Page 11 of Badd Daddy

But there was an intensity to his gaze, a power in his bearing that even the extra weight couldn’t hide. He was funny, if a little vulgar. Self-deprecating, but there was an air of confidence, too. Or maybe not confidence, necessarily, but a sense that he knew he’d survived the worst life could throw at him and was still on his feet. He knew there was nothing in this world that could take him down—except himself.

Why was I doing this? He couldn’t pay me, and I didn’t need the money. I don’t think he even really wanted the makeover I was planning for his apartment. But he needed it, and I knew that. I didn’t work pro bono—that was for lawyers, not interior designers. Especially not one with my credentials: before Darren had passed away and I’d been faced with the biggest upheaval of my entire life, I’d boasted senators and congressmen and even a former president as my clientele, not to mention high-powered attorneys, investors, and Wall Street bigwigs. If there was a high-end home on the East Coast, and you wanted it to look magazine-worthy, you called Olivia Goode.

Now here I am in tiny, cute, quaint little Ketchikan, where those credentials mean nothing to most everyone. I work for cheap, just to stay busy, and I take clients who think the height of design is a wall full of dead animals.

Nothing wrong with that—I’m not antihunter or vegan or anything, I just eschew taxidermy as a design aesthetic.

Again, I find myself questioning why I’m doing this. Why I’m gathering my keys and heading to Lucas’s apartment, clipboard in hand, fully intending to do a job for free that could’ve cost a couple thousand at a minimum.

For me, it was those big, deep, sad puppy dog eyes, and the story he hadn’t told, but had hinted at.

And dammit, I was lonely. I told Poppy I had friends, which was true enough—there was a group of local women who I went hiking and stand-up paddle boarding and horseback riding with, had coffee with, or the occasional brunch. But nothing…deep. Nothing meaningful.

Did I think I’d get it with Lucas? He was shuttered and wary. Hard-hearted. But there was a hint of a softie in there, under that big gruff bearish demeanor.

There was something about him I was attracted to, and I saw no reason, as yet, to pretend otherwise. We could be friends. Just friends.

Being friends didn’t have to mean anything. And if I had the occasional dream about huge, strong arms and rough, powerful hands and deep, chocolate, ursine eyes, so what? He didn’t need to know, and it didn’t have to mean anything.

I parked outside his building and turned off my truck, but didn’t get out right away. Instead, I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror—since moving here I’d stopped wearing much at all, opting instead for a little color on my lips, some contouring on my cheekbones, and maybe a little mascara. Before, I’d been an avid practitioner of what Darren called “false face”, or the elaborate mask of makeup designed to make one look perfect and ageless. I’d had the smoky eyes and the heavily contoured cheeks and sculpted lips, and my body had been hot yoga trim and my clothes flawlessly understated and elegant.

That was the old me. The East Coast me.

Here, in Ketchikan? I found someone else in her place.

Someone who didn’t like wearing makeup at all most days, who was as comfortable in jeans and flannel and heavy boots as I was pencil skirts and silk blouses and three-inch heels. There had always been a part of me that had loved being outdoors and being active, and Darren had shared that with me, but this was something beyond that.

I wasn’t sure who she was, this new Liv, but I think I liked her.

So why was I fixing my makeup? Something told me Lucas wouldn’t care.

In fact, I had a feeling if I was wearing a lot of makeup, he may even find me less attractive.

I wanted him to like me, though. I wanted to make him laugh. I wanted to get him out of that crusty, coarse, gruff shell of his, and see if I could bring out the man I saw lurking beneath it.

I was wearing my most comfortable skinny jeans, colorful sneakers, and a pale blue, half-zip, pullover fleece. My hair was pulled back from my face by a thin headband, and I’d switched my stuff from my favorite Louis Vuitton purse to a Patagonia crossbody. Casual and sporty rather than the more professional business look I’d sported yesterday—which I’d worn because I’d had a meeting to provide a quote for a client who wanted to update their summer cottage. In other words, wealthy clients who hired me based on my credentials had certain expectations.

Today, my time was my own. No clients, and no work to do.

Sigh. So why was I worried about my makeup?

On impulse, I reached into the console of my truck and fished a makeup remover wipe from the package I kept in there, and used it to scrub my face clean. For minimal makeup, it was weird that I needed two of them to do the job. What had I been thinking when I got ready this morning?

Oh, that’s right—I’d been thinking about Lucas.

But now that I was about to actually see him, I realized I didn’t want to be wearing all that makeup.

Weird.

I’m still me, with or without it.

But I wanted him to see the Ketchikan version of me.

I exited my truck and buzzed his apartment.

3

Lucas