The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,135

at once. I’ll understand if you say no or would rather take it slow, but I just thought this might be a good way to start. Or not. So . . . what do you think? Is it a date?”

There it was again, that hopeful, vulnerable, less-sure version of himself, which, I decided, was not only endearing but really devastatingly cute.

“Well,” I said. “Possibly. I do have some conditions.”

Trey’s eyebrows arched. “And they are?”

“First, that I take you shopping for new suits. Actually, forget suits,” I said, waving my hand. “How about sport jackets? And more jeans for the weekend. You look really good in jeans—”

“Thank you for noticing—”

“And the second condition,” I said, talking over him, “is that you kiss me.”

For a second, Trey looked surprised; then the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. “I see. Any particular order in which these conditions should be met?”

I shook my head. “Gentleman’s choice. Whatever seems most urgent to you.”

Trey took a step toward me. “Well, in that case . . .”

He lowered his head slowly, until his lips met mine. I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around his neck, and pressed closer, sinking into his embrace, realizing I’d wanted to for a long, long time.

Oh, yeah. I could definitely learn to love Rascal Flatts.

Chapter Forty-Nine

After changing out of my interview outfit and looking through the mail, I trotted across the garden toward the shop, following the sound of hammering and the smell of paint. Polly, carrying an empty cardboard box, came out the back door just as I was about to come in.

“Hey! How was the interview?” I shook my head and Polly frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Technical writing probably isn’t my cup of tea anyway.”

This was true. I really wasn’t that disappointed not to have gotten the job, but at some point, I needed to figure out what really was my cup of tea. It was getting a little discouraging.

This was the second time one of my interviews had ended with the interviewer pulling out a copy of one of my old columns and asking for my autograph. I never had a chance. The HR manager wasn’t seriously considering me for the job; she just wanted to meet Dear Calpurnia. Without thinking, I’d started to sign my real name, and the woman had actually let out a nervous giggle and asked if I would sign as Calpurnia instead. The whole thing had been a waste of time.

“However,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the picture Becca had just sent, “in better news . . .” Ella, wearing a robin’s-egg blue headband with an enormous bow, was lying on her knitted puzzle blanket, looking insanely cute.

“Aww . . .” Polly clapped her hand to her heart. “What a sweetie. How can she already be two months old?”

“I know, right? She’s getting so big. Becca says she’s already starting to hold her head up. Clearly, she’s very advanced.”

“Clearly,” Polly said. “But we knew that.”

I tucked the picture into my pocket. “So? How’s it going in there? When I left, Happy was bossing everybody around, Trey and Lorne were arguing about light fixture placement, and Bug had knocked over a can of paint.”

“The paint’s been cleaned up,” Polly said, “the guys worked everything out, and Happy is still bossing everybody. Things are looking pretty good. Come take a look.”

Polly tossed the empty box to one side and went back inside the shop. I followed her, pushing aside a piece of plastic tarp that was hanging across the door.

“Oh, my . . .” My mouth dropped open like I was one of those homeowners on the decorating shows who are astounded by the Big Reveal. “I can’t believe it. This is amazing!”

It really was.

Though we both knew it would be a stretch, when Polly and I had talked about a date for reopening the shop, I’d encouraged her to aim for the Friday after Thanksgiving. Opening at the official kickoff of the Christmas shopping season would help get the business onto a solid footing quickly.

When I’d peeked in earlier that morning, I’d had serious doubts that the shop would be ready for the scheduled grand opening party. But an incredible transformation had taken place during my absence. Light poured in through the once grimy, painted-over display window and onto the freshly painted white walls, making the whole space look bright, clean, inviting, and even bigger than it already was. There was still plenty to do in the