I follow Jonas around the corner, bypassing a staircase to the second floor, and into his kitchen. It’s just as cozy as the rest of the house. White cabinets, dark marble countertops, a few key pops of color to keep it from feeling cold. I frown at the gray subway tile backsplash. “Did you design this place?”
“Yeah.” He puts an old fashioned tea kettle on the gas stove and turns it on. “Too much of a control freak to do otherwise.”
Just more evidence of how adaptable he is as both architect and designer. He obviously wanted a sanctuary away from the world and he’s created a flawless one. I have to squash the desire to explore and categorize the decisions he’s made. I bet the backyard is a treasure trove for design choices. My fingers practically itch for my notepad so I can write down my thoughts.
“Blake.” The tone of his voice suggests this isn’t the first time he’s said my name.
“Sorry. Admiring the room.” I pull the towel more firmly around my shoulders, but it’s really not doing much to either warm me or prevent me from dripping on the floors. My clothes are too saturated. I glance down at my feet and cringe at the puddle I’m creating. “I think I need another towel.”
Jonas curses. “This way.”
I’m far too eager to see more of his house, but even if I wasn’t, the command in those two little words would be enough to have me following him up the stairs and…into his room.
I stop short and stare at the bed. It’s a very nice bed. King-sized and with a reasonable number of pillows—four—and a bed frame made of iron bands welded into a design that gives the impression of a tree—either oak or maple. It’s exactly the kind of thing I would have chosen for the master bedroom in a house like this. It looks like a destination for more than sleep, like a great place to curl up and read or cuddle or do any number of explicit things that I most definitely should not be associating with a man who’s already rejected me.
Jonas reappears in the closet doorway and tosses a piece of clothing on the bed. “Change into this.” He glances at my clothes and makes a face. “Don’t suppose you can put your clothes in the dryer.”
I jerk back. “Only if I want to ruin them.” It’s not that they’re particularly expensive or hard to replace, but I didn’t pack an extra set of clothes because I didn’t realize I’d be caught in a rain storm.
“Thought as much.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the second doorway behind him. “Hang them up in the bathroom. Shouldn’t take too long to dry.”
There’s no point in arguing. I’m soaked and shivering and dripping on his floors. Letting my clothes dry so I can get the hell out of here is a good plan. “Okay.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” He pauses, blue eyes somewhere between exasperated and annoyed. “Try to resist wasting both our time by getting distracted with the tile work.”
“No promises.” I grab the clothing off the bed and duck into the bathroom. Despite my best efforts, I can’t help a low murmur of approval at the shower. The upstairs isn’t particularly large, but it’s like he carved off a big chunk of what normally would have been the master bedroom and devoted it to bathroom space instead. I like it. Who needs a sitting room in their master? I’d much rather have a tiled walk-in shower that…
I crouch down and run my fingers over the stylized design on the floor of it that looks like a creek. Following the winding path leads to the back of the shower with several shower heads that I suspect, when turned on, will give the impression of a waterfall. Damn, that’s cool.
Focus, Blake.
It’s not until I’m peeling out of my wet clothes that I realize how fucked I really am. When I pictured this confrontation in my head—because pitching this project to Jonas after he dodged me for weeks will be a confrontation—I was dressed to impress and unflustered and powerful in my arguments.
Instead, I’m going to be delivering my pitch barefoot and wearing Jonas’s shirt.
I hang my shirt and skirt and stockings over the tile divider and hesitate. My bra and panties are equally soaked. If I put the shirt on over them, I’m going to be walking around with some unsightly wet spots.
The alternative is being naked except for the shirt.
I’m not sure which is preferable, because they both seem like terrible options. I worry my bottom lip and hold the shirt up to my front. It’s long enough to hit me mid-thigh and large enough that it shouldn’t cling too much… I hope.
Though, for real, would it have killed him to give me a pair of pants, too? Or shorts? Or something?
That irritation has me unhooking my bra and sliding out of my panties. I pick up the shirt again and it strikes me that I’m naked in Jonas’s house and… Yeah, I’m not going to think about that too hard. I hastily yank the shirt over my head and try to dry my hair a little more with the towel.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks nothing like the confident business owner that I wanted to project when I arrived. My hair is wet, I’m wearing Jonas’s shirt and it somehow makes my legs look even longer, and there’s no denying the way my nipples press against the thin fabric.
