Page 1 of Christmas By Design

Chapter 1

Beckett

Gemma Woodard is a five-foot, three-inch tornado of a woman. She enters every room in a cloud of loose papers and rumpled clothes, usually with a stain or two. Her curly, auburn hair is always unruly, and her eyes are bright and fierce.

And right now, she is a giant pain in my ass.

She presses her lips together so hard they practically turn white as she violently leans back in her chair. She crosses her arms over her ample chest and stares at me across the table with those fierce eyes.

I’d be a little intimidated if I wasn’t so pissed off.

Instead of retreating, I lean over the table and grit my teeth. “I don’t do renovations for homeowners,” I grind out, punctuating each word.

She squints at me, but her posture doesn’t change. “But, why?”

“I’ve already told you why. I work on flipping houses without owner input only.”

“But, why?” she asks again.

I muster up as much patience as I can. “That’s what I like to do.” I try to stay calm. “I like designing to my tastes, not a homeowner’s.”

She sighs heavily, which makes my blood boil. She’s significantly younger than me, but she’s not a teenager. I wish she wouldn’t act like one.

When her gaze lands on me again, she scoffs. “That is a stupid reason not to take on this project.” She starts gesturing so wildly, I’m afraid she’s going to knock over the coffee cup sitting near her right elbow. “It’s a historic house. We’d be preserving actual local history. Restoring it to its former glory.”

“Northwest Indiana is not local,” I say tersely.

She throws her hands up in the air and knocks the coffee cup in the process. By some miracle, it teeters but doesn’t tip over. “Do you ever get out of your Chicago bubble, or are you too busy being grumpy in your penthouse apartment to go slumming it in Indiana for a few days a week?” She makes an over-exaggerated pout and raises her eyebrows to taunt me.

She’s trying to rile me up. I know she is. She’s well aware that I don’t live in a penthouse apartment. I live in a top-floor condo on Clark Street with a gorgeous view of the Chicago skyline. It’s a very nice apartment, but it’s not a penthouse. She wants to make me self-conscious of my wealth, which she does every time we disagree. We don’t work together often, but each time in the past year since she was hired as a project manager has been like this.

It’s not my fault I worked my way up to a high-paying, corporate interior design gig before leaving that world to start flipping houses.

No matter. She can’t rile me up because I don’t care. I’m not taking this project. I’m especially not working with this messy, chronically tardy, tornado of a woman.

Our boss and the owner of the house-flipping firm we both work for, Jacob Drawley, pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “Let’s not go there, please. I don’t need another run-in with HR.”

Jacob and I went to design school together. We both got into high-paying, stable design jobs, but he was never happy with that move. This company was sort of a midlife crisis project for him. When he started it four years ago, he called me out of the blue and asked if I might want to join him. At thirty-six and also disillusioned with the business world, I took on one flip and fell in love. I started part time while keeping my other job as a safety net. In the past four years, he’s grown this company—Designs by Drawley—into a thriving, profitable business. So profitable, actually, that he offered me a decent salary to come work for him full time. A year ago, I did just that.

Gemma harumphs and crosses her arms again. I take great joy in her being chastised, and I smirk. From the way she flares her nostrils at me, she doesn’t like my expression one bit.

“I’ll ask you this, then,” she addresses Jacob. He tenses ever so slightly. I can’t blame him; she’s scary when she’s angry. “Are you requesting we work on this project together, or are you telling us we have to?” She looks back at me with an expression that reads, checkmate.

I keep my own countenance completely neutral as I turn my attention to Jacob. He offered to make me part-owner last year, shortly before he hired Gemma, but I declined. I left my last job to focus more on design. I didn’t want to leap right back into a more managerial role. So, technically, he could demand I take on this project, but he wouldn’t.

Would he?

He catches my eye and winces in apology.

Fuck.

“I don’t want to make you do it,” he says to me. “But I want the company to take this on. So far, we’ve been doing only flips of cheap, run-down houses without owners. A home renovation would be new for us. It could open up a larger clientele.”

I tip my chin in Gemma’s direction. “Let her do it and pull a junior designer off another project,” I suggest, but even as I do, I know it’s not possible. All the junior designers are already stretched thin, and Jacob is a big, soft, family guy. With Christmas coming up, everyone is looking to take time off. And he’s asking me now because that’s not an issue for me. I live alone, and I like it that way.

I eye Gemma across the table. She’s got a kid at home, so it makes no sense to me why she’d be jumping to manage a new project this close to Christmas, or why Jacob would even ask her, considering his devotion to family time.

“You know we can’t do that right before the holidays,” he confirms my suspicions. “And, besides, being our first historical home renovation, I want my two best people on it.”