“She’s clear,” the deep voice drawls.
I’m yanked around, the big hand now tight but not quite painful on my bicep and starts pulling-pushing me down the hall. I look up to the profile of the man dragging me through Megan’s house.
He’s tall, with a good five inches on me in my heels. He’s taken off his helmet so I can appreciate his very dark hair, almost black, cut short but left a little longish on the top with a wave making it messy, I’m guessing from his helmet.
I can’t help but think he looks good with helmet hair.
My eyes move to his jaw, strong and square, even from the side. His complexion is dark, but not as if he’s spent time in the sun. No, it’s more like he has a hint of Latin or Hispanic in him, but like me, not fully ethnic. All of this, coupled with a day or two of stubble is such an appealing concoction that I can’t pull my eyes away.
Since I’m gawking at the man dragging me through Megan’s house, I’m not paying attention to where he’s steering me. When my heel catches on an area rug, I stumble forward. I feel myself yanked upright by the big guy as he mutters, “Careful.”
When I look back up, he’s glaring at me with eyes so brown they look like melted dark chocolate. His heavy brows are frowning, but I can’t take my eyes off the ultra-dark lashes framing those melty eyes, thinking most women would kill for those lashes. Still not fully paying attention, I find myself yanked around, a-freaking-gain, and pushed slash tossed, my ass landing on a sofa in Megan’s formal living room. As he stalks away, I try to pull myself up straight with my hands still cuffed behind my back, finding myself breathing hard.
Only Megan Harper would get me into such a ridiculous state of affairs. Just fifteen minutes ago I was standing in her new laundry room—which I designed—watching a whole different version of ridiculousness play out in front of me. Thinking back over my morning as I sit here in cuffs for the first time in my life, I cannot believe I am where I am right now.
My morning started with Megan squealing, “It’s amazing. Perfect. I cannot believe how much I love it!”
My eyes move to my outrageous high school friend bouncing on her Manolo Blahnik sling-back, strappy heels, relishing the finishing touches of her new and absolutely ostentatious laundry room. I exhale, praying for patience as my head turns to follow the path of my eyes to fully take in Megan Harper, admiring the newly installed tumbled marble travertine floors. Standing in a laundry room that would rival some of the most amazing kitchens, I scrutinize my handy work—months of handy work—and look back over to my friend with a small smile. “I’m glad you’re happy, Megs.”
“Happy? Happy?” she bursts. “I don’t know how we ever made do with the old one.”
Seriously?
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.
Megan Harper and I went to high school together back in the day. She was from a fun, happy, middle-class family and we always ran in the same circles, though we were never BFFs. Now she exaggerates our friendship, stating I was the BFF she couldn’t have managed her high school years without, but whatever. That’s Megan. Dramatic. She always has been and it escalated to epic proportions when she married into money. We went our separate ways for college, her going to the University of Kansas, me staying close to home.
At KU, she caught the eye of her husband, Trevor Harper, who to this day creeps me way the hell out. He comes from money and apparently, lots of it. He majored in partying and loose girls, but Megan was in-love the minute she met him and caught his eye.
He’s not bad looking, taller than average but not tall, ashy blond hair that’s borderline over-styled and his body is nothing to sneeze at, either. He and Megan work out with a trainer three times a week. He stays fit and she stays boney thin which she says he likes and she tells me how much he likes it way more than I like. He never graduated from KU, or anywhere else for the matter, but apparently does well enough at whatever he does to set his wife and three little kids up in what you can only call for the size of my hometown of Omaha, a “McMansion.”
They reside in an over 7,000 square foot home just outside of town, sitting on 15 acres with a tennis court and pool. Although it’s almost thirty years old, it was mostly renovated when they purchased it 3 years ago. The Tudor style home, faced with light stone and dark heavy trim is sprawling and inset in a mass of trees so far off the road, you would never know it’s there. It’s late August, the English Ivy is still in full bloom creeping up one side of the house where the long winding lane leads you to a side load four car garage, with an additional two detached from the house. I have no idea what Trevor does to support such a lifestyle. All Megan ever says is, “Investments, side businesses, ya know, stuff like that.”
Megan is a couple inches shorter than me, I’m five-seven but my four-inch snake skin print heels boost me close to five eleven. They’re no Manolo’s, but I still think they kick sexy-shoe ass. She’s also way skinnier than me. I’m not blind to the fact I’ve lots of great curves, but with those curves comes a body that doesn’t like carbs and needs exercised routinely to keep my curves in the right places. Megan has very blonde hair with perpetually perfect roots. I, on the other hand, have embraced my natural dark blonde thick locks for what they are and seem to make it work in a Jennifer Aniston kind of way. Well, when she has dark blonde hair, that is. It seems to work with my olive skin tone that I get from the Italian side of my family, so I go with it.
Megan looks up at me with a face full of mock-shock. “You rock Gabrielle Carpino. You’re going to be listed in the ‘Laundry Rooms Hall of Fame,’ known as the ‘The Laundry Room Goddess,’ and when people Google laundry rooms, nothing will come up besides ‘Gabrielle Carpino, Laundry Room Legend.’” At this point, her hands were on her hips with full-on Laundry Room Attitude.
Trying not to be snarky while laughing at the absurdity of it all, I try to throw a genuine smile her way. “Meg, girlie, it means a lot to me you’re this happy.”
The room does rock, if I do say so myself. The lightly distressed cream cabinets that cover the perimeter of two walls are custom made, with the above counter cabinets going clear to the twelve-foot ceiling, all dressed with heavy iron knobs and pulls. The top rows of square cabinets have inlayed iron and seeded glass for display. I know, I know, display in a laundry room is a little OTT, but these cabinets are sweet and deserve to be shown off.
Because of the vast space, I added a four by eight-foot island in the middle of the room with matching cabinetry, but instead of cream they are stained a brown so dark they’re ebony. Over the island hangs a huge, oblong chandelier. It. Is. Awesome. It’s crafted of dark heavy iron with scrolls and swirls, tons of little lights woven in with just enough crystals hanging to soften the edges to balance out the heaviness of the iron for an almost feminine feel.
The counter tops are polished travertine, as Megan simply couldn’t find a granite she could live with. They’re light with veining of browns, greys, and blacks, housing a deep farm house porcelain sink on the long wall.
It might be weird, but I have a thing for sinks and this one is seriously the bomb. Single basin—so deep and wide you could bathe a medium size dog in there easily. Not that Megan would ever do this, of course. It’s finished off with a tall, arched faucet with a pull-down spray nozzle.