Page 10 of Designing Love (Bluewater Cove #2)

DUST AND DETAILS

Ethan

I ’m barely out of my truck before Sophia waves from the front steps of the Miller House, coffee cups raised victoriously.

“I come bearing caffeine and bribery,” she announces, smiling brightly enough to make my pulse stumble.

“Is the bribery in muffin form?” I ask, eyeing the paper bag in her hand as I approach.

“Freshly baked and still warm,” she confirms with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Consider it an apology for mocking your raccoon hotel.”

“You’re forgiven,” I say solemnly, accepting my coffee. Our fingers brush for just a fraction of a second, and warmth rushes up my arm. “Though, just for the record, raccoons pay rent in snacks. It’s a solid business model.”

She laughs, a carefree sound that echoes through the porch and into places inside me I didn’t even know needed laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind for my next project. Maybe a raccoon Airbnb?”

“Careful, that’s dangerously close to Simon’s latest pitch,” I warn, unlocking the front door. It opens reluctantly, hinges groaning. “And thus begins the chaos.”

Sophia steps inside, eyes immediately scanning the space.

“Ready to tackle the parlor first?”

“I was born ready,” she says, pushing the sleeves of her sweater up playfully and making a show of preparing for battle. “Lead the way.”

The next hour melts away as we sort through boxes stacked haphazardly, our easy rhythm punctuated by laughter and occasional teasing. Sophia holds up a tarnished brass candlestick, wiggling her eyebrows. “Vintage charm or cursed relic?”

“Definitely cursed,” I reply dryly, earning another infectious laugh.

“Perfect, let’s put it in the ‘definitely keep’ pile,” she says without hesitation, causing me to snort softly. Her humor is effortless, her presence comforting in a way that feels oddly natural despite how new it is.

From a corner, she lifts a dusty, carved wooden bench, running a finger thoughtfully over the worn details. Her eyes sparkle with inspiration. “This would be perfect near the front entryway. Imagine it sanded down, refinished… a welcoming place to pause and take off muddy boots.”

“You’ve spent enough time in Bluewater Cove to appreciate good mudroom aesthetics?” I tease gently.

“It’s a universal truth,” she insists playfully. “Every house deserves a good entryway — mud optional.”

I nod thoughtfully. “I could sand and repair it,” I offer casually. Her surprised, pleased expression makes me instantly grateful I spoke up. “It’d be easy.”

She smiles softly. “You can build websites and furniture? That’s unfairly impressive.”

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “We all have our hidden talents.”

Sophia tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Now I’m curious about your other secret skills.”

“Mostly raccoon negotiations and terrible puns,” I admit, enjoying the laughter bubbling up again.

As we work deeper into the clutter, we uncover an odd assortment of treasures — a velvet hatbox filled with faded postcards, a cracked mantel clock forever frozen at three fifteen, and stacks of yellowed sheet music.

Sophia leafs through the postcards, reading aloud dramatically. “‘Wish you were here, Myrtle. The clam chowder is divine.’” She smirks at me. “A romantic correspondence for the ages.”

“I’m feeling inspired already,” I say with mock seriousness. “Maybe we should frame it.”

“Absolutely,” she agrees, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Nothing says romance like clam chowder.”

We move steadily through the room until sunlight slants golden through the dusty windows, highlighting swirling motes in the quiet air. Without realizing it, we’ve created piles of organized chaos — ‘keep’, ‘donate’, ‘absolutely haunted’.

I stretch, rubbing the back of my neck as Sophia sets down another box. “Break?” I suggest, nodding toward the porch.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she sighs, stepping outside and sinking onto the steps with an exhausted flourish. I join her, handing her a water bottle.

We sit quietly, listening to the rhythmic rush of distant waves and the rustle of leaves overhead. After a moment, Sophia speaks softly, eyes thoughtful. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How satisfying it feels to clear away someone else’s clutter?”

“Feels like making room for something new,” I reply, watching her carefully. “Or reclaiming something that got lost along the way.”

She glances at me, curiosity gentle in her expression. “Is that how it feels for you? Reclaiming something?”

I shrug lightly, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Maybe. I’ve lived here my whole life, but this — this project feels different. Like the first real step forward I’ve taken in a long time.”

Sophia nods slowly, understanding softening her features. “I get that. After my divorce, I wasn’t sure I’d feel excited about anything creative again. But being here, imagining possibilities… it feels hopeful. Thank you for this opportunity.”

She's divorced. That explains her escape. “Hopeful,” I echo quietly, warmth filling my chest at the honesty in her eyes. “Yeah.”

Silence settles again. I watch as she absently sketches something with her finger on the dusty porch rail, brow furrowed slightly in thought. “Got an idea?” I finally ask.

“A million,” she admits with a shy smile. “This house has stories. It deserves a second chance.”

She reaches into her pocket and produces a small stub of pencil. Grabbing a piece of cardboard from the pile near the door, she starts sketching, lines confident and graceful.

“What are you designing?” I ask, fascinated as the image emerges.

“The entryway,” she explains, biting her lower lip in concentration. “Warm lighting here, the refinished bench there, maybe an antique coat rack in the corner.”

“So, have you decided if this will be office space or a rental?”

“Not sure yet. Either way, it’ll need an entry, something beautiful, like it deserves.”

I can’t argue with that. I watch her quietly, pulse picking up slightly at the way her face lights with excitement, hair falling gently into her eyes. Without thinking, I reach forward, lightly brushing the loose strands behind her ear.

She freezes, pencil hovering over the cardboard, eyes wide as they meet mine.

“Sorry,” I murmur quickly, pulling my hand back. “Habit.”

She relaxes, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “You have a habit of tucking hair behind ears?”

“Apparently,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. “Newly discovered skill.”

She laughs softly, nudging my shoulder gently with hers. “Good to know.”

The silence returns, but it’s charged now, filled with unspoken questions and gentle possibilities. I clear my throat, heart racing. “Think you’ll stick around Bluewater Cove for a while?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I didn’t plan to, but lately it’s becoming harder to think about leaving.”

I swallow, nodding slowly. “Good. Because I might need your expertise around here for a while.”

She arches a brow, playful again. “Strictly professional?”

I smile, warmth spreading through me. “Absolutely.”

She leans slightly closer, voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Then I’ll have my rates ready by morning.”

Laughing, I shake my head, feeling lighter than I have in years. “Worth every penny.”

Her smile softens, eyes lingering on mine. “You know, Ethan, beneath your tech genius and raccoon-whisperer exterior, you’re secretly quite charming.”

“Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Almost?” she asks innocently, standing and stretching lazily in the afternoon sun. “I’ll have to work on my delivery.”

A grin tugs at my lips before I can stop it — too wide, too telling — so I scrub a hand through my hair, pretending to smooth an unruly strand while I steal a breath.

“Practice makes perfect,” I reply smoothly, standing beside her, both of us reluctant to end the moment.

“I suppose it does,” she murmurs, eyes shining.

As we stand in the fading sunlight, surrounded by dust and possibilities, I realize something unexpected: clearing clutter isn’t just about reclaiming space — it’s about making room for something new.

Something hopeful. And suddenly, the Miller House feels less like an impulsive investment and more like the beginning of something I’ve been waiting for all along.