Page 7 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

THREE

Keaton checked his watch for the third time in five minutes, his fingers tapping out a nervous staccato on the edge of his desk.

Jules would be here any minute. With Paige bailing last minute, there’d be no buffer—just him and Jules, alone in a space that suddenly felt both cramped and not nearly private enough.

Just thinking their name sent a ripple of anticipation straight through him, low and sharp, unsettling in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

He tried to pin down what it was about them: maybe the memory of their laugh or the casual confidence they exuded.

Or maybe it was how, last time, he’d caught himself staring at the delicate lines of paint staining their fingers, wondering what it would be like to let those hands purposefully mess up something in his life.

When the door finally swung open, Keaton’s breath caught.

Today, their light-brown hair was artfully tousled, somehow both deliberate and careless.

Silver hoops lined their right ear, catching the light in a way that made it hard not to stare.

The black shirt clung to a lean frame that, for reasons Keaton didn’t want to analyze, made it hard to look away.

His pulse kicked up, a low thrum in his chest.

“Wow,” Jules exclaimed, honey-brown eyes widening as they took in his office. “This is like…the control center of some spaceship. Everything’s so…organized.”

Their gaze lingered on him just a beat too long, and Keaton felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

He tried to play it off with a chuckle, but his body betrayed him—heart pounding, a tight coil settling low in his belly.

He was acutely aware of the way Jules’s hip brushed the edge of his desk as they dropped their floppy hand-dyed messenger bag onto the visitor chair, leaving behind the faintest trace of cedar and vanilla.

“I try to keep it that way. Helps me think.” He cleared his throat, trying to ignore how the room suddenly felt several degrees warmer. The truth was, with Jules in the room, thinking got harder by the second. “Paige said you had some questions about the canvases?”

Better to focus on work. Once Jules got what they needed, they’d leave, and maybe then his heart would stop performing acrobatics.

Jules nodded, leaning forward to examine the plans on his desk.

The movement brought a hint of their scent to him.

“Yeah, I did some research after Paige mentioned your idea. It’s brilliant, but how do you make sure they hold up over time?

Against the weather and stuff? We’re running into issues with the ones from last year already, and I’m hoping we can find a solution to keep that from happening again. ”

Keaton found himself relaxing into the conversation, drawn in by their genuine interest. Their proximity made his skin tingle, but he could do this.

“We seal them well, use quality materials. The idea is to preserve the artwork as much as possible. I know last year’s murals already need touch-ups, which is a shame. This will be a longer-term solution.”

Jules leaned in, close enough that Keaton could smell something earthy and sweet—cedar, maybe, and paint. His gaze dipped to Jules’s mouth, soft and expressive, and for a split second, he wondered what it would feel like to press his own lips there. He forced his eyes back up, heart thudding.

“That’s so smart,” they said, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I was trying to figure out what we could do, but I’m not sure I’d have thought of this.”

Their fingers brushed his as they pointed to a detail on the plans, and Keaton felt the contact like a spark.

Jules continued, seemingly unaware of his reaction, “Of course, if you plan on doing that, Paige should have each artist either leave behind pots of the colors they use or at least a list. I suppose a list would be easier to store. And the colors won’t match exactly when it does come time for touch-ups anyway, what with sun bleaching and being exposed to the elements. ”

Their words resonated with something deep inside him. Here was someone who understood the importance of creating something lasting, even if through paint rather than bricks and mortar. The realization was both comforting and unsettling.

As he listened, a memory surfaced, unbidden yet vivid.

Their first encounter at Brew & Barrel—Jules with bright eyes and audacious charm, slipping their phone number onto his receipt with a grin that dared him to follow through.

It was a moment that had lingered at the edges of his mind, a boldness that both challenged and intrigued him.

He remembered how his hand had hovered over his phone later that evening, the digits etched into his memory.

But each time he thought about reaching out, a wave of uncertainty crashed over him.

What if he misread their intentions? What if he allowed himself to dive into something that would unravel the order he’d painstakingly constructed around his life?

The fear of opening himself up to vulnerability, of possibly complicating his carefully managed existence, kept him from dialing the number.

Keaton had always relied on structure, found comfort in the safety of knowing what came next.

Jules, though—the way they moved, the way they laughed, the way their eyes lingered—none of that fit into neat lines or tidy schedules.

Sometimes, when he let himself look too long, he felt it in his body: a tightening in his chest, a restless energy in his hands, an ache just under his skin that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with want.

He’d told himself it was easier to keep his distance, to watch and admire without getting too close, but lately, he was starting to wonder what it would feel like to give in to that pull, to let himself reach for something messier—and so much more alive—than what he’d always known.

But now, standing in the presence of Jules’s vibrant energy, Keaton felt that familiar tug of curiosity deepen into something more.

They filled the room not just with their presence, but with a kind of infectious enthusiasm that made his orderly world seem, well, dull by comparison.

How did someone manage to be so alive? It was as if their very existence was a challenge to everything Keaton thought he valued.

Keaton shifted slightly, memories of nights at Brew & Barrel threading seamlessly into the present.

Jules’s excitement over the mural plans was a balm to the usual monotony of his work, and he couldn’t help but be drawn in by their passion.

It was refreshing to see someone so genuinely invested in creating something lasting, something meaningful.

Their words resonated with a part of him that longed for more than just perfectly aligned plans and completed projects.

He found himself responding to them with an openness that surprised him, the conversation flowing easily between the two.

Jules’s laughter was a melody that softened the edges of his carefully controlled environment, and for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to have that kind of warmth in his life more permanently.

In an unguarded moment, Keaton’s gaze lingered on Jules’s paint-streaked fingers, following the delicate whorls of color that marked their skin like an artist’s signature.

His eyes drifted upward to catch the way their eyes crinkled at the corners when they smiled—those tiny lines telling stories of laughter and light that Keaton suddenly, desperately wanted to hear.

Something shifted in his chest, a tectonic movement beneath the carefully constructed foundation of his life. It wasn’t just attraction—it was recognition. Jules carried something he’d been missing: the promise of spontaneity, of color bleeding outside the lines he’d drawn around himself.

The thought took root, growing from seedling to full bloom in the space between heartbeats. Before his rational mind could intervene, Keaton heard his own voice emerge, softer and more vulnerable than he’d allowed himself to be in years.

“If you need a place to stay…I have a spare room. Just until you find something more permanent.”

The words hung between them, charged and impossible to take back.

Keaton’s pulse thundered in his ears, nerves jangling as he felt the heat of Jules’s gaze on him.

He was suddenly, painfully aware of the space between them—how easy it would be to reach out, to let his fingers brush Jules’s paint-stained hand again.

This wasn’t just about offering a spare room.

It was letting Jules in, closer than he’d ever let anyone get.

The thought sent a jolt of anticipation through him, sharp and heady, settling low in his gut.

Jules froze, their expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something else Keaton couldn’t quite name. Then their face bloomed into a smile that made his breath catch.

“Wow, really? That’s… Thank you.” Their voice softened, a rare moment of hesitation from someone usually so confident.

“I mean, I’ll think about it. Need to figure out my stuff first.” Their fingers fidgeted with the edge of a sketch, betraying nervousness beneath their casual tone.

“I’m not always the easiest to live with.

When I get in the zone, I sort of lose track of time and my mom’s always complaining about the messes I leave behind. ”

Relief flooded through Keaton, mingled with a strange, electric anticipation that made his skin tingle.

But before he could respond, Jules reached for their coffee, their excitement manifesting in quick, animated movements.

The cup tipped, and Keaton watched in slow-motion horror as dark liquid cascaded across his pristine desk.