Give It Up Read online

  In a round-about way, Brady was the reason I was invited to pitch for this much-coveted renovation and design job. I’d met Brady, an all-star defenseman for the Raleigh Roughnecks, through his girlfriend, Tanya. Tanya and I worked out at the same gym. Tanya didn’t last, but my friendship with Brady did. And Brady introduced me to Lila who had recently married the Roughnecks’ new coach. Thus, the need for the renovation on their new house.

  From what Lila had told me about the job, it would be exactly the shot in the arm our firm needed. Devine Designs was only two years old; the new kid on the block in the Raleigh interior design scene. This gut job of a renovation would be the perfect way to expand our business, and the pay-off was too big not to give it a shot.

  “It feels like we’ve been digging a tunnel with a teaspoon trying to break into the ‘go-to’ designers in this city the last two years, but if today goes the way I plan, it’ll be like crashing through with a bulldozer.” I looked around the compact space of our small upstart design firm with an eye to all the changes we could make if today’s meeting proved fruitful.

  We were like a lot of other start-ups: trying to build our brand and get on people’s radar. We’d had steady work during our first two years of our new business, but in order to grow we needed something to change. We couldn’t keep living job to job. Hard work and talent had gotten us this far, but we could use a lucky break right now to help us begin to reinvest and grow our business.

  “And not a moment too soon,” Margo said. “Do you know that over forty percent of new businesses fail before the second year?”

  Oh, I knew. I may have only been a business owner for two years, but I’d worked at a large corporation since I was a freshman in high school. Between hands-on experience and an MBA, I knew a lot about what could make or break a business.

  Running my own interior decorating company may not have been my original career goal, but I had too much invested and too much to prove to see it fail. Which I absolutely wasn’t going to think about this morning. Sugar not lemon, Samantha. Only positive thoughts today.

  I grabbed the pot of green tea and two earthenware mugs from our almost-kitchenette and joined Margo at the round antique table for our ritual morning briefing where we discussed our daily schedules, the progress on each open job, and taste-tested the latest muffin recipes from Laura at the Muffin Mania bakery next door.

  The table had been my first purchase for Devine Designs. A Stickley I’d found in a thrift store hidden under six coats of paint. A little hard work had uncovered the raw cherry wood top with elegantly tapered legs that grounded the space with its solid practicality and graceful lines. It had seen us through many late-night meals of sesame chicken and pot stickers while Margo and I threw all our creative energy into proposals for every little job we could chase down.

  “How did it go with the Yosts yesterday?” Pouring out the tea, I passed one over to Margo and focused on the list in my planner.

  “Ugh. Frustrating. We still haven’t found the ‘right’ shade of blue. I know it’s not robin’s egg and not indigo. Not blueberry and definitely not navy. Not the blue sky of a summer day, not Tiffany blue, and absolutely, positively not Carolina blue. At this point I’m not sure Mrs. Yost wants blue at all.” Margo puffed out a breath, rippling her straight auburn bangs. “We’ve now painted her master bath five times.”

  “Did you take her back through the color wheel again?”

  “Twice. And the Pantone fan deck.” She broke off a piece of muffin to nibble on. “This is just like Sandra Calhoun’s yellow dining room all over again.”

  “I still have nightmares about that. Do you recall where we finally stumbled upon Sandra’s ideal shade of yellow?” I remembered because it had saved our sanity. After a month of searching for the perfect shade of yellow, I couldn’t eat a banana, drink lemonade, or even look at the sun without twitching.

  “In her closet! Her favorite sundress. I wish I’d remembered that four shades of blue ago.”

  “You probably blocked out that painful memory. Look for a dress or scarf or even the tones in her earring collection. It’s worth a try. But maybe dilute it by fifty percent.” I sipped my tea and looked at the next item on our list. “I heard from Damon late yesterday. He called to let me know he finished the wallpaper job.”

  “Oh, great!”

  “You’d think, except he wallpapered the wrong house.”

  Margo sputtered on her tea and winced. “Ouch, that’ll set us back on time.”

