Trust me, I know how it looks.
They’ll claim there’s no way I couldn’t have known what Drake was doing. No way I didn’t suspect something was amiss.
Newsflash, I had no clue. Zero. But convincing the folks of Sparkwood that I’m an imbecile and not the monster’s assistant has been a futile journey.
No one believes me.
You can do it, Kiki. One foot in front of the other.
I glue my focus to the ground and hurry toward the ballfield. Toward one of the few people in town who won’t shoot evil glares in my direction.
Eddie Landry, Oriana’s half-brother.
We’ve partnered on a few projects, and while I’m fairly certain the opportunity came at his sister’s behest, I’m still grateful for the steady inflow of funds into my depleted bank account.
He’s one hell of a craftsman, quickly becoming a local legend for his unique, innovative approach to home restoration. No joke—the man has an eye for design that blows my mind.
And he listens. He asks questions. Treats my input like it matters.
Plus, he’s nice to me despite everything. That’s a rarity these days.
Eddie catches sight of me, a smile crossing his chiseled face as he raises his hand in greeting.
I rush down the hill, toward the only safe space at this ballpark.
My low heel catches on the soft ground, and I stumble, but Eddie grabs my arms, steadying me.
“Easy there, Kiki. You okay?”
I nod, my cheeks flaming. Noweveryoneis staring. So much for a quiet entrance. “I’ve always been a bit of a klutz.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Good thing I’m here.”
I thrust the folder into his chest. “Here are the interior mockups, as requested. I created a few different design scenarios to give your client more options.”
“I’ve been waiting for these. Let’s see what you’ve come up with.” Eddie flips through the pages. “Impressive. Now tell me in English what I’m looking at.”
A smile sneaks across my lips at his easygoing charm, and I lean closer, tentatively pointing to a living room design. “This one stays closest to the original Georgian Revival lines. It respects the symmetry but opens things up a little.”
He nods. “Brings in more light without messing with the bones of the house.”
I turn the page. “This is a Beaux-Arts option. More formal. It leans into the house’s age instead of fighting it. And this one,” I flip to the final mockup, “was just for fun.”
Eddie studies the last design, a hint of a grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “I really like this one.”
I lean closer, my excitement over the designs overriding decorum. “Me too. It’s my favorite. It’s Art Nouveau influenced, which means it shouldn’t work?—”
“But it does.”
“Exactly.” I draw in a deep breath, brutally aware of his proximity—and howgoodhe smells. “God, you smell amazing.”
Holy crap, I did not just say that out loud.
Except, I did.
And he does. Cedar and smoke, like a late evening curled around a fire.
But the last thing Eddie needs is the pariah of Sparkwood mooning over him.
