Authors: Lane Hayes
Still nothing.
I closed my eyes, willing the wave of despair to recede before I picked up my cell to dial Brandon. Maybe he knew another way to get a hold of her. I’d pushed my sunglasses down my nose to better see the phone display when I heard the telltale sound of a lock being unlatched. Thank God. The door opened slowly. The shadows were dark in the entry, making it difficult to see the person on the other side, but it certainly wasn’t a woman.
“Yeah?”
“Uh, hello. I’m looking for Jamie. Jamie Wilson. We have a meeting today at two. Well… now.” I gave a short laugh, unsure if it was a good sign or not that the man behind the door stayed half-hidden. At least he opened it.
“Jamie isn’t here.”
My hand shot out of its own accord as he attempted to close the door on my face. Fuck!
“Wait! We… Jamie and I have had this appointment set up for weeks. I know she was anxious to get started on the renovations here and—”
“Weeks?” He let out a humorless laugh and opened the door wider.
I wasn’t prepared for the jaw-dropping hunk leaning with deceptively relaxed ease against the doorjamb, his toned arms crossed over his broad chest. He was a few inches taller than my own five foot nine, with dark, short-cropped hair worn stylishly longer in the front and light olive skin. I had to assume this Latin god was the soccer player. He was definitely built like an athlete. I shut my mouth, hoping he hadn’t caught me drooling. One did not ogle their prospective straight employers no matter how delicious they were. I cleared my throat, making certain I could speak coherently before I addressed him.
“Yes. Since the beginning of August. She said she wanted to get started on the work sooner rather than later due to the engagement. I understand the property is original and Jamie was hoping to do a little updating. Ring any bells?”
He was giving me a blank but somewhat menacing stare. I didn’t know what was going on here, but I didn’t have a good feeling. Maybe they’d had a fight. Shit. What if they’d called their engagement off?
Any interior designer worth their salt knew at some point it was a pretty safe bet they’d be called upon to play peacemaker to a couple as they underwent an extensive remodel. It started with the good-natured comfy armchair argument and ended with the designer acting as marriage counselor when a discussion about a precious antique from a previous relationship, for example, spiraled into an argument about the offending partner’s inability to let go of their past. A dose of humor and an alternate, less pricey piece of furniture was sometimes all it took to restore personal harmony. But it was damn hard work, which was why the best designers charged more and usually deserved it. I wondered if that was what was going on with Jamie and the soccer player. To be dealing with this shit on day one without a signed contract did not bode well.
I smiled with a confidence I did not feel and wondered how best to deal with this pissed-off man giving me a death glare. I didn’t know much about him. I’d googled the basics. His name was Michael Martinez, and he played professional soccer for a Los Angeles-based team. I couldn’t remember his position. It would never register as important, anyway. I knew nothing about soccer. I paid more attention to the human-interest angle. He was thirty-three, originally from the LA area, and had dated his fair share of models. There were many photos of him with various buxom blondes, though I hadn’t found one of him and Jamie. I actually had no idea what she looked like.
“Mind if I come in and take a peek at the space? I’d love to go ov—”
“I’m not doing a remodel. Sorry. I don’t know what Jamie worked up, but that’s not my problem. And I’m not spending my money on crap I don’t need. Thanks anyway.”
Once again my hand shot out to stop him from slamming the door in my face. “Um, Mr.….” I waited for him to supply his own name, but he obviously wasn’t feeling friendly. I grimaced and hoped it looked something like a smile before I tried again. “If you’re interes—”
“I’m not. Sorry for the inconvenience. Jamie has a way of doing that shit to people. Thanks anyway.”
“Can I please leave a message?”
“What’s the point? Jamie doesn’t live here and before you ask, I have no idea how you might get hold of Jamie and I really don’t give a crap.”
Oh. Fuck. Now what?
Stall. Keep him talking. I could barely hear myself speak as a buzz of panic had my heart beating overtime. It didn’t escape my notice that every time he said his girlfriend’s name, he added a bit of venom. Not a good sign.