  “And budget. It’ll take him two days to strip it from the wrong house and get it installed in the Patel house.” The man was a genius with wallpaper but a bit loose with details ever since his wife had walked out on him. “Do we have any good news at all from yesterday?”

  “Yes! The Millers are ready to pick lighting. I’m meeting with them this afternoon.” Margo pulled out a paper from the soft briefcase on the floor next to her and slid it over to me.

  “Moving on, if you can track down the holy grail of blues over at the Yosts’ this morning, I’ll spend time at the Patels’ and reassure Sachi that the wallpaper mix-up won’t mess with our schedule. I found some gorgeous silk samples for her curtains I think she’ll love. After that I’ll head over to my afternoon appointment with Lila.”

  “Sounds good.” Margo grinned at me and rubbed her hands together. “And once you land Lila’s reno, which I have no doubt you will with your talent and our teamwork, there’ll be no looking back.”

  That was the goal, and I had to admit it was darn exciting to be so close to achieving it.

  My phone rang, and I grabbed it up, checking the caller ID in case it was another fire to put out. The caller had me clenching my phone tight, as if I could crush it into silence. “Dammit. It’s my father.”

  Margo’s gaze darted to my phone. “Don’t answe—”

  “Hi, Dad.” I squeezed my eyes closed to avoid Margo’s eye roll.

  “How’s your little endeavor going, Sam?”

  “Our business is going great. We just—”

  “I still say it’s a shame you left Devine and Sons. I’ve got a position waiting for you if you…” He paused, and that ever-hopeful part of me rose, hoping this would be the time he finally said he’d been wrong. “…come to your senses.”

  Boom. There it was. Dear old Dad. It had been two years now, and I didn’t know who was worse: my father and his sexist attitude or me for thinking he’d change.

  “If you’re telling me the position is an equal partner with my stepbrothers…”

  “Oh, come on, Sam, we’ve been over this.”

  “Dad, I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure, go dabble. One of these days you’ll want to be part of something important again and come back.” And then, like always, he hung up on me while I sat waiting for an “I love you.”

  It never came.

  Who was worse? Me. I was worse. I was the idiot who answered each call with boundless hope. Only to hang up feeling nauseated over how his condescension shook my belief in myself so badly it could be measured on the Richter scale.

  “I wish you’d stop letting him mess with your head.”

  “Me too.” I dropped my phone onto the table, reeling in the urge to toss it into the trash. How in the heck did his rare calls land like a grenade on my most important moments? And sure enough, all the backbone and self-possession I woke up with this morning felt stripped away, leaving me like a spineless amoeba.

  “Let’s go. Here’s the vault…” Margo drew a square in the air with her pointer fingers, then opened the imaginary door. “Toss him in there so I can slam the door shut.”

  Pull it together, Sam. I’d been through this before. I was stronger than this. “Gladly. All things Dean Upton Devine are now in the vault.”

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that your father’s initials spell DUD.” Margo slammed the v
ault door shut. “I wish you’d stop picking up the phone when your father calls. He sucks the wind right out from under your wings. Every time.”

  Truth. “He does, but—”

  “No. We’re done with him. Look back into that mirror and say it.” She raised her eyebrows and waited.

  I turned my gaze to the mirror, and sure enough the confident woman of minutes ago looked a bit deflated. Come on, Samantha. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let him into your head. Use it to feed the fire.

  I rolled my shoulders back, narrowed my eyes, and shot my most intense Sarah Connor Terminator look at my reflection. “In the world of interior design, I kick major ass. I do not need to prove my worth to anyone.”

  “There you go. Dr. Tracy would be proud.”

  Dr. Tracy was the therapist I’d agreed to see for my mother’s peace of mind. Two years ago, around the same time that I finally left the family business and struck out on my own, mom met a lovely Italian businessman. He wanted to whisk her off to Italy, but she refused to go, saying she was too worried about me.

