Barely even friends, p.6
Barely Even Friends, page 6
His shoulders lifted, taking my head along for the ride. “I’m staying away, Price, like we agreed.”
It was probably for the best. I didn’t need any distractions, especially not ones that came in the form of the bicep under my cheek right now.
“We could plan our revenge.” I nudged his side with my elbow, squishing slightly.
He huffed, his breath warm against my cheek. “I’ll make dinner.”
I rolled my eyes. Still a privileged asshole. “You’re really cruel, Killington.”
“They didn’t tell you?” His eyebrows shot up.
A giggle erupted out of me. “Okay, explain.”
“Do I have to?” He gave my arm another squeeze, his fingertips soft, the motion causing my head to lean against his shoulder. His scent flooded my senses, a mix of clean and evergreen and something else I couldn’t name but was probably an expensive cologne designed to mess with my pheromones.
Neither of us said a word or shifted away. The room was only growing colder in the evening air, especially since we were sitting on the tile floor, but it was tolerable being with Oliver.
This was it: an olive branch.
But then his grip loosened, still close enough for warmth, but somehow creating a level of separation between us. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“Tell me.” I pulled a knee up, wrapping my arms around my leg.
He shook his head. “Trust me, I’m under no impressions that a gorgeous, smart woman like you would voluntarily eat a meal with me, let alone want to listen to me talk about all the things I’ve failed at.”
What now? I pressed my face into my knee, releasing a few shaky breaths. The situation was getting to both of us. We needed a reminder of why we were here.
“I’ve, uh, been working on my plans. I didn’t know if you wanted any input.” My voice was halting, awkward even to my ears.
“I gave my input.” His gruff tone had returned.
Lovely. Stay out of the west wing. We were back to this, were we? “I thought you might want some say about the changes being made.”
“I don’t have any money, if that’s why you’re being nice to me.” His fingers flexed, now only touching me along my clothes.
I shrugged out of his hold, the chill returning, but I’d rather freeze than let him touch me. “Notice I didn’t ask about money.” My initial impression of him had been spot on; it was silly to think otherwise.
The cords of his neck stood out as he glared at me. “Fine then, consider this to be a job interview.” Disdain dripped from his voice, his arms crossed, biceps bulging. “What made you pick this as a career?”
Fuck you. There was an alarm bell going off in my head, but I ignored it. We were trapped, and he was angry, but what else was new.
“Tell me, what makes you want to work on other people’s homes? Don’t you have one of your own?”
It was as if he was gazing directly into my heart, pressing along the fault line, the very thing that would shake me.
“Why do you have to be such a beast?” I scrambled to stand up, lips pressed together, fists clenched at my side. Turning away from him, I stomped straight for the door, not caring if it was fruitless. I needed to do something with this energy that had suddenly filled me. Our time had to be more than up.
Click.
Without so much as a goodbye, I stalked out. But I wasn’t headed for my room. Despite its size, it was too small for the feelings caged inside me. I began picking up speed as I escaped until I was full-on sprinting.
I ended up in front of a set of double doors on the opposite end of the house. The space was so different from when I had seen it earlier in the week, in the middle of the day, filled with sunlight. My lungs burst from the exertion.
Of course the Killington Estate had a ballroom. It was two stories, with a vaulted ceiling decorated with an Italian fresco. The paint was cracked and faded like everything else in the house. The back wall was lined with windows, observing the outside world, but not a part of it.
The full moon didn’t provide quite enough illumination, and I missed my step, slipped, and landed on my ass, groaning at the ache in my muscles. I lay there, half propped up against a marble pillar, legs sprawled on the dull and scratched floor.
Oliver was right—I didn’t have a home. You couldn’t grow up the way I had and not burn for one. All the hotels, the temporary rooms, surfaces that weren’t mine to decorate or paint. But a home was more than walls. It was the memories those walls contained, the stories they soaked up and remembered long after its people were gone. I could picture the people who’d danced in this very room, but I could never imagine myself being one of them.
This week I’d searched for those spots in the house that made it unique. The markings on doorways showing how the children had grown, a name carved into a baseboard, and paintings on the walls. One room had a burn mark on the ceiling from a magic trick gone wrong.
The moon crept higher in the sky. I was not in any rush to get back despite my nerves over my upcoming meeting.
It took another hour for me to dust myself off, battle down the emotion that wanted to erupt, my eyes no longer filling with tears. This had been a home. It wasn’t lost to the past; it had a future.
Not for him, but for me.
CHAPTER SIX
Today was “P Day”—Plans Day. All my sleepless nights, avoidance of a certain nameless, entitled asshole, and all the mascara I had put on had led me to this moment.
The evening before, I had presented to Mr. Killington’s team under Dad’s watchful eye. I was interrogated by men who had never even watched an HGTV show before. I answered questions I would bet money on they’d gotten off Google: what to say when you want to sound like you know what you’re talking about. They’d have been better off actually reviewing the materials I had sent in advance.