“Okay, I… I understand. Um, any chance I can get a bottle of water for the road? I wouldn’t ask normally, but it’s a long drive back to LA, and I—”
“Yeah. C’mon.” His tone was put-upon and graceless. I wanted to tell him where he could shove his water bottle, but I was racking my brain for a way to salvage this deal. I needed this job.
He let the door fall open as he grabbed something hidden from view. I could only hope it wasn’t a shotgun. I didn’t step over the threshold until I saw that it was a pair of crutches and noticed his right knee was wrapped in a black brace. Must be why he was home in the first place. A soccer player with a bum knee wasn’t a good thing, hence his crabby mood.
I followed my reluctant host as he hobbled down a dark hallway. He made a right turn into a small kitchen, stopping in front of a harvest-gold-colored refrigerator. A true relic from the 1970s. I gave the kitchen a sweeping glance and almost cried at the sheer awfulness of the boring square room. The most exciting piece
was
the ugly old fridge. Everything else was blah. From the peeling laminate flooring and countertops to the outdated wood-faced cabinetry, the kitchen was absolutely horrendous. Whether or not it was Jamie’s money to spend on a remodel, there was no doubt this place needed one.
“Here.” I jumped at the feel of the chilled water bottle on my arm and turned back to get my first good look at the man of the house in the light.
My first impression when he’d opened the front door was that Michael Martinez was a very handsome man. But in the light, his face was… intense. It may have been the scowl, but he looked fierce, with a dark, thick brow and his full mouth set in an angry line. I amended my initial opinion, deciding he’d be a lot better-looking if he smiled. He was wearing a black sleeveless workout shirt and a pair of matching shorts. The snug-fitting fabric lovingly showcased his muscled biceps. He was lean and finely toned, like the athlete he was.
“What happened to your knee?” I inquired in an effort to postpone being thrown to the curb.
“Torn ACL.” His tone was unfriendly and didn’t invite further question. He clearly wanted me gone.
“Oh. Sorry. I hear that’s painful.”
“Hmm.”
I uncapped the water and turned to look out the aluminum-framed window above the kitchen sink at the view of a cinder-block wall. How? I knew for a fact this property sat on a cliff above the beach. Where were the spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean? This made no sense. I tried to keep my designer-diva instinct in check as I asked that very question. Once again I was treated to a harsh stare and a heavy sigh.
“This way.” I followed him out of the kitchen, down the same hallway, and through a standard doorway into the living area.
I expected a lovely view, but this was magnificent. The sweeping 180-degree vista was stunning. A bank of old-fashioned sliding-glass doors flanked the entire back wall, giving one the perception of looking out into endless blue… blue skies, blue ocean. It had to be the house’s elevation that fooled the eye, but the result was infinite beauty.
The room itself was horrible. That part I did expect, but now I felt a twinge of outrage this incredible scenery was so appallingly showcased by this ugly house. It was criminal. I had enough experience to know the original architect had paid homage to the spectacular setting through his generous use of windows and the home’s precise perch on the cliff. However, I felt like I was in a time warp. Nothing, other than an enormous flat-screen television above an outdated stacked stone fireplace, was of this century. A faded orange shag carpet matted with age and certainly from 1970-something covered the floors. The furniture was definitely made up of garage sale finds. Nothing matched, nothing coordinated. I couldn’t decide if I should laugh or cry. This place needed love and I needed a job.
My silent, brooding companion leaned on his crutches watching me with almost careful disinterest as I looked out to sea.
“
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul
,” I quoted unintentionally. My eyes widened at my strange outburst. I gave an awkward smile and quickly tried to cover my odd choice of words. “The view is extraordinary.”
He cocked his head thoughtfully. “It is. What did you say first?”
“Oh nothing.” I walked toward the bank of windows and opened my mouth to comment again on the scenery, but he wouldn’t let it go.
“What was it? A quote?”
I turned around to find him staring at me with a bemused expression. “Um… yeah. It’s by Kate Chopin. Sorry. I tend to—”
“Don’t apologize. It’s cool. And you’re right. Or Kate Chopin was. The sea is peaceful and powerful. Thankfully I don’t hear voices… yet.” He gave a half laugh and looked out on the great blue expanse.