  Which was ridiculous. And to my mind it was just one more way my father was stealing happiness from my mother and me. So we reached a compromise. She’d head off to a life with Luca if I agreed to see her old therapist, Dr. Tracy. Done. I didn’t even care that Dr. Tracy specialized in new age therapy. Not after seeing how happy my mother was on our weekly FaceTime calls.

  Sure I had family baggage, but who didn’t, right? I was hoping Dr. Tracy would align my chakras and call it good, but apparently that’s advanced stuff. I wasn’t on chakras yet. I’d sort of been stuck at the “beginner patient” level because, according to Dr. Tracy, I was a tough nut to crack.

  Dr. Tracy was a little out there, but then I was almost certain sometimes she did a “quality control” test of her medical marijuana supply before my session. She’d had me try journaling (I kept stabbing the pen through the paper), hypnosis (I couldn’t fall asleep with someone watching me—trust issues), and even painting with my toes (picture a dark Picasso on LSD.) Now we were on positive affirmations.

  Today I’m successful. Tomorrow I’ll be successful. Every day I am successful.

  I wasn’t sure they were helping with my “daddy issues” but attending Dr. Tracy’s “I Don’t Do Guilt” sessions was pretty pain free. Almost.

  “Dealing with your dad reminds me of taking a swig of sour milk. Disappointing and nauseating at the same time.” Margo grabbed her own briefcase and linked her elbow into mine, steering us both out of the office. “Are you sure you’re okay for the meeting with Lila?”

  “I’m more than ready for my meeting. I refuse to let that man—or any man—mess with my head.” And by “any man” I was totally referring to my spoiled, lazy, good-for-nothing stepbrothers. I tugged my confidence back on like armor and repeated my key affirmations. “I’m capable and confident. When I breathe, I inhale success and exhale failure.”

  “Exactly. You, Sam Devine, are a design badass. Now go impress the heck out of Lila.”

  * * * *

  I’m a design badass. I’m a design badass. I’m a design badass.

  Today I am successful. Tomorrow I will be successful. Every day I am successful.

  I eat, breathe, and poop confidence.

  Okay, maybe that was one step too far, but I arrived at Lila King’s stately mansion with my confidence firmly in place, ravenously hungry to walk away with the job. My father and his most recent disregard for my talent and business acumen were locked safety in the vault. But not before letting it add fuel to the fire in my belly to succeed.

  I was ready to impress. After spending a few hours at the Patel job, I’d grabbed an order of chicken lettuce wraps from P.F. Chang’s to eat on the way so my stomach didn’t growl during my meeting. I smoothed any fly-away strands of hair back into my sleek bun and did a quick check in the rearview mirror to make sure I didn’t have lettuce stuck in my teeth. I winked at the confident designer staring back at me in the mirror.

  Lila’s assistant, Tina, answered the door and ushered me through a two-story foyer, flanked by dual curved staircases, back into a sunroom set up as a temporary office. My excitement level for the job ratcheted up with each empty room we walked through. And there were a lot of empty rooms. The house was extravagantly large yet graceful. Colors and fabrics and furnishings zinged into my mind with each step. I grabbed the small sketch pad I kept in my purse and began jotting down notes while the synapses were firing.

  Talk about a dream job. For sure my face looked like I’d just walked through a clearance sale of Jimmy Choo shoes, my smile flagrantly wide as I walked through the French doors of the sunroom to greet Lila.

  That was where my dream turned into a nightmare. Because my gaze landed on a man in the room. Landed with a thud.

  For the record, I’m not a man hater. I’m not. But I do have a hit list.

  Not men I want to have killed. No. My hit list contained the men I wanted to hit. Right over their thick skulls.

  Here’s my list:

  Dear old Dad

  Stepbrother #1 (Todd the bod. He seriously called himself that.)

  Stepbrother #2 (Justin the jerk. He did not call himself that, but he was.)

  Beckett Thorne

  But since I don’t believe in using violence to solve problems, I had to develop a different tactic. I called it “intelligent avoidance.” Margo said all I was doing was avoiding my problems. According to the twisting in my gut right now, I’d have to admit she was right again. I had some smart friends; if only I’d listen to them more often, then maybe I wouldn’t be standing here feeling flustered and hyper-aware of the boob sweat slicing down my cleavage and over my ribcage.

