Butterface (The Hartigans #1)(12)
She stopped in front of him, just outside of arm’s reach, her gaze direct. Her look was the equivalent of a shy-but-still-doing-it-anyway fuck you, and he couldn’t help but grin at her. What could he say, he was an asshole, and her unconscious comfort level with her own vulnerability was endearing.
In his own family, bluster and bravado came in equal, mega-sized servings. To acknowledge weakness was to admit defeat. But with Gina, it didn’t come off that way. She was, as his mom would say, plucky. Sure, she was totally in over her head, but she was plucky—and that turned him on.
“So, this is it?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
Her full lips disappeared, pressed into a thin line before she said, “Yeah, I’m sure you’re not used to hearing that.”
“Only because I don’t give up easily.” Still, he turned the doorknob and held the hotel room door for her.
“Goodbye, Detective Hartigan,” she said, her voice breathy.
Nope. He didn’t like the finality of that.
“Good night, Gina Luca.”
That telltale splotch of blush of hers bloomed even brighter at the base of her throat, and she hustled down the hall to the elevators. Unlucky for him, the doors opened as soon as she hit the down button. He watched until the doors closed and then went back inside before someone reported a perv in the hall wearing only a sheet.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone, surrounded by the scent of Gina’s perfume. Too bad that’s all of her he’d ever get. A Luca and a detective on the organized crime task force went together like bulletproof vests and yoga.
After tonight, he wouldn’t be seeing her again. And he refused to examine the tightness growing in his chest at that thought.
Chapter Four
One Week Later…
Gina had a sledgehammer, and she knew what to do with it. Okay, she didn’t really know what to do with it, but she’d watched enough home renovation shows to look like it as she hefted the damn thing up and took aim at the half wall dividing the attic of her historical—fine, desperately in need of serious love—Victorian home into two rooms and cutting the flow of the space. The metal head of the sledgehammer made a satisfying thunk as it bashed through the poorly-constructed half wall for what felt like the millionth time that morning.
Arms aching from the effort of swinging the fifteen-pound hammer, she took a step back and set it down to admire her work. The half wall was toast.
Sure, there were still odds and ends she’d have to yank out of the floorboards, but the sun pouring in from the stained glass window on the east wall into the large open space left dots of color across the dusty hardwood floor that made her smile despite the mess.
The attic would be perfect for the new headquarters of Consider It Done Wedding Planning. She’d meet clients downstairs in the salon with its own door to the wide front porch, but this is where the magic would happen. The planning, the plotting, the everything coming together—that would be done here. If only she could take care of her other problems so easily.
Yeah, so she was doing a little home renovation therapy. Who would blame her? It had been seven days since she’d hightailed it through that hotel lobby, and she could still hear the cackling laughter from those asshole cops at the bar chasing after her.
Instead of thinking about it, though, she’d taken the DIY approach and pictured the cops’ faces on every piece of drywall she’d smashed through. Okay, she might have a little of her brothers’ Sicilian temper and lust for blood herself, she’d just figured out how to channel it better.
Now she no longer saw the jerks’ jeering faces in her dreams. Instead, she only saw Ford’s—and that was kind of worse, because she also heard his clit-whistle of a throaty groan every damn time she collapsed in bed at night. That was just unfair.
Had he been in on the whole humiliating charade and just played it off as being a total surprise to him? Possible, but she couldn’t get herself to believe it.
Anyway, it was nicer to pretend he hadn’t been. A girl like her needed the fantasy of a good man who didn’t lie or use people, who wanted her just because he did. All she had to do to make that happen was to bring her late-night fantasies to a grinding halt the moment before he told her he hadn’t left his hotel room key for her.
Kinda depressing thinking there, Regina.
Her inner voice wasn’t wrong. She swiped her water bottle off the floor and took a long drink. Time to keep moving forward and fixing up the home she’d inherited from her grandfather. The courts had declared a few months ago that the man she’d adored growing up and had been missing for twenty years was now officially deceased. And thinking about that was just going further down the rabbit hole that only led to sniffles and tubs of Rocky Road, which she wasn’t going to do because her life had been sad enough up until now. Things were finally going to change for her. She refused to let her looks or her family or her perpetual spinsterhood—hello, too much Austen on the bookshelf—stop her from doing what she wanted any longer.
It was time to make a new life for herself, and it started with renovating her grandfather’s home that had been sitting vacant for umpteen years by getting rid of the random boards still left standing after her spin with the sledgehammer. Her grandfather would have been proud of his girl finishing the renovations that he’d started so long ago. It may not be the usual tribute to a grandparent, but it was one he would have appreciated.