Cold. It’s because I’m cold.
I cross my arms over my chest, but that just makes it worse because it pulls the fabric tighter against my body. That’s it, I’m going to ask him for shorts right now. Maybe a giant sweatshirt or something, too.
I jerk open the bathroom door and nearly run into Jonas. He catches my shoulders. “Whoa.”
The sight of him is so unexpected, it completely derails my thoughts. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my house.” He still hasn’t let go of my shoulders. “And it’s been ten minutes. You were ogling the tile work, weren’t you?”
My face goes hot. “It’s very nice tile work.”
“Uh huh.” He seems to realize he’s still touching me and withdraws his hands. Jonas looks away and I get the strange feeling that he’s trying very hard not to look at me. “The tea’s ready.”
I follow him back downstairs, this situation starting to feel more and more unreal. I’m achingly aware of the fact that I’m naked under his shirt and really regretting the decision to leave my panties hanging to dry. Surely a little discomfort is worth the extra layer?
Back in the kitchen, Jonas pushes a mug in my direction. I lift it and inhale. It smells like chai and something else, and I cautiously take a sip. “Oh wow, this is really good.”
“A local lady makes it.” He leans against the counter across from me and lifts his mug in my direction. “Okay, out with it. What’s the pitch?”
I set the mug down. I can do this. I’ve gone over this a hundred times since the Hendersons first listed him as their dream architect. “I have a client that wants to work with you. It would be a similar deal to how you partnered with my father back when you were still within the company—you’ll have full design control, though the client gets ultimate veto power. I’ll source anything you need, hire the necessary people to get the job done, and oversee day-to-day work once construction starts. They already have the plot of land, and they’d like the house to work with it and disrupt as little of the natural geography as possible.” I glance over my shoulder at the front door. “I have the details in my car, if you—”
“No.”
I turn back to him. “What?”
“No. Which is what I’ve been saying since you first contacted me. I’ve been down that road before and I have no interest working on a residential house with people who have more money than sense.”
I lift my brows. “You got rich doing exactly that.”
“Yeah, and I don’t do it anymore.” He takes a drink of his tea. “Your father had a list of architects frothing at the mouth to work with him before he retired. Use one of them.”
I wish that I could. “The Hendersons don’t want one of them. They want you.”
“Too fucking bad.”
“Jonas, they’re dream clients. They’re so starstruck by the thought of you designing their home that they’ll take your input as the word of god. It won’t be like it was before.” Before when a series of tumultuous accounts drove him to break his business partnership with my father. Or at least that’s my father’s side of things. No matter what else is true, it didn’t affect their friendship any. “And it’s only one job. I’m not looking for a partner.”
“Sounds like you need one if you’re wasting this much energy chasing down someone who doesn’t want to be chased.”
The sentence stings more than it has right to. I can’t help holding it up against that night at the Christmas party. He didn’t want to be chased then, either. I swallow hard. I won’t beg. No matter what else is true, I have a tiny sliver of pride left and it’s the only thing getting me through the challenges of the last six months. I lift my chin. “Is that your final answer?”
“Yes.” He says it firmly, a little bite to the word. “I’m not doing it.”
I take a careful breath and slowly exhale. Okay, another setback. That’s fine. I can figure out a different way forward. I’ll find another architect with similar flare and convince the Hendersons that they’re the best bet. It will take some doing, but I’ll figure it out. I smooth back my hair. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be going now.”
I manage it one step before a horrible sound blares through the room. It takes my startled brain a few seconds to register what it is—an emergency broadcast. Jonas digs his phone out of his pocket and glares at it. Frustration writes itself across his features, quickly followed by resignation. “Yeah, you won’t be going anywhere. The storm’s bad enough that they’ve stopped the ferries until it passes. They won’t start up until morning, and that’s only if the storm front moves faster than expected, which it’s not likely to.”
There’s a rushing sound in my ears. I stare at him, waiting for his words to make sense. “I’m sorry, what?”
Jonas sighs. “You’re stuck here, Blake.”
