Well Built
Page 5
Everything about Kyle’s interest in Piedmont’s building was a mystery, and her emotions were still running the gamut from the elation she was so sure she’d feel to the depths of confusion and anger she’d plummeted to. The shock of everything was starting to wear off and and reality was beginning to sink in, but there was no denying that she was now overwhelmed with resentment . . . and ashamed to admit that she was too damn aware of all the changes in Kyle, who’d grown from the cute, boyish teenager she’d been so smitten with despite her father’s warning to stay away from him, to the impressive man he was now with a presence that was commanding and confident.
A decade later, and Kyle was utterly drop-dead gorgeous, his features more masculine and mature and handsome. She even begrudgingly admitted that the neatly trimmed beard on his face added to his rugged appeal, and for a moment she pondered what it might feel like against her fingertips . . . or skimming along her thighs. Course and bristly or soft and ticklish?
Shifting restlessly beneath the sheets, she groaned and closed her eyes, unable to stop herself from conjuring the image of him standing there yesterday in his tight black T-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders and wide chest, with his tanned arms folded in front of him, biceps flexing and bad-boy tattoos on display, and looking so freaking hot. Everything about him intrigued her, and just thinking about him now elicited a tingling warmth of awareness to course through her veins.
And yeah, the fact that Kyle Coleman still had that kind of sensual effect on any part of her body pissed Ella off even more than she already was.
Her alarm went off right on time at five a.m., and she reached over to her nightstand to shut it off instead of hitting the snooze button a few times like she normally did. This morning, she wanted to be out the door before her father woke up to avoid another interrogation about Kyle when she had no answers that would satisfy her dad. The last thing she needed was him getting worked up again and raising his blood pressure or worse. He already blamed one Coleman brother for the stroke he’d had that had left him with permanent nerve damage that had also affected his fine motor skills, and she didn’t need Kyle’s actions yesterday to be the cause of something equally tragic. Even if inadvertently.
She forced herself up and into the shower and was out of the house within a half hour, secure in the knowledge that Betsy, the woman who helped take care of her father and the house during the day, would be there in an hour to start breakfast for her dad, even before he had a chance to wake up.
Ella made it to the market before the first scheduled delivery of the morning arrived at six a.m., and for the next hour, her mind was occupied with signing for the steady stream of daily perishables the store had on a standing order. By seven, Fisher’s Grocery’s longtime manager, William, showed up, as well as half a dozen other employees who were scheduled to work their shifts for the day. With William now in charge, she headed into the office at the back of the store and closed herself inside. She had some difficult phone calls to make, to people she’d made promises to . . . when she’d been so certain the adjoining building would belong to her.
One by one, she made her way through the list of local artisans she’d discussed consignment arrangements with for their various products, to let them know that the expansion would not be happening and she had no room in the actual market to carry their merchandise. Their disappointment was as keen as her own. By the time she was done with the painful calls, she was frustrated all over again that Kyle had stolen something that would have been hers and hers alone.
Not her family’s. Not her father’s. Hers.
Beyond miffed, she made an unhappy sound and tossed her pencil onto her desktop just as Claire, her best friend and bookkeeper for Fisher’s Grocery, walked into the office wearing a white eyelet blouse, pink capris, and a pair of flats, her blonde hair perfectly styled in a silky chin-length bob that looked fabulous on her. As always, she looked fresh and pretty compared to Ella’s normal jeans-and-T-shirt attire that usually ended up dirty from manual labor by the end of the day.
Her friend raised a brow at Ella’s sullen expression as she hung her purse from a hook on the wall, then settled into a chair in front of the desk. She crossed one long leg over the other, and just like any good friend would do, she didn’t sugarcoat her next comment.
“Sorry to have to tell you this, but you look like hell.”
“I feel like hell,” Ella said as she pressed the tips of her fingers against her temple, where a nagging headache had been pestering her all morning. “I barely slept last night, and on top of that, I feel like an ass for making promises to so many businesses that I had to turn around and break.”
Her idea to expand her family’s store to include more handcrafted items from local vendors—such as organic cheeses, breads, seasonings, and even maple syrups and jams and jellies—had been well received by the town, and she loved the thought of supporting local artisans in the community. Her concept had been a daily farmer’s-market-type offering of goods that were gourmet and unique and would give shoppers the opportunity to purchase specialty items all in one place, rather than having to travel thirty miles or more to a big-box store. And as large as the building next door was, it would have given the market itself room to grow, as well.
So much for any of that.
“I’m really sorry,” Claire said, her tone sincere. “I know losing the building is tough on you, but you have to know it’s not your fault.”
She appreciated her friend’s sympathetic words, but they didn’t make her feel any better. “Maybe it is my fault,” Ella said, expressing the fact that she’d been second-guessing herself all night. “Maybe I should have been more prepared for someone else to bid on the building. At least have taken out a larger loan to have more money in reserve, just in case.” God, hindsight was such a bitch.
“Who would even want to own that ugly building?” Claire said with a small laugh. “I mean, other than you, of course.”
