Page 13 of Designing Love (Bluewater Cove #2)

CAFFEINE, CONFESSIONS, AND CHAOS

Sophia

I ’m so lost in my thoughts I almost miss seeing him.

Almost. But it’s hard to overlook Ethan’s tall frame — broad-shouldered, effortlessly put-together in that quiet, unintentional way especially when standing in the middle of Main Street as if waiting for a bus that never comes.

One hand is raking through his hair, the other clutching his phone as though it’s about to burst into flames.

There’s a restless energy in him, like he’s trying to solve something with sheer focus.

He doesn’t see me at all, which is surprising — my bright teal coat and size usually make me impossible to miss.

“Ethan!” I call, weaving around a local couple who wave politely but give me a strange look, probably wondering why I’m yelling in the middle of the sidewalk.

Ethan jolts in surprise, nearly dropping his phone. “Sophia?” He blinks at me in confusion, like he’s half-expecting an entirely different person to appear.

I slow as I approach him, tilting my head. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

He forces a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Just… a lot on my mind.”

I press my lips together, noticing how tense his shoulders are beneath his navy hoodie. The corners of his mouth keep twitching like he can’t decide whether to grin or grimace.

“Hmm, something tells me you’re not fine.” I place a gentle hand on his arm, half-expecting him to deny it all. Instead, he lets out a heavy sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand undone tasks — possibly a personal crisis.

“Let’s just say it’s been a weird day.” He tries for a playful tone, but the effort falls flat.

I readjust the stack of heavy books I’m carrying, suddenly self-conscious about the enthusiasm I’d planned to unleash on him.

I want to show him all these historical design references and color swatches.

Maybe now isn’t the best time, but I can’t bear the idea of letting him walk away like this, obviously troubled.

“Hey, I, um, got these books…” I heft the stack awkwardly, “from The Purring Page. Some great stuff on early twentieth-century architecture. Thought we could check them out together.”

He forces another half-smile, eyes lingering on the spines of the oversized tomes. “Right. For the Miller House. Give me those. They look heavy!”

I pass the stack and his gaze flicks away again, scanning the street like he’s searching for something — or someone. My stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Ethan.” I nudge him gently. “If something’s wrong… I mean, you can tell me.”

He meets my eyes then, a mix of gratitude and hesitance swirling in his expression. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Is it about that call you were expecting? Or something else?” I ask quietly, fighting to grab his phone and see what’s happening. Not exactly the pinnacle of boundaries, but my anxiety climbs with every twitch of his jaw.

“The call?”

“You were looking at the phone as if it was about to self-combust!”

He hesitates, pressing his lips together. “I ran into someone...”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, feeling a sudden wave of protectiveness surge inside me. I may not be the best at dealing with my baggage, but I hate the idea of Ethan stewing in negativity.

His shoulders relax fractionally, but the tension in his jaw remains. “Could we — maybe not here? I’m really not in the mood to stage a personal drama in front of half of Bluewater Cove.”

Relief floods me. At least he’s not shutting me out. “Yeah, definitely. Let’s go somewhere. I’d suggest my aunt’s beach house, but that’s about as private as a theme park.”

Ethan’s lips quirk into something resembling an actual smile. “We could, uh… go back to my place. Check out these books in a somewhat quieter environment?”

“Sounds good. Quiet. Minimal raccoon interference, hopefully.”

He nods, and we head down Main Street side by side, silent but strangely comfortable. A gentle breeze lifts the scent of coffee from Lucas’ shop.

“Do you mind if we pop in to grab coffees to go?” I ask.

“Of course not.” Ethan grins and reaches for the door.

We grab our coffees to go and climb into his truck.

When we reach his place, Ethan fumbles for his keys, expression sheepish. “Sorry. My head’s all over the place.”

“Hey, no rush.” I take the books from him, giving him space to unlock the door.

The interior of his house is neat, if a little sparse.

A living room extends before us, furnished with a cozy couch, a coffee table scattered with code-laden printouts, and a large TV angled near an older gaming console.

It’s not fancy or meticulously designed, but it feels…

well, like Ethan — comfortable, unpretentious, and welcoming in a subdued way.

He gestures toward the couch, exhaling softly. “Make yourself at home. Want something to drink? Tea, water… leftover pizza?”

