He jerks his head free from my grasp and takes a step back. “Whatever the fuck is the opposite of this.”
“I’ll leave you alone if you walk away from this house.” I brush my finger down the center of his chest.
He jolts. “I knew working with you was a mistake.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” His gaze flickers between the property and me for a whole minute before he speaks again. “What if we go fifty-fifty instead?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You want the house, and I want the land. I’m sure we can work together to get what we both want.”
“Who says the town would let you build another house here?”
“That’s my issue.”
“You want us to go all in together, hoping to rezone the property and build a few extra houses on it?”
“Correct.”
I shake my head. “That will never work.”
His frown lines return with a vengeance. “Why not?”
“Because only one of us has style, and hint, it’s not you.” Unlike Julian’s commitment to mid-century modern designs, my modern rustic design style is the complete opposite. I enter each home with the same goal of emphasizing its original architecture while combining different interior design styles.
One of the biggest reasons I started gaining popularity was that my approach was unlike everyone else’s. I wasn’t afraid of blending different styles, including Julian’s beloved mid-century modern, which helped me stand out.
He pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re testing my patience.”
“I’m surprised you still have any left when it comes to me.”
He grumbles to himself before speaking again. “You can have full creative control of the house.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And what if city hall denies your request?”
“Then we will need to flip the property and resell it for a price worthy of investing my time and resources,” he says.
“What resources?”
“If you plan on restoring that house within the next three years, you’ll need my company to get the job done.”
“Why is that?”
“The only other construction company in town has a yearlong waitlist because they’re busy fixing up the motel.”
Shit. I don’t want to wait a year when this is the perfect project to help get me out of my design rut.
Still, despite my excitement, I worry about partnering with Julian. We have only worked on one project together in college, and it ended with me setting myself up for unrealistic expectations.
I can vividly picture Julian destroying the house to build his ideal neighborhood of white-and-gray houses made of equal parts concrete and glass. The history of the property would be erased and replaced with cold, sharp lines to match the man in front of me.
I shake the image away with a shiver.
No matter how much I dislike the idea of working with Julian, I despise the thought of him demolishing this house more.
I speak before I have a chance to talk myself out of the opportunity. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Julian
Rafa and I walk to the unoccupied leather armchairs at the back of the Angry Rooster Café. It’s been weeks since we last spent time together by ourselves. With him managing the Dwelling app and me working through growing pains as Lopez Luxury expands to new neighboring lake towns, we have been busy.
There are some days I want to turn back the clock and relive the times when I woke up at five a.m. to work on a build with my dad, not drive to an office. Those were some of my happiest days, and the ones I think about more often lately.
I’m not cut from the same corporate cloth as my competitors, and it shows in every interaction I have. The desire to hire someone else to run the corporate side of the business rides me harder than ever lately, but I don’t have anyone I can trust with that kind of responsibility.
Rafa sinks into the leather chair. “I saw something interesting today on my drive into town.”
“What?”
“Someone listed one of the Founders’ houses.”
“Hm.” I take a sip of my iced coffee with extra caramel, caramel drizzle, and a splash of cream. The warm, sugary goodness hits my tongue, instantly elevating my mood despite the glaring man sitting across from me.
His head tilts. “It’s the same one you were looking into a few years ago.”
“It is.”
“Well…are you going to buy it this time?”
The sweet coffee slides down my throat like acid. “Why?”
His eyes narrow. “Because you’re not the type to let an opportunity like that go to waste. The land alone makes it one of the most valuable properties around.”
My stomach churns. “I’m teaming up with Dahlia on it.”
He raises a condescending brow. “And you thought that was a good idea because?”
“My mom asked me to.”
“Of course she did. She’s been planning your wedding since you both were in the womb.”
The plastic cup beneath my fingers bends from the pressure. “She’s worried about Dahlia.”
“So are the rest of us.” His scowl softens. “But that doesn’t mean you need to be her knight with a shining tool belt.”
“If a tool belt is shiny, it’s clearly for looks.”
“That’s not my point, and you know it.”
My shoulders stiffen. “I do, but that’s not going to be an issue.”
“What are you thinking, buying a house with her and fixing it up together like she did all those times with Oliver?”
Tension ripples through my body. “This isn’t like that.”
He stares.
“Do you have something you want to get off your chest?” My question comes out sharp.
“You’re making a mistake,” he grumbles.
“I don’t expect you to understand.” No one can, no matter how much they try.
Dahlia and I have a complicated history of antagonizing each other into being the best—and sometimes worst—versions of ourselves. That kind of connection doesn’t go away no matter how many years I spend wishing it had.
“I understand enough to recommend you don’t go teaming up with the woman you once were in love with.”
I rub at my stubbled cheek. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I know what you intend to do, but life has a funny way of fucking over our best-laid plans.” He dismisses me with a flick of his gaze.
“We’re working on a project together, not falling in love.”
Dahlia made sure that wasn’t possible once she began dating my ex-roommate after I dropped out of Stanford.
He snorts. “Because working together went so well the last time.”
My teeth grind together as I remember the one and only time Dahlia and I teamed up: on a college psychology project. It was a decision made out of jealousy and became the first in a long list of mistakes I made when it came to her. Flirting. Kissing. Pushing her away because I didn’t have the skills to process my fear of losing someone else I loved after my father’s death.
“That right there is what I’m worried about.” Rafa points at me.