Accidental honeymoon, p.2
Accidental Honeymoon, page 2
Typical woman: heartless to the core. Monica was done with
all of them for good, no matter how hot they were. Or in
Ray’s case, ridiculously hot. Her plaid shirt was now tied
around her waist, exposing the muscles of her upper arms,
which rippled in a way nobody’s muscles had a right to do.
Damn it.
“How long will you be here?” Monica growled, turning
her head away so as not to stare at those biceps a moment
longer. Unfortunately, she could still see them, even with her
eyes closed. How did arms even begin to look like that?
“A day,” Ray replied. “Two tops. Depends how many
rooms end up needing paint.”
“Are you doing the master bedroom?”
“It’s not on the initial order.”
“Well, I hate the color,” Monica hu ed, as if the hue were
somehow Ray’s fault. She turned around and looked the
woman in the eyes. Such a deep, sparkling blue. A moment
later her gaze veered dangerously downward, and it took all
her self-control to focus on Ray’s chin, that stubborn
appendage with its color-coded dimple. Seriously, all
females should come with a similar warning system. “Can
you add that room to your list?”
“That’ll take a couple of extra days, but yeah, sure…no
problem.” Ray’s eyes twinkled like she’d heard the ca-ching
of a cash register ringing up a sale. Monica didn’t care. This
was all on Brianna’s dime. “What color were you thinking?”
“A light blue.” Monica looked at her Fitbit. “Look, I really
am running late now, and if I lose this contract, I’m screwed.
This is the biggest thing I’ve had a shot at in ages.”
“I can come up with a color if you’d like.”
Monica eyed the ragged hem of the woman’s cut-o
shorts. “Do you know anything about interior design?”
“I have a first edition Wharton and Codman on my
nightstand. I read a chapter every night before bed.”
Monica had no idea what that was, but it sounded legit,
and she’d rather die than admit a handyman—excuse me,
ma’am—might know more about something than she did, so
she responded with a curt nod.
“I guess I can trust you to pick out the paint color, then.
Maybe like the stripes in your shirt? It really brings out—”
She was about to say Ray’s eyes but stopped short. “The
room. It brings out the room.”
Ray grabbed the sleeve dangling from her waist. “I got it.
Anything else?”
“Maybe you could suggest a whole color palette for the
house while you’re at it. Knowing my ex, she’s playing it safe
with a boring beige.”
“Brandy cream, actually.”
“What color is that?”
“Boring beige.” Ray sucked in her cheeks like she was
trying to stifle a laugh. Good. The enemy of your enemy is
your friend, or something like that. It meant she was on
Monica’s side, at least for the moment, which was worth
taking advantage of.
“I always wanted a ceiling fan in the o ce. Brianna never
got around to it. And new switch plate covers, and the
overhead fixtures in the bathroom. Good ones, not the cheap
kind.” It’d serve her skinflint of an ex right, sticking her
with these extra fees. “Add those to your design plan. I’ll
text you if I can think of anything else.”
“You’re the boss.” Ray jotted down something in a small
notebook.
“How many days of work are we up to now?” If she could
add more items to the handy ma’am’s to-do list, how much
time would that buy her to figure out a way to beat Brianna
at this game? “More importantly, how many days can I have
you?”
Ray shrugged, a motion that made the muscles in her
shoulders tighten in a way that defied nature. “My
calendar’s pretty light all week.”
“Cool. I’ll see what else I can think of.”
“You’ve got my card, which has my number on it.” Ray
smirked. “Unlike some people, I check my voice mail daily.”
Monica’s eyes narrowed. “Very funny.”
Brianna may have fired the first shot in the house war,
but Monica would win in the long run. Even if it killed her.
Not giving the matter too much more thought, she rushed
into her o ce and grabbed her missing heel, slipping it over
her polished toes before racing out the door. She’d have just
enough time to make it to The Walters as long as tra c
wasn’t too heavy.
Sliding on her shades, Monica climbed behind the
steering wheel of her beloved Benz. The lease was about to
expire, and there was no way Brianna would sign for another
one, but Monica might as well enjoy it while she had it,
right? She fired up the engine, and it purred like a kitten.
Shit.
She’d forgotten to tell that handy lady person about Mr.
Flu es, the Persian in need of a serious attitude adjustment
that Brianna had stuck her with when she’d skipped out on
her. Oh, well. Ray would figure it out. Or, maybe the cat
would escape through the open front door. As if Monica
could be so lucky. Considering how much fancy cat food that
beast ate every day, she should’ve deducted the cost from
her rent. Her ex had some real nerve to accuse her of laziness
when that pu of white fur did nothing but sit on a silk
cushion all day and sharpen its claws. Of course, in the end,
Brianna had dumped them both.