I received the endorsement of Mr. Killington’s assistant and financial advisor. Now either Mr. Killington would give his approval of my plan, or we’d be fired, face bankruptcy, lose any prestige my father had garnered after almost forty years, and squander any chance at my dream job.
No freaking pressure.
“Aren’t you spruced up, Dad.”
He straightened his tie, primping a bit for the camera. We had been texting all morning. Last-minute suggestions about the presentation, outfit ideas. The best tie for him (one that didn’t have Philippe replicas on it), the sweater that would imbue me with authority. Everything had to be absolutely perfect.
My lucky suspenders were hidden underneath my favorite blue cardigan, holding in my beating heart, ensuring it didn’t fly out of my chest.
“Still on the mend?” I slid my chair into place, adjusting the tilt of my iPad to get the angle just right.
“Practically back to normal.”
“That’s great.” It was a relief to see him healthy, wearing actual clothes and not onesie pajamas, the glow back in his cheeks.
This job may have fallen into my lap, but I wanted it. It was mine. My training wheels had to be taken off at some point. Even if I fell flat on my face, it was time to learn and prove myself. “When do you think you’ll be making it to the site, then?” I drummed my fingers on the table, not sure what I preferred his answer to be.
“Oh, I—” Dad’s gaze drifted away from the camera to some spot I couldn’t see. “Not soon. Some more recovering to do.”
“Dad!” If he was still sick, maybe I shouldn’t have left him. Why hadn’t Betty called me? Maybe I—
“I’m fine, I’m fine—promise.” He held his palms up as if to stop all my thoughts from running rampant. “But you are more than fine. I’ve seen all your drawings, your extensive lists”—he chuckled—“your contingency plans. You are beyond prepared. This is your baby.” It may have been me being hopeful, but there seemed to be a hint of pride in his voice.
I scrubbed my hand across my heart, crashing into a dose of reality. “I appreciate that, but Mr. Killington hired you, not me. We’re not the Price and Daughter firm.”
“We’ll go with Price and Price instead. If you do a good enough job, I’ll even let you be the first Price.” There was a flash of mischief on his face that warmed my chest.
“Not funny.” A smile broke itself free. He always knew what to say when I was nervous.
“I’m sorry.” He wiped the grin away—or tried to. The only person who thought Maurice Price was a comedian was Maurice Price. “But you truly have this. There’s nothing left for me to do—other than admire your beautiful sketches and pat myself on the back for how well I trained you.”
“Hopefully, I’m as humble as you in my old age.” A flush crept up my skin. He’d always been effusive with praise, but that he wasn’t coming spoke volumes of his trust in me.
“We can only hope, Bells, we can only hope. You don’t need me there, taking credit for your brilliance.”
I sucked in a breath, letting his words wash over me as they clashed with every doubt I had ever experienced. “And if I fail, we end up in debt, disgraced, never to work on another home again?”
“No idea where you get this tendency to exaggerate.” He winked at me. “If that happens, you can blame me entirely. It’d be like the time when we lived in that impossibly small cabin. Think of all the father-and-daughter bonding we could do.”
There were a lot of great memories from that year we had moved into a glorified log cabin, but I had also been seven. I groaned as the tightness in my nerves eased. I knew what we were waiting on, what he was distracting me from. The clock taunted me.
But I’d already allowed myself my moment of doubt a few nights ago.
The staff had been appropriately chagrined when they saw me for breakfast the next morning. Since then, there’d been no more mentions of the “sir” joining us or any new complaints about me overworking myself.
“All the blame?” I attempted to get comfortable, crossing and uncrossing my ankles, smoothing my hair, refusing to take another sip of water so I wouldn’t need to suddenly go to the bathroom. There’s nothing worse than being in a high-stress situation and needing to pee. Nothing.
“All of it. Make a doll with my face and stab it repeatedly.” He emphasized his point by punching his hand.
Which made me picture another face I wanted to punch. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“And how’s Philippe?” The casual air of his voice gave away how he had been holding himself back.
“Wow, you waited five whole minutes before asking about your favorite child.”
“Good—you realize your place.”
I heaved a sigh, more for him than anything. “He’s being well kept in a garage.”
“And are you …?”
“Driving him around every few days, even though I don’t go anywhere other than this decrepit estate, yes.” The eye roll was genuine this time.
“I earn that father-of-the-year mug you made me every day.” He raised it up, and I had to snort. I had painted it when I was six, and he still acted like it was the best gift anyone had ever given him, bringing it with us to every job.
The clock struck noon.
One of the grandfather clocks in the hallway clanged, my heart right along with it, just in case I wasn’t aware, giving the moment an ominous feel.
Right on time, Mr. Killington filled the screen, seated in his boardroom. A few employees sat next to him on either side, all dressed in suits. Their stooped postures deferred to him in every way. Even their chairs seemed to be lower.
“Price,” Mr. Killington barked, giving a perfect impression of his grandson. My primary goal was getting his approval, but a bonus would be for Mr. Killington to see the benefit of having Oliver vacate the premises. Immediately would be best.
“Good morning, sir,” I began. “I’ll start with our plans for the front foyer.” I clicked to share my screen.
