In Love with Lewis Prescott by Sarah Smith

Harper

There’s nothing I love more than slicing a grown man at the knees and watching him fall to pieces—metaphorically speaking.

It was a pleasure I indulged in on a regular basis in my old job as a corporate architect. Those guys never saw it coming, I suspect since I’m a small and unassuming woman who wears thick-rimmed glasses that make me look more like a grad student than the thirty-three-year-old professional I actually am. They didn’t expect me to verbally lay them out when they talked down to me or mistook me for an intern and spewed their coffee order the second I walked into a conference room.

As soon as it registered that I was actually the person in charge of their project—which meant I was technically their boss and they’d have to answer to me for literally everything from that moment on—their eyes would bulge in horror. Sometimes they’d stammer an apology, but it was no use. They knew they were beyond screwed and that I was going to be a monster to work with because of the way they treated me—and I freaking loved that.

Right now I’m aching to hack Vlad the contractor into a million pieces, but there’s zero satisfaction in this endeavor. Just anger and rage. Because this guy is ruining the one thing that means most to me in the world.

Ever since walking into my late grandparents’ house minutes ago, I’ve barely been able to look at the shoddy lighting fixtures, the flooring installed in the wrong direction, and the walls painted puke green without wanting to rage scream.

Instead I bite my tongue. I force myself to take a deep breath. I unclench my jaw. I press my eyes shut for a long second before eyeing the barrel-chested contractor who’s glancing down at me, eyes glazed over with boredom.

“Vlad. What the hell happened? How did you manage to mess this up so much in just two weeks?”

He frowns. “I don’t know what you mean, Harper. Everything looks fine to me.”

I start to point out everything that’s wrong in the open-concept space, but he cuts me off.

“Sorry, but I’m not going to be lectured by someone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

His curt words are like lighter fluid splashed onto the bonfire of frustration inside me, but it’s the “sorry” spoken like an afterthought that steamrolls my insides. That is the least sincere “sorry” I’ve ever heard in my life—and I used to work with self-important ego maniacs on a daily basis.

I hold up a hand. “First of all, do not speak to me like that. I may not be a contractor, but I’m an architect, and I oversaw the first stage of this renovation—the phase you weren’t even part of. I planned the addition of the master bathroom, the half bath, and the veranda. I know what I’m doing. I know what quality workmanship looks like, and this isn’t it—not even close.”

I gesture to the living room of my Apong Vivian and Apong Bernie’s bungalow in Half Moon Bay, California, which they left to my parents and me.

“Look at the flooring.” I stab my index finger at the ground. “I wanted the hardwood planks to run parallel to the fireplace. You installed them perpendicularly, which looks awkward as hell. And Jesus—the fireplace.”

I march over to the once beautifully rustic fireplace that is now painted the starkest shade of white. I can barely look at it without wincing. Stunning, earthen-hued Mediterranean tiles covered by that blinding coat of white.

“I left you a voice mail and email last week telling you that I changed my mind about painting it over,” I say. “But you did it anyway.”

I go off about how all the doors he installed creak and wobble, how the tile in the master bathroom shower was placed in the incorrect pattern, how every new cabinet door he put up in the kitchen feels loose.

Vlad crosses his arms and slow-blinks, unfazed by what I’m saying. He couldn’t give less of a shit about his fuckups.

After a few seconds, he finally twists his head to blink at the fireplace. He hacks, not bothering to cover his mouth. “Okay, maybe I messed up on the fireplace. But hey, I’m just doing my best here. You weren’t even around these past few weeks to give me any guidance. That’s on you.”

I grit my teeth and curse the awful timing of this disaster. I was supposed to be here when the interior remodel kicked off last month, but my great-uncle got sick with pneumonia, so I stayed with my parents at their house just outside San Francisco to help take care of him after he got out of the hospital. He’s thankfully recovering, but that meant I couldn’t keep tabs on the renovation. I had to trust that Vlad—whom I had met only once before, when we went over the plans at the house and signed the contract—would do his job competently. Clearly that was a monumental mistake.

Today was the first chance I had to check on the progress in person...and it’s in shambles.