Monica put the car in gear and sped toward the highway,
praying she’d make it to her meeting on time. If she was late
and lost the chance to plan this wedding, it would be
Brianna’s fault. Hers and that hot handy woman’s with her
distracting eyes and muscular arms. How dare she wear a
tank top when she had arms like that?
This was just one more reason on a growing list of why
Monica would never fall for another woman, not ever again.
They were nothing but trouble, the whole lot of them. And at
thirty-two years old, Monica had already had enough trouble
to last herself a lifetime.
C H A P T E R T W O
The sound of a car engine roared through an open
window, and even without seeing it, Ray could tell it was
expensive. Probably flashy, too, in that entirely unnecessary
way that was only about showing o to other people how
rich you were, or how rich you wanted them to think you
were.
Kinda like this place, Ray thought as she studied her
surroundings. The exterior of the two-story townhouse
sported deep red brick and a balcony supported by white
pillars like it was some sort of plantation. Meanwhile, its
sides and back were covered in just about the lowest quality
vinyl siding available on the market. So typical of modern
construction. That meant that while the foyer floor was
marble and lit by a shiny crystal chandelier hanging from a
cathedral ceiling, Ray would bet ten bucks the rest of the
house had been outfitted with beige wall-to-wall carpet and
cheap hollow core doors.
That’s the problem with the world nowadays, she could
almost hear Grandpa Ray’s voice saying in her mind as he
launched into one of his favorite diatribes. New things
weren’t built to last, and people would rather tear down
something than put the work into making it shine again. Ray
shared her grandfather’s old-world values, which had
caused trouble with more than a few of the women she’d
dated who wanted nothing but the latest trends, no matter
how disposable.
If only she could break herself of the habit of falling hard
for a pretty face who had nothing in common with her.
Women like Monica, for example, with that silky hair and
the oh-so-feminine wiles that could turn Ray on as easily as
flipping a switch. Even if she was hot—or hotter than hot, if
Ray were completely honest about it—that was beside the
point.
Make no mistake, Ray could get her into bed with less
e ort than it would take to prime the walls. That much had
been obvious. Ray almost felt bad for Monica, given how
much e ort she’d put into trying not to be too obvious about
all the staring she’d been doing. The truth was Ray was used
to having that e ect on women.
Attracting recent divorcees who were experiencing the
sudden onset of bi-curiosity seemed to be a particular
specialty of hers. They would hire her for a job and flirt with
her nonstop while explaining how overrated men were. Ray
had no desire to be someone’s experiment, but she’d become
adept at letting them down gently, a necessity when her
livelihood depended on getting as many five-star reviews as
she could. In fact, she’d pegged Monica for this type of
woman the minute the door had opened to reveal all that
golden hair, and those shapely legs beneath her form-fitting
skirt. Ray had been shocked to discover Brianna was her ex.
Of course, considering that, plus the fact Monica wasn’t
the one who had hired her, it technically wouldn’t have been
against her rules if Ray had decided to sleep with her. But
with an entitled princess like Monica, the bedroom was all
there was. She could never understand the passion for hard
work that made Ray tick, the thrill that came with taking
something that had been written o as old and broken and
restoring it to a new life with her own two hands. That
woman’s disdain for anything blue collar had been all too
obvious. Ray had plenty of experience with that type of
woman, too. More than enough to want a repeat.
Move along, Ray, she cautioned herself. She’s not worth the
trouble.
As if to remind herself how little she and Monica had in
common, Ray pulled out her phone and scrolled to the first
decorating blog post in her inbox. Due to the nature of her
business, she’d gotten signed up on more of those mailing
lists than she could count, with article titles like “15 Must
Have Trends to Wow Your Friends,” and content that served
as a house-in-a-box starter kit for aspiring basic white girls
everywhere. Which, if you looked that phrase up in the urban
dictionary, they might as well put a photo of Monica in place
of a definition. Ray didn’t need to assess the rest of the
house to know what she would find.
Oh, yeah. With a crooked smile, she studied the photos of
her chosen newsletter. This one.
Open shelving in the kitchen, a navy blue accent wall,
floral removable wallpaper, a curved sofa. The list went on,
and she could picture it now, in all its cookie-cutter glory.
Grabbing her toolbox, Ray bet herself a beer after work she’d
find at least ten of these elements in Monica’s house. All
fifteen and she’d treat herself to a six-pack for the weekend.
Something cheap and domestic, the kind of beer a woman
like Monica would rather die than drink.