  “There you are!” Lila walked to me, giving me cheek to cheek air kisses to not mess up her lipstick. My own Cherry Bomb lipstick was newly refreshed. Like extra armor before going into battle. “Sam, I think you already know Beckett Thorne.”

  “Samantha.” He stood and reached out his hand, courteous and professional.

  “Thorne.” I nodded, pretending I didn’t see his hand, bad-mannered and immature. His extended hand was a trick anyway. One I’d fallen for before. He tricked me into getting close enough to smell him. He smelled like cedar trees and hot sexy nights. It was subtle, but powerful. Like a breath-stealing punch that hit me right in the honey pot. Not kidding.

  I’d learned to go into survival mode and protect myself around him. The problem was he was my sexual kryptonite. He could do things to my body with a simple look. And a touch…? I suppressed the shiver that wanted to rattle its way down my body with the thought of what his touch had done to me.

  I’d met Beckett Thorne two years ago when I’d first moved to Raleigh. He’d come sauntering over at the Building and Design Expo, offering to show me around town. I’d been warned about him. Rumor was the offer to show me his bedroom would follow shortly after that. And then he’d show me the door even quicker.

  I’m not saying it was easy to turn him down. In fact, I’m not saying that at all.

  Because I didn’t. I couldn’t. Something about his blue eyes, his sexy smile, his work-hardened body, and his strong callused hands had me saying yes. Only we skipped the tour around town.

  That’s right. I’d taken my turn on the Beckett Thorne thrill ride. It was hot, mind-blowing, and everything a woman imagined when they looked at him. And more. Ride of a lifetime, but I was warned. Like most wild rides, a love affair with Beckett was said to be exhilarating but rumbled to an abrupt stop, before a woman could even catch her breath from the scream-inducing rush up and over the sky-high peaks. Nope. I’d had enough rejection from men in my life. My plan was to walk away after our one night together. And that’s what happened.

  I’d one and done him.

  Sort of.

  That’s how I like to remember it went for the sake of my own dignity
.

  In reality, like an idiot, I’d waited for him to call all the next week. Not that he said he would. There was a vague mention of seeing me again, somewhere in the hot panting heat between rounds two and three. In my defense, I wasn’t exaggerating about the mind-blowing ride of a lifetime. Plus, I’m an optimist. And did I mention how amazing the sex was?

  But when he didn’t call, I moved on. No big deal.

  Luckily, even though the design world in Raleigh was small, we rarely ran into each other. Yet here we both were, and both, apparently, salivating for Lila’s job. Of course that was why I was salivating. Mr. Tall, Dark, and could-be-Bradley Cooper’s-stunt-double had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  Nothing. Not his rugged looks, like a barely tamed tiger, almost too austere to call handsome. Not his dark blond hair, looking perpetually mussed like a woman had run her hands through it. Not the bump on his nose and jagged scar on his chin hinting at a wild past. And certainly not his electric blue eyes that gleamed with intelligence and cynicism. A dangerous combination.

  So he could take his Southern manners and stick them where the—whoa, down girl. Sure our history was short—very short—but apparently it was seared into my memory. Possibly because I replayed that memory numerous times over the past two years. When I took a shower, or used my battery-powered friend. Hey, those memories were mine fair and square. I was allowed to use them, especially when I was in the middle of a man-drought. It’s not my fault I hadn’t found a man I wanted to sleep with since my night with Thorne.

  He stood staring across the room at me. God the man was too good looking for my own good. And far too cocky. I was just the woman to bring him down a peg.

  What was he doing? Huh, what do you know… He was eye-fucking me. The man had some nerve. He couldn’t keep his gaze off my chest. I willed my nipples not to react. Don’t go perky. Don’t go perky. Don’t g—too late. Those damn eyes of his. Well, two can play at this game.

  I let my gaze wander over his chest…and down. Down farther before dragging my gaze back up. His eyebrow quirked.