“Leftover pizza? Tempting,” I tease, setting my books down on the coffee table with a satisfying thump. “I’ve got my coffee! I’m fine. Thanks.”

I settle onto the couch, flipping open one of the volumes. Beautifully restored Victorian rooms fill the pages, each more breathtaking than the last. My mind races with design concepts — textured wallpapers, salvage wood, maybe even a reading nook.

But even as excitement bubbles up, I can’t ignore Ethan’s earlier distress.

He joins me on the couch, our knees nearly touching, sending a flicker of warmth up my leg. And just like that, I forget what I was about to say. Who knew knees could short-circuit brain function?

“So…” I clear my throat, testing the waters. “Want to share what happened that has you looking like you picked a fight with a ghost?”

He sets his glass on a coaster, brows knitting together. “Daniel is in town. He was at the art gallery, looking for you.”

My heart nearly skips a beat. Daniel, ex-husband, unexpected Vancouver wildcard. “Oh.” I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. “Did he, uh, say something about me?”

Ethan offers a tight, humorless laugh. “He said a few things, yeah. Enough to get my head spinning.”

“Damn him. I thought this would be over when we signed the divorce papers. We’ve been done for months, years! And now… now… he’s here! What does he expect?!”

Ethan chuckles, seemingly relaxing for the first time. “Apparently, I’m the reckless local flavor distracting you from your high-powered city life. The horror.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He thinks you’re ignoring real opportunities in Vancouver. And that you might… eventually go back.”

“Well, I guess that’s Daniel’s perspective.”

Ethan sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just… It’d be unfortunate if you went away. What would I do with all the raccoons?” He forces a chuckle.

My chest tightens. “Please. Bluewater Cove runs on raccoons. They’re practically on the town council.” I bump my shoulder with his.

He nods, eyes downcast. “Yeah — I guess. But it wouldn’t be the same.”

We fall silent.

I inch closer on the couch, touching his forearm tentatively. “Hey, can we just… I don’t know. Keep building the Miller House dream for a bit? Even if it’s uncertain? Sometimes uncertain is good.”

He looks up, meeting my gaze. His expression softens noticeably, as though my words are an unexpected lifeline. “Yeah. I like uncertainty. Especially if it means we’re in this together.”

A wave of relief washes through me, joined by an undeniable flutter in my stomach at the thought of being “in this” with him. My eyes fall on the open book, a full-page illustration of a Victorian parlor with deep green walls and wood detailing.

“Okay,” I say with a breathy laugh, picking up the book and turning it to show him. “Let’s dive back into uncharted territory. I have so many ideas. Imagine incorporating this kind of built-in shelving along one wall, and maybe…”

He leans in, brushing my shoulder in the process.

The contact is tiny, accidental — and ridiculously electric.

My pen stalls mid-sketch, heartbeat stuttering like I’ve hit a live wire.

My heart thumps, but I focus on the pages, pointing out the details.

With each passing second, the tension around him melts a little more.

“You still haven’t told me if you envision this as a rental or office space. But I guess you’ll say it’d work for both,” he murmurs, peeking at the open page in front of me. “We can salvage the wood from the old barn I saw for sale outside of town. It’d be perfect — rustic but sturdy.”

“Look at you, full of solutions. Don’t get cocky, Mr. Reed, or I’ll start calling you my contractor.”

Ethan grins. “Only if I get a tool belt and a nickname. Something rugged. Like... Chip.”

“More like Moose,” I shoot back, laughing. “Ooh, and maybe a little reading nook near the window. You know, for lazy mornings.”

He chuckles softly, nodding. “Absolutely. Lazy mornings with good coffee.”

His voice dips a little, and for a second, I wonder if he means just coffee. But I don’t ask. Not yet.

I smirk, flipping another page, but the atmosphere between us shifts again — this time more hopeful. Our shoulders bump as we lean in to admire a photo of a gracefully curved staircase, and I feel the gentle press of his arm against mine.

We sit like that momentarily, lost in possibilities and each other’s presence.

The doubt still simmers, unspoken, on the edges of my consciousness — Daniel’s reemergence, my unresolved future, Ethan’s openness.

But for now, the future feels wide open, teeming with color and promise, like a half-renovated house waiting for a new coat of paint.

And maybe… that’s enough. For now.

Especially when his arm stays against mine longer than it needs to — and neither of us moves.