Page 140 of Hate You More

Chapter 40

Troy

“Fuck, they’re multiplying.” I put down my keys, my gaze sliding to the sample boards I stacked against the wall after Clara moved in. They’re still there, so unless a design studio exploded on the island, these must be new. Fuck.

“Julian dropped them off earlier,” Clara says from the sectional.

“Do you know him?” That sounded way more pointed than it should. Jealous, almost. Fuck.

“First time we’ve met.” She sets down her water glass and stands. “He seems great, though. Really thorough.”

“Right.” I don’t want to hear that my interior designer, who looks like a pro surfer, is great. And I definitely don’t want to hear he’s thorough.

“Talented too.”

“Uh-huh.” My gaze dips to the color-coded boards and the marble samples, another stained three different shades of wood. A swatch of fabrics fanned out in an arc, and a brass pull that looks like it’s already been used. Sometime in the 1890s.

“He said these are the final selections,” Clara says from the other side of the island now. Bare feet and in pale washed jeans, she pushes the sleeves of her fine-knit sweater up her arms before sticking her hands into her back pockets.

I drag my gaze away to glance at the shit stacked against the wall again. “Couldn’t he have just picked something from those?”

She gives a tiny laugh. “He doesn’t choose. You do.”

“I am drowning in choices,” I say, rotating my neck as though my head is heavy. “Why do I need to when he already emailed me a digital rendering of how he sees shit?”

“Well, did you like what he sent?”

“Probably. If I was living in a game of The Sims.”

She fucking beams.

“That shit isn’t real,” I grumble. “I just gave it a glance. I’ll know whether I’ll like the fit when I see it finished.”

“So when it’s too late?” Her eyes widen as though surprised.

“I need the visual.” I’m a visual creature, like, I know I like what I see right now. Not that Clara needs to hear me say that. “It’s just the way my brain works. Besides, style isn’t my wheelhouse.”

Clara’s eyes track over me. Dark-gray suit. White shirt open at the neck. “That’s so not true.”

“I can pick a suit,” I reply, trying to ignore how I experienced the brush of her gaze. “A pair of shoes.” I reach for a blue velvet pouch, emptying the contents. “I can’t get emotionally invested in . . . miniature brass faucets.”

“It’s just a sample.” She attempts to throttle her amusement. “And you’re not meant to get attached. Just have an opinion.”

“My opinion is I’m paying that beach bum to choose for me.”

“Beach bum?” The words spurt from her like honey.

“The hair.” I wave a hand in front of my face. “The sunglasses even when it’s raining.”

Whatever she thinks about my little outburst, she doesn’t say. “It’s your apartment.”

“But it’s his job. What he chooses will work. Probably.”

His expression twists. “It’ll function, but that’s not the same.”

“The kitchen works, right? Both functionally and aesthetically.” I even surprise myself there. “Hell if anyone really knows what that means,” I add gruffly.

“Aesthetic? It means to give pleasure through beauty.”