“That’s exactly what I thought, and look where that got me. Absolutely nowhere.” She opened a side drawer and withdrew the bottle of ibuprofen she kept stashed there and tapped a few of the tablets into her palm. “What could Kyle possibly want with the building when he hasn’t lived here for the past ten years? It’s hardly the kind of investment any shrewd or savvy developer would be interested in.” She tossed back the headache medicine, washed the pills down with water, and prayed for relief, and soon.
A decade later, and Kyle was utterly drop-dead gorgeous, his features more masculine and mature and handsome. She even begrudgingly admitted that the neatly trimmed beard on his face added to his rugged appeal, and for a moment she pondered what it might feel like against her fingertips . . . or skimming along her thighs. Course and bristly or soft and ticklish?
Shifting restlessly beneath the sheets, she groaned and closed her eyes, unable to stop herself from conjuring the image of him standing there yesterday in his tight black T-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders and wide chest, with his tanned arms folded in front of him, biceps flexing and bad-boy tattoos on display, and looking so freaking hot. Everything about him intrigued her, and just thinking about him now elicited a tingling warmth of awareness to course through her veins.
And yeah, the fact that Kyle Coleman still had that kind of sensual effect on any part of her body pissed Ella off even more than she already was.
Her alarm went off right on time at five a.m., and she reached over to her nightstand to shut it off instead of hitting the snooze button a few times like she normally did. This morning, she wanted to be out the door before her father woke up to avoid another interrogation about Kyle when she had no answers that would satisfy her dad. The last thing she needed was him getting worked up again and raising his blood pressure or worse. He already blamed one Coleman brother for the stroke he’d had that had left him with permanent nerve damage that had also affected his fine motor skills, and she didn’t need Kyle’s actions yesterday to be the cause of something equally tragic. Even if inadvertently.
She forced herself up and into the shower and was out of the house within a half hour, secure in the knowledge that Betsy, the woman who helped take care of her father and the house during the day, would be there in an hour to start breakfast for her dad, even before he had a chance to wake up.
Ella made it to the market before the first scheduled delivery of the morning arrived at six a.m., and for the next hour, her mind was occupied with signing for the steady stream of daily perishables the store had on a standing order. By seven, Fisher’s Grocery’s longtime manager, William, showed up, as well as half a dozen other employees who were scheduled to work their shifts for the day. With William now in charge, she headed into the office at the back of the store and closed herself inside. She had some difficult phone calls to make, to people she’d made promises to . . . when she’d been so certain the adjoining building would belong to her.
One by one, she made her way through the list of local artisans she’d discussed consignment arrangements with for their various products, to let them know that the expansion would not be happening and she had no room in the actual market to carry their merchandise. Their disappointment was as keen as her own. By the time she was done with the painful calls, she was frustrated all over again that Kyle had stolen something that would have been hers and hers alone.
Not her family’s. Not her father’s. Hers.
Beyond miffed, she made an unhappy sound and tossed her pencil onto her desktop just as Claire, her best friend and bookkeeper for Fisher’s Grocery, walked into the office wearing a white eyelet blouse, pink capris, and a pair of flats, her blonde hair perfectly styled in a silky chin-length bob that looked fabulous on her. As always, she looked fresh and pretty compared to Ella’s normal jeans-and-T-shirt attire that usually ended up dirty from manual labor by the end of the day.
Her friend raised a brow at Ella’s sullen expression as she hung her purse from a hook on the wall, then settled into a chair in front of the desk. She crossed one long leg over the other, and just like any good friend would do, she didn’t sugarcoat her next comment.
“Sorry to have to tell you this, but you look like hell.”
“I feel like hell,” Ella said as she pressed the tips of her fingers against her temple, where a nagging headache had been pestering her all morning. “I barely slept last night, and on top of that, I feel like an ass for making promises to so many businesses that I had to turn around and break.”
Her idea to expand her family’s store to include more handcrafted items from local vendors—such as organic cheeses, breads, seasonings, and even maple syrups and jams and jellies—had been well received by the town, and she loved the thought of supporting local artisans in the community. Her concept had been a daily farmer’s-market-type offering of goods that were gourmet and unique and would give shoppers the opportunity to purchase specialty items all in one place, rather than having to travel thirty miles or more to a big-box store. And as large as the building next door was, it would have given the market itself room to grow, as well.
So much for any of that.
“I’m really sorry,” Claire said, her tone sincere. “I know losing the building is tough on you, but you have to know it’s not your fault.”
She appreciated her friend’s sympathetic words, but they didn’t make her feel any better. “Maybe it is my fault,” Ella said, expressing the fact that she’d been second-guessing herself all night. “Maybe I should have been more prepared for someone else to bid on the building. At least have taken out a larger loan to have more money in reserve, just in case.” God, hindsight was such a bitch.
“Who would even want to own that ugly building?” Claire said with a small laugh. “I mean, other than you, of course.”
“That’s exactly what I thought, and look where that got me. Absolutely nowhere.” She opened a side drawer and withdrew the bottle of ibuprofen she kept stashed there and tapped a few of the tablets into her palm. “What could Kyle possibly want with the building when he hasn’t lived here for the past ten years? It’s hardly the kind of investment any shrewd or savvy developer would be interested in.” She tossed back the headache medicine, washed the pills down with water, and prayed for relief, and soon.
