quarter-round molding from a section of baseboard and looked over at Zoe who stood with fingers crossed and eyes shut as she chanted, “Please, please, please . . .”

He tugged at the edge of the linoleum till it finally gave way.

“Hot damn! We’re golden.”

Zoe opened her eyes, blew out a long breath, and rewarded him with a dazzling smile and a high-five slap.

“Looks like the original flooring, which is great, but you do realize we’ll have to refinish it, right?”

She nodded. “Still, it’ll be cheaper than putting in a whole new floor and that will help my budget a lot.”

He continued his inspection, jotting notes on the clipboard as he went. The drop ceiling had some stains, most likely from water damage. His guess would be a leak in the ductwork from the air conditioner. Best bet there would be to pull all the tiles down, fix the leak, and spray paint everything up there a matte black so it would visually disappear. He’d have to get somebody to look at the heat and air and, although it pained him to do it, he’d have to call his dad to do the plumbing. Considering that he hadn’t spoken to the man in over two years that call would be . . . difficult.

On the positive side of the ledger, he’d be working for the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Following her up the stairs had been an exercise in self-control. She’d left her hair down and it fell, smooth and straight, almost to her waist. A silky river of brown so dark it was almost black, it gave off the scent of exotic flowers and made him want to gather fistfuls of it to bury his nose in. His fingers itched for his sketch pad and pencils. And his mouth . . .
yeah let’s not think about what my mouth wants to do
.

No doubt about it, the next few months were going to be a treat and a torment, all for the same reason. Meanwhile, if he wowed her enough with his remodeling skills she might be more understanding when he let his other secret out of the bag.