I step forward into Vlad’s space. “Don’t you dare pin this on me. This is your fault and you know it.”

His leathery brow lifts as I straighten up to my full height, which isn’t saying much, given I’m five foot two. But I don’t care. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with guys twice my size and have never once backed down. If this sloppy contractor thinks I’m going to cower in front of him, he’s dead wrong.

“You’ve been half-assing this remodel the entire time,” I bark at him, ignoring how the handful of contractors working around us suddenly stop and peer over at us. They’ve done an impressive job of keeping their heads down and pretending like Vlad and I haven’t been snapping at each other for the past few minutes, but I guess you can only ignore a train wreck for so long.

“You need to fix this.”

“Not unless you’re gonna pay me more money.”

The audacity of his demand turns my blood to lava. Not a chance.

“You’re fired. Get the hell out of my house.”

Vlad lets out a choking sound and hunches forward slightly, like someone has just shoved him. “Y-you can’t fire me!”

“I just did.” I point to the front door. “Leave.”

Vlad’s four-man crew seems to understand my command just fine as they quickly pack up their equipment and file out of the house in less than a minute. Vlad glances around at the movement, clearly dazed. When he turns back to me, recognition flashes across his face, then a scowl.

Muttering curses under his breath, he stomps out the door, tripping and nearly falling down before quickly righting his footing. Not cut off at the knees, but good enough.

I stand in the empty space and listen to the sound of his truck engine fading in the distance, my head spinning as I process what just happened. I just fired the contractor remodeling my grandparents’ home without a backup plan. I don’t have enough money to hire a new crew to fix the mess Vlad made and continue with the rest of the remodel.

What the hell do I do?

Shame and panic converge at the center of my chest, making my heart pound like an out-of-control drumbeat. It was my idea to quit my job in San Francisco months ago, give up my Nob Hill apartment, and move out here to Half Moon Bay to renovate my grandparents’ home—the first and only home they ever owned after immigrating to the US from the Philippines. I promised my parents I’d honor the memory of Apong Vivian and Apong Bernie by redoing their house the way they’d always wanted to but couldn’t afford. I thought this would be the perfect break from years of working my demanding corporate job.

And because I hired a shitty contractor—because of my lack of foresight due to being burned-out from years of seventy-hour workweeks—I’ve gone and screwed it all up.

Hot tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket to call my cousin Naomi, but I stop myself when I pull up her name in my contacts list. I called her enough times when I was overseeing the addition of the bathrooms and veranda to the house the last few months. Even though I know she’d happily listen to me vent because she’s my best friend and has been there for me since we were in diapers, something about this failure feels different—more raw and painful.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and press a fist to the back of my neck, releasing a smidgen of the tension riddling me. I lock the door and walk down the driveway to my car. A dull pain shoots up my skull. I’m gonna need caffeine before I attempt to figure this out.

I head downtown and grab an Americano from the first coffee shop I see, then wander the streets in an attempt to clear my head. Between sips I breathe in the crisp, salty ocean air that whips gently around me. I take in the mixed architecture of the buildings—some stucco, some all brick, a few Spanish-style. It distracts me for a minute, but my thoughts circle back to the dreaded question that I have no idea how to answer: How the hell am I going to finish the renovation?

The thought of my grandparents’ house remaining a half-finished disaster because of my mistake has me on the verge of tears once more. I blink quickly as I turn the corner, nearly running into a tall, broad body clad in a leather jacket and dark jeans, traveling at jogging speed. I dart to the side so quickly I lose my balance. My coffee goes flying.

“Shit,” I blurt as I glance down at the sad pool of liquid gold seeping into the sidewalk.

And that’s when the dam inside me finally bursts and a tear tumbles down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. Can’t one fucking thing go right today?

“Are you okay?” a gruff voice above me asks.

I’m thrown by the irritation in his tone. Usually a question like that is spoken with concern.

I look up and see a tall, scruffy, thirtysomething blond guy in a baseball cap. When he whips off his shades, a worried frown twists at his face.

“Um, yeah.” I squint at him. “Are you?”