Ray scored four points in the living room alone, because
holy rattan, Batman. Her trusty blogger had hinted that
wicker would be making a comeback, but with two end
tables, a co ee table, and an accent chair made out of the
stu , Ray might as well have been standing on her great
aunt Bessie Mae’s veranda sipping a mint julep. Plus, she
earned a bonus point for one of the items being painted
white, o ering what the article promised was an unexpected
twist on a classic. Because, yeah, no one had ever thought to
paint wicker white before. She made a note to suggest a
shade of blush for the walls, which had been declared the
Color of the Year by at least three di erent sources, thereby
almost guaranteeing anyone who had already gone all-in on
the wicker bandwagon would consider the addition of pink to
the room a homerun.
She scored an additional two points in the kitchen for the
aforementioned open shelving and navy accent wall, which
Ray had to admit was almost too easy. The shelves had
literally been mounted on the dark blue wall. At the rate she
was going, she’d end up earning a twelve pack and spending
most of her holiday Monday with an end-of-summer
hangover.
After entering two other rooms, and earning one point
from each thanks to animal print hand towels in the guest
bath that o ered a touch of whimsy, plus a fake olive tree in
the dining room that added a pop of sophisticated sage green,
Ray found her way to the master bedroom. Bracing herself
for a high-contrast color scheme and a canopy bed made
from acrylic and metal, which her blogger promised added a
much-needed modern upgrade to a traditional classic—a
phrase that honestly made a part of Ray’s soul wither and die
—she turned the doorknob and was nearly bowled over by a
streak of white that disappeared around the corner of the
hallway with an angry shake of a very flu y tail.
“Here, kitty kitty,” Ray called out, taking a best guess at
the type of animal that had raced past her. She peered down
the hallway expectantly, but nothing appeared. Ray
shrugged. Wherever the cat had gone, it seemed in no hurry
to return. She’d make an e ort not to let it outside, of
course, but if Monica preferred to keep her pet confined to
the bedroom all day, she really should’ve told Ray the rules
before heading out.
Turning her attention back to the bedroom, Ray was
momentarily thrown o to realize the space looked nothing
like she’d anticipated. It was actually, well…good. Or at least,
not too far o the mark. With a muted color palette and real
wood furnishings, it exuded a touch of class instead of the
gaudy New Jersey casino feel she’d dreaded. Though the
awful wall color gave Ray the final point she needed to win
herself a beer, Monica couldn’t technically be blamed for it
since she’d already requested a change. What was more, the
shade of blue the woman had selected was exactly what Ray
would’ve suggested. Weird.
She wouldn’t be earning a six-pack, but all in all, the
bedroom made Ray surprisingly happy by putting a tick in
the good taste column. Maybe she’d judged Monica too
harshly. Her eyes landed on a desktop covered with clippings
of dresses from bridal magazines, any one of which probably
cost more than Ray made in a month.
Maybe her first impression had been on the money, after
all. Money being the operative word. Not only did Monica
appear to be completely obsessed with getting married, but
her expensive taste was a one-way ticket to the poor house.
No wonder the woman’s ex had run o .
With a roll of her eyes at Monica’s collection of
matrimonial monstrosities, Ray set to work taping all of the
woodwork and draping plastic sheets over the furniture and
baseboards to protect the carpet. Who still had carpet in their
bedroom? If this was her place, she’d rip it up and put in a
spectacular hardwood floor. Real wood, too, for sure. She’d
been hired to install no less than three of those laminate
floating floors that summer, in fashion colors because
apparently good old brown wood wasn’t good enough for
people these days.
After a quick trip to the local hardware store, Ray
returned and poured a beautiful robin’s egg blue paint into
her tray. She dipped the pad of the edger into it ever so
lightly so as not to overload it and cause drips. Ray wasn’t as
fast as some of the people who specialized in nothing but
painting, but she was meticulous and prided herself on
producing a perfectly finished room. She’d yet to have a
client complain.
“Meow.”
She flipped around, her eyes scanning all the plastic, until
she spotted the white Persian, who had returned to the
bedroom in her absence.
“Of course. Princess Monica had to have a cat as high
maintenance as she was. Tell me, do you get your food in a
crystal goblet like in the commercials?”
The cat hissed in response.
Ray took a step back. “Hey now. I don’t want to get into it
with you after already dealing with your human today. You
stay over there, and I’ll stay on this side. Got it?”
The cat flopped onto the plastic, lifting a leg to clean its
butt.
“Unbelievable. Well, they say pets act like their owners. I
bet your mommy would expect an audience for everything
