Page 30 of Badd Daddy

Time would tell.

For now, though, I needed to get ready. I had a lunch meeting with a client to discuss design ideas for a condo renovation. I’d already sketched out my concept after viewing the space, so the meeting should be short—I also had samples of the various materials I was suggesting in my work satchel.

Two hours later the meeting was over. It had been short and sweet as the client loved my ideas, approved the materials, and told me she’d contact my recommended contractor.

Meeting concluded, I sat in my truck with the window open, listening to “Country Roads” on the radio, trying to tell myself I should go back home and finish the three other design concepts sitting on my desk. The problem was, it was one of those rare, perfect Alaskan afternoons: warm but not hot, a gleaming, brilliant sun in a clear blue sky, and just enough of a breeze to ruffle the hair…

I didn’t want to work anymore. I wanted to change my clothes and head for a hiking trail.

But I needed to get this work done. One client’s home was still in the beginning stages, nothing but photographs of the current space and some color palette preferences; the second was further along, some sketches, some proposed structural changes with a definite modern industrial motif; the third design concept was nearly finished, with the sketches needing only finishing touches and a list of materials to obtain samples for.

Gah. The sunlight bathed me in golden warmth, and the thought of being in my office behind walls and under a roof, sketching and designing? No. I just couldn’t do it.

I had a go-bag on my backseat, a backpack with a change of hiking clothes, a spare pair of hiking boots, a couple bottles of water, some imperishable food, and a few other hiking necessities. I took the change of clothes back into the restaurant, changed in the bathroom, and returned to my truck.

When I put the truck in gear and pulled out onto the road, I found myself heading not for the highway and the nearest trailhead, but in the opposite direction.

“What am I doing?” I asked myself out loud. “God, I’m an idiot. He won’t go hiking with you, Olivia.”

I didn’t listen to myself, of course. I ended up at his apartment and lucky for me someone let me in the front door. I headed upstairs to Lucas’s apartment, knocking and waiting. He answered the door clad in nothing but a pair of baggy, ripped, khaki cargo shorts, a pair of kitchen scissors in one hand, his beard looking…unevenly trimmed at best; he was clearly frustrated.

I bit my lip, trying to hold back a laugh. “Lucas…”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Liv. I’m, uh…”

I snorted, snickered. “You need help.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, and his shoulders slumped after a moment. “Yeah. I need fuckin’ help. Story of my life, lately.”

I waited, but he didn’t move, or invite me in. I arched an eyebrow at him. “That was me offering to help you even out your trim, Lucas.”

“Oh. You, uh…you’d do that? You can do that?”

I snorted a laugh. “Was that two different questions, or one?” I patted his shoulder; his skin was so warm to the touch it was almost hot, the muscle firm. “Yes, I will, and yes, I can. I cut Darren’s hair every single month during our entire marriage.” I pushed away memories of Darren’s hair between my fingers, his familiar scent in my nostrils.

“Well, come on in, then.” Lucas stepped aside and let me in.

I looked around. “The green looks great now that it’s dried.”

“I like it.” He grinned at me.

“Now you just need some better furniture.”

He waved a hand. “Nah, I got what I need.”

“What you need from a utilitarian standpoint is not the same as what will make this feel like a proper home,” I said. He led the way to the bathroom, which is where he had been trimming his hair—or attempting to. I stopped before entering the bathroom, though. “You know, it would be easier if you sat on a chair in the kitchen.”

“Oh. Right.”

In another moment, he was sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, hands fidgeting restlessly. I stood behind him, feathering my fingers through his hair, fighting a powerful wave of memory mixed with a surge of attraction.

I blinked, and for a moment it was Darren sitting there; he’d crack a joke about me giving him a bowl cut like his mom used to—the same joke every time. I blinked again, and it was Lucas, his broad shoulders like mountains, his hair shaggy and uneven, his skin bronze and freckled and hairy.

I continued to toy with his hair, now trying to decide what I was going to do with it. Before going into interior design, I’d gone through beauty school, so I was actually trained in cutting hair, but I’d realized I didn’t like it enough to want to do it every single day.

“Do you know what you want it to look like?” I asked.

He snorted. “Shorter. Neater. Beyond that, I got no fucking clue. Last haircut I got was from a meth addict who lived in a trailer next to the bar I used to drink at, down in Oklahoma. She gave me haircuts for enough cash for her next fix.” He sighed. “She was terrible at cutting hair, but she’d do it for five bucks and it was right there.”