He nods, his hazel eyes lingering over my face before scanning over me, like he’s making sure I’m telling the truth and not, in fact, hurt. It’s weirdly off-putting—almost as off-putting as the fact that he hasn’t yet apologized for almost running me over or knocking my oh-so-necessary coffee to the ground.

He glances around, like he’s looking out for someone. Then he starts to step away before stopping and turning back to me.

I scoff. “You in a hurry?”

“Kind of,” he mutters.

I pick up my now-empty coffee cup and toss it into a nearby recycling bin. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. You must have a slew of people you’re late for mowing over while blindly turning corners.”

His expression softens. “I’m sorry.” He peers down at the coffee staining the concrete between us. “Really. Let me buy you another cup.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I insist. I could use some caffeine too. Clearly.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a sort-of smile while he scratches the thick wheat-gold scruff that poorly disguises his sharp-as-hell jaw. I wouldn’t normally let a stranger buy me a cup of coffee, but he’s at least being friendly now. And he sounds truly sorry. And I still need caffeine. What the hell, why not?

He points to a nearby coffee shop, and I follow him inside to the register. I order another Americano, then step off to the side to grab napkins from the counter by the wall. I walk the few steps back over to him, and when the barista, who can’t seem to stop staring at him, turns away to make our drinks, I notice he drops a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar.

“Wow. Big spender.”

“I used to work in food service. I always try to tip more than average to make up for all those stingy jerks.”

That voice.

Okay, I’ve definitely seen this guy before. But where?

He tugs the bill of his baseball cap lower while his gaze bounces around the space.

Is this guy looking for someone? Or being followed? Or just paranoid?

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask. “Are you expecting someone or...”

He frowns and shakes his head before pulling at the sleeve of his jacket and rolling his shoulders back. His fidgety movements remind me of a restless zoo animal pacing in its cage.

“No, yeah, I mean... I’m fine.”

As we stand off to the side and wait for our drinks, I do a mental inventory of recent gatherings I’ve been to where I might have seen him. Nothing. I think of the last work event I had, which was over a year ago. Still nothing.

A more natural smile tugs at his lips. “I like your glasses,” he says, his smile turning crooked as he looks at me. “Very cute.”

An unexpected ping of excitement hits me. Damn, is this dude flirting with me? What a random turn of events.

Heat flashes across my cheeks as I flash what I’m certain is a cheesy smile. Nah, he’s probably just being nice to make up for making me spill my coffee and being so standoffish earlier.

“When I picked out the frames, I was going for Jess from New Girl, but I feel like I’m giving off more Velma from Scooby-Doo vibes.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I always had a thing for Velma.”

My lips part in shock at that flirty comment. Before I can muster a response, the barista calls my order and the door to the shop swings open. His eyes go wide, and he looks in the direction of two teenage girls chatting and giggling as they gawk at their phones and make their way to the counter.

He whips his head to me. “Gotta go.”

“But what about your coffee?”

He doesn’t answer me as he darts out of the coffee shop. Then I hear the barista squeal.

She’s gone starry-eyed as she looks toward the door. Then she looks at me. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you know him!”

“I—I don’t. He just almost ran into me on the street and made me spill my coffee, then offered to buy me another one.”

Her jaw plummets to the floor as she clutches her chest with her hand. “You are so lucky to randomly run into Lewis Prescott!”

I nearly choke on my coffee. That’s why he looked so familiar.

Lewis Prescott is the star of the hit TV show The Best of It, a fish-out-of-water comedy about a hot veterinarian from New York City who moves to rural New Mexico to take over an animal clinic he inherited. Even I, someone who doesn’t seek out celebrity or gossip news, know about him because he’s been on every magazine cover and talk show over the last year due to the success of the show.

He’s also intensely private. His trademark move is to flip off paparazzi when they tail him, and he’s known for telling interviewers to mind their own business when they ask about his dating life. Sometimes he just walks off midinterview.

What the hell is he doing in Half Moon Bay?

The teenage girls suddenly perk up. “Wait, did you just say Lewis Prescott was here?”

The barista nods and points to the door. “He was the guy in the leather jacket. He just left.”

The girls dart out the door, and I’m left standing with my mouth open, my head spinning for a totally different reason.

Lewis Prescott just bought me a coffee. Holy shit.