“Why is a woman talking? I didn’t hire you—I hired Maurice Price. Price, talk.”
And now I knew where his grandson got his charm. “Sir, I’m Bellamy Price, his daughter. I am on-site.”
“And why isn’t Maurice?” He inquired as if the people there would provide the answers, or my father would magically pop up in the boardroom. We were already failing to meet his exacting expectations. A fine sheet of sweat broke out on my forehead.
“We contacted your office multiple times, Mr. Killington. I’m getting over a hospital stay, but Bellamy has kept me appraised and gone through the designs with me. She has done an excellent job of bringing out the original highlights from the home. She has more experience than I did at her age, or that most do in this industry.” Dad spoke in his quiet but firm tone. It usually worked, but this wasn’t a typical client. “An exceptional eye to detail,” he added.
“I’m paying a lot of money for this.” Mr. Killington’s gaze glanced away from the screen again. His features shifted as he seemed to receive confirmation. “And I’m paying for Maurice Price, not the unknown one.”
I wish I could say that was the first time I’d heard something like that. My youth, weight and gender they all worked against me in these types of situations, no matter how dressed up I was or that I’d spent an hour trying to subdue my hair. I’d stand in front of a group of old white men, and they would always prefer another man. They’d never consider that a woman might be in charge, especially one that looked like me.
It had nothing to do with the quality of my work. All Mr. Killington cared about was the name behind it. Being able to brag to his friends as they sat on their yachts, headed to their private islands, that the Maurice Price had worked on his home.
“We shouldn’t be paying Price prices then.”
His threat was delivered with a bit of glee; clearly he thought he was the first one to make the joke.
Dad refused to back down. “There is no one better. She is who you want on your project. And you’ll have the benefit of saying Bellamy Price restored your estate, which will only increase its value, I can promise you.”
Silence spread. Mr. Killington appeared to weigh my father’s words while I subtly wiped at the dust that had drifted into my eyes. The inside of this house required a power washing.
In view of the camera, Mr. Killington unlocked his arms and folded his hands on the table. “Fine, but I don’t have time for this presentation. I have one question, Miss Price.”
Sitting on my shaking hands, I gave a stiff nod.
Mr. Killington knocked once. “I’d like to see the plans for the west wing, which you have conveniently left out.”
Crap, double crap. I had tried to use the blueprints to flesh out what Dad had worked on years ago, but there was no way to fake it. Not with the level of detail I had gone into with the rest of the mansion. Despite my frustration with the jerk formerly known as “Beast,” I couldn’t force myself to invade his privacy and enter the west wing. The grief on his face as we’d stood outside the doors haunted me every time I considered it. This was what being a good person got me: screwed—and not in the fun way.
Before I could reply, Mr. Killington demanded for someone to “Get my grandson.” The people in the surrounding room burst into action; a cell phone was pulled out, the rest murmuring in a rising panic while my hands shook all over again.
I’m embarrassed to admit I assumed they were contacting some other grandson whom I had never met and who had never tried to banish me from his home. I lived in that fantasy world for only a moment, but it was glorious. Then another box popped up, and there was Oliver, sitting in the study downstairs, glaring at the camera.
“Ollie—good—you are at the estate?”
“Yes.”
It was touching to see he was as sociable with his family as he was with me.
“Excellent. This is what we are going to do. Ollie, you will oversee this restoration. To ensure that this project is going as planned and because of her”—his hand waved in what I had to assume was my direction—“inexperience, someone must command things.”
No one spoke a word as my dream became hitched to the person who despised me most in this world. This was a nightmare, and I couldn’t figure out how to wake up. We were going to be trapped together for the foreseeable future. There would be no getting rid of him.
“Ollie will provide my assistant with weekly—if, necessary, daily—updates.”
I stared at the box containing Oliver’s face, hoping to communicate he should back out, that surely his oversight was unnecessary. But nothing. As his grandfather shackled us together, he remained as stoic as ever.
“I’m not sure that is necessary.” My voice cracked as I tried to be authoritative, but I also understood that Mr. Killington could cancel the project or, at minimum, my part in it.
“I very much think it is.” His eyes narrowed at me. If the resemblance to Oliver hadn’t been obvious before, it was too pronounced now. “You have a strict deadline—I will be hosting an event at the estate to celebrate the end of the summer.”
The end of the summer? “That’s only six months from now.” My presentations had all included a projected timeline of one year. “I’m not sure—”
“I will not throw millions of dollars to an unknown without some guarantees.”
It was difficult not to gulp. These types of jobs with extensive structural issues were expensive. If more damage was found once we began, which was almost guaranteed with the state of disrepair, it would easily extend any timetable by another six months to a year. There were few professionals who had the required experience with these heritage homes. Panic was rising in me at the idea of completing this project within six months.
“This also aligns with our discussions, Ollie. It’s time you stopped hiding away and accepted your role in this company and this family.”
Every person on this call who didn’t have the last name Killington shifted uncomfortably in their seat.
Mr. Killington cleared his throat. When nothing happened, he cleared it again, tossing a pencil and hitting a man two seats down on his left.