“Yes. And all this from your living room.” I made a sweeping motion with one hand around the room. Awkward again, but I thought I should make an effort to stay on topic and not delve into the mysteries of the ocean or literature. “You must spend all your time here.”
He huffed humorlessly. “I do now.”
I turned to look at him curiously.
“Nothing but time on my hands. I’m out for the season.”
“Oh. What do you play?” I decided not to mention I’d googled him or that Jamie told me via e-mail he was a professional athlete. Something told me it was best not to bring her name up again.
“Soccer.” His clipped tone told me he wasn’t going to offer any other information.
So much for that. I tried again, offering a small smile, hoping to encourage reciprocal chatter.
“I meant what…?” Oh shit. I knew nothing about sports and I couldn’t remember what I’d looked up online earlier. “Um, where do you stand on the… you know…?” I started waving my hands around like a demented monkey as though the ad-lib sign language would help convey my meaning.
I was startled by the sound of his deep chuckle. His dark eyes lit with reluctant humor while I floundered for the correct terminology. I stopped and put my right hand on my hip. I threw him a mock-evil glare for good measure, which only made him laugh harder. And damn, that smile had to be the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. This man was pure Latin beauty, and as I expected, his broad grin catapulted him into a whole new level of hotness. I gulped and looked away quickly.
“Field? It’s called a soccer field and I stand in the middle. I’m a midfielder.”
Whatever the hell that meant. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I was just glad he was talking. Finally. His smile smoothed the lines of tension on his brow and gave him a downright friendly countenance. I decided to test it by peppering him with a few questions about his sport.
“Sounds simple enough. What does a midfielder do? Do you get to score? The net looks big, but it’s probably harder to get the ball in than it looks. Is it?”
He shifted his weight and gave me a funny look. I wasn’t sure he would answer, but he did.
“You could say that. It’s my job to keep the ball moving forward, but a midfielder basically plays offense and defense. And yeah, I’ve been known to score the occasional goal, which is never easy if you’re playing a worthy opponent.”
He could have been speaking Spanish. I literally had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Something in my brain did an automatic tune out when I heard words like
offense
and
defense
. But I could have listened to him all day. It was obvious he loved his sport by his intonation and the way his eyes lit up. We silently surveyed each other for a moment. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore below provided background music in the otherwise still space.
“Mr.…?” It was time to plead my case. The guy wasn’t exactly a warm-and-cozy type but at least he wasn’t shooting daggers at me with his eyes now.
“Martinez. Michael Martinez.” His right lip quirked as though he was on to me and found me mildly amusing.
“Luke Preston.”
“Nice to meet you. Look, I’m sorry Jam—”
“No problem.” I cut him off before he could deny me completely. Now was my chance. “But I’m going to be honest. I did a ton of work based on information Jamie e-mailed me and while I understand and respect that you aren’t interested in what she had in mind… this place is….” I stretched my right hand out in a sweeping gesture, indicating I meant everything.
“Go on.” Michael crossed his arms back over his chest, but his eyes were bright with humor. It was time to go for it.
“It’s sad. It’s a beautiful piece of property with the most breathtakingly gorgeous view, but it’s stuck in a rough patch of the twentieth century. I’m going to leave you my card, and if it’s a matter of moving slowly, one room at a time, I’m open to working with you. Some people are totally into the retro look, which can be very cool, but frankly there are some design issues that are borderline unsafe here. The older windows, peeled flooring….” His piercing gaze told me I’d made my point. I held up a hand in surrender and gave him a small grin. “I’ll stop talking. But if… well, if you’re interested, call me.”
I fished one of my brand-new business cards from my bag and handed it to him. He didn’t take it at first and my heart sank. After a long pause, he raised his brow, uncrossed his arms, and finally took the card.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Great. I appreciate your time.”
Michael nodded once and expertly turned on his crutches to lead the way out. We said another brief good-bye at the front door before I headed down the overgrown path to Brandon’s car. I was proud of myself for keeping a professional air about me. Not once did I let my sheer panic show. I was walking out of that house without a contract, without a job, and without the retainer check I’d been hoping to deposit immediately into my anemic bank account. Nothing but a fucking water bottle. I had no clue what I was going to do now. None.