Unhinge - Calia Read Page 0,35

rubbed off on me when I’m lost in my own world or whenever I’m stressed. It relaxes me.”

I nodded. I thought there was some merit to what she said.

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “You should try it sometime. It works. Trust me.”

“In that case I will be humming twenty-four/seven.”

The words came out of me so quick. I covered my mouth. It was the first time I had ever told anyone that maybe my life wasn’t as perfect as it appeared. There was no way to take them back.

Renee didn’t lean forward, with a hungry look in her eyes for gossip. She just smiled. “In this backyard, there should be no stress. Not a care in the world. This is all yours.”

“My haven.”

“Exactly.” She gave me a warm smile. “Now if you want, you can help me water the rest of the plants.”

October 2013

I slammed the car door and hurried up the pathway. I was late. About a good fifteen minutes. Part of me wasn’t sure Wes was going to be able to make it. As usual, he was held up at the office. We were supposed to meet the contractor working on our house. Wes kept reassuring me that things were progressing, but I was skeptical. I swear, every time it felt like we were taking two steps forward we ended up taking four steps back.

Coming here was the last thing I wanted. Like the little bitch she was, Auntie Flo had arrived this morning. She was never a welcome guest and especially not this time. Seeing red on the toilet paper was like a giant fuck-you from my body, saying, Oh, hey, about that baby…It isn’t happening. Better luck next month!

I had to admit, though, that in the past few months, the house had really progressed. It had taken on the appearance of a European-style home, with bay windows flanking the front door and a portico supported by two white columns. The exterior was covered in a light gray stucco.

A worker was laying the bricks down for the front sidewalk. The double front doors were open. A few workers walked in and out carrying supplies. Sounds of drills and hammers traveled behind them and into the open air.

I scanned the area, looking for the head contractor. Wes said his name was Sinclair Montgomery. Over breakfast Wes had told me, “He’s a nice man. I think you’ll like him.”

“Doubtful,” I’d replied.

Even though I had no clue who I was looking for, it didn’t take a genius to figure out which one was Sinclair.

A tall man stood next to the front door, deep in discussion with a construction worker. He was dressed in black slacks and white dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up, revealing tan forearms. Stitched on the right side of his shirt, in block letters, was MONTGOMERY CONSTRUCTION.

His hair was coal black, cut short on the sides and styled on top. His skin was the color of honey. He was tall—even taller than Wes. I imagined I would come up to his chest. And such a big chest at that, muscled and well defined enough to make his biceps strain against his shirt.

The man standing there was the last thing I expected. He didn’t look like he built houses for a living. He looked like he graced the world with his mouthwatering smile and had scores of women dropping at his feet. He didn’t have to work for anything because everything was given to him by a single crook of his finger.

I cleared my throat loudly and stepped forward. His head snapped in my direction. “Are you Mr. Montgomery?”

“Call me Sinclair.” He held out a large hand, rough and calloused. A hand that swallowed mine whole. If he tightened his grip even a little he could have easily crushed every bone in my hand.

Regardless of my judgments, my manners kicked in. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I lost track of time. I was—”

“No worries. You’re fine.” He looked behind me. “Believe me, you’re not late. I’ve had clients who have been almost two hours late. Now that’s late.” He peered over my shoulder. “Is your husband coming?”

“He’ll be here soon. I’ll catch him up to speed.”

Sinclair took a step back and gestured to the giant monstrosity looming above us. “Do you see an improvement?”

“Improvement is an understatement. It looks practically done.”

“Not quite. But we’re definitely getting there.”

“How about we take a look around? I’m sure you’ve done this