I take a deep breath, a sad feeling settling in my chest now. Great. I’ve managed to make this really fucking depressing in all of two seconds because of my wayward thoughts.
I shake it off and knock on the door, another thing I’ve realized—a lot of elderly clients do not like it when I ring the doorbell. And I need to start off on the right foot.
A moment later, the door is pulled open, but it’s not a little old man like I was expecting. No. Not at all.
The guy standing before me is probably a few years younger than me. His dark hair is wet, so I assume he just got out of the shower. And his green eyes focus on me, mistrust swimming inside of the deep emerald pools. “Who are you?” the young man asks me gruffly, his eyes narrowed.
“Uh...” I’m taken aback, completely off-kilter for reasons I can’t really understand. I was expecting an old man. Someone who doesn’t leave his house often, mostly because he can’t get around so well.
But this man standing before me, while on the slim side, is trim and fit, though tall and lanky. Almost up to my own height and strikingly beautiful.
That’s weird to think. I mean, not that I don’t know when another man is attractive, but this isn’t really that. There’s justno other way to describe him. With his square, cut jaw, dark hair, shimmering eyes, and pouty full lips...
Okay. I really, really need to get a grip.
It was just a shock. Not what I was expecting.
“Um, is your grandpa here?” That has to be it, right? The man has a grandson who’s here to help him out. Maybe the family doesn’t trust a stranger around him alone yet. Definitely seen that before.
The man cocks his head to the side, looking at me with deep suspicion. “No. Both of my grandpas are dead.”
Well, that’s depressing.
I look at the paperwork and check for the name of the client. I must have the wrong house. Shame too, because this house is a beauty, and with a little more landscaping closer to the house, it could be a real stunner. “Um, Dakota Gordon. Is he home? I’m Gabe from Oakley’s Crew Landscaping.”
“I’m Dakota,” the man says with a look that says he doesn’t trust me at all. He’s Dakota.He’s the client?
Well, that was unexpected.
3
DAKOTA
Of course, the landscaping company would send me a big, hunky jock type. I remind myself this isn’t high school, and the man before me isn’t going to beat me down or shove me into a locker.
But it’s hard not to imagine that.
He has a friendly smile though. A golden boy sort of look to him as he stands there looking confused as all hell, his head actually cocked to the side. “You’re Dakota?”
“Yes,” I snap quickly because wow, cliché much? He has the dumb jock thing down if he can’t even compute that I’m the client. “And you’re Gabe from Oakley’s Crew Landscaping. I assume you’re here to build the greenhouse.”
“Oh. Okay, sorry about that. You aren’t what I was expecting.” He runs his hand through his golden-brown locks, kind of looking like he just rolled out of bed, but also too perfect for that to be true. I truly despise men like this. Big, muscular. Too beautiful to be real. Likely had everything handed to him his whole life. Probably fell into his dream job after high school where he tormented the hell out of little nerdy kids for fun.
I don’t bother asking him what he expected. Though I do bristle at the thought of him likely taking a swipe at my smaller stature. I’m tall—not as tall as the giant standing before me—but I’m skinny. Always have been, probably always will be. I also have a baby face that makes me look younger than my twenty-seven years. I hate it. I’ve tried to grow facial hair—a nice beard that says I’m getting close to thirty—but it just doesn’t work. It comes in patchy when it finally comes in at all. And I don’t need this asshole judging me for it.
He drops his hand from his hair, and I notice I can see his breath from the cold air around him and sigh. “Do you want to come in and discuss the job? You know, the reason you’re here?” I feel like I’m going to have to explain a lot to him.
Normally, I wouldn’t invite him into my home, but it’s too damn cold to sit out on the porch, and I’m not freezing my balls off for anyone.
He nods and walks into my house before I close the door behind him. He follows me into the living room where I have the fireplace going, and I offer him a seat on the sofa, while I take my usual chair.
“Wow, this is really nice,” he says, his eyes sweeping around the living room, toward the dining room of the nearly one-hundred-year-old home.
“So the greenhouse...” I start to get him to focus. We aren’t friends.
“Right,” he says. “We have several options to choose from.”
I motion toward the laptop I left on my coffee table. “That’s the one I’d like.”
