Hate to Date You (Dating #4) - Monica Murphy Page 0,28

directly in front of me. He’s so tall, I have to tip my head back to meet his gaze. “She could sell it as-is for a lower price, or she could have it remodeled and get a lot more money.”

“Right. I’m not sure what she would want to do. Though I don’t think she has the time or patience to tackle a project that big,” I tell him. “Plus, she’s awfully—tight with her money.”

The understatement of the year.

“I could do it for her. Remodel it. Well, not me completely, but I could hire people. Manage the project.” He starts walking. Pacing the length of the room, back and forth. “If she gave me a budget, I could totally fix this place up. I don’t really have any contractor contacts here, but that can’t be too hard, right? I’d turn this place into a fucking palace and I bet I could make your grandmother a lot of money.”

He sounds excited at the prospect. And it’s kind of cute, seeing how worked up he’s getting. “My grandmother already has a lot of money. It was my grandfather who started Sweet Dreams in the first place.”

“Ah. Well, I could make her a lot more money, and then she could buy whatever oceanfront condo she wants. I’m sure she owns this house free and clear?”

“Probably, though I don’t know that for sure.” I would assume so. Our family is wealthy. My nonna used to run the bakery. Most of our pastries and baked goods are based off her family recipes.

“So it would all be profit. On a house they bought in the fifties for probably a tenth of what it’s worth now.” Carter whistles low and stops his pacing, his gaze meeting mine. “I want to do this.”

I frown at him. “I thought you needed to find a job?”

“Remodeling this house could be my job.” He pauses, his lips parting like he’s about to say something, but then he clamps them shut.

“I suppose I could talk to her for you,” I start, and he comes closer, grabbing my hands and squeezing them tight.

“I would really appreciate it if you did, Stel. This could be a passion project for me. I won’t let your nonna or your family down. I promise.” His words, his expression, are so sincere, I know he believes everything he’s saying. I want to believe everything he’s saying too.

But do I really want him working so close with my family?

I’m not sure.

Eleven

I’m in the bathroom applying one last coat of mascara to my eyelashes when Carter suddenly appears behind me, his gorgeous face looming over my shoulder. Of course, like the dork that I am, I yelp with a jolt when I first spot him, stabbing myself in the eyeball with the mascara wand.

And like some sort of romcom hero, he rushes for me, his big hands curling around my shoulders and turning me around so I have no choice but to face him. Though I can’t even look at him, considering I’m bent over and holding both hands over my wounded eye.

“Are you all right? Shit, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He sounds troubled. Which is good. He should definitely feel bad for causing my injury.

Though really, I’m the one who overreacted and stabbed myself in the first place.

“I’m okay.” I stand up straighter, still cradling my watery, stinging eye. “It only hurts a little.”

“Drop your hand.” He turns away from me, snagging a tissue out of the Kleenex box that’s perched on the back of the toilet, then faces me once more. “Drop it,” he repeats when I still haven’t removed my hand.

Reluctantly I remove my hand from my face, my eyelashes practically stuck together. I’m sure I look a mess and I swallow hard, reaching up to dab at the tender skin beneath my eye, but Carter bats my hand away.

“Let me,” he murmurs as he brushes the tissue underneath my eye, picking up all the excess mascara. “Does it still hurt?”

“A little.” He’s so close. I can see all of his eyelashes, and they’re thick and dark and don’t need a lick of mascara on them, the jerk. He’s freshly shaven, his face nice and smooth, and I sort of want to rub against it. Like a cat.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” he says with the utmost sincerity. “I didn’t mean for you to try to take your eye out.”

A soft laugh escapes me. “I’ve stabbed myself in the eye before with a mascara wand. I’m