Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Oh, he wants to be the boss? That might work in his fancy city office, but not here. “We can do that . . . outside.” I push past him, bumping his shoulder and leaving a smudge of sawdust on his pristine suit. I have zero regrets.
I keep walking, out to my truck by the curb, trusting that Wren and Oliver are behind me. If they came all the way out here to talk, they’ll follow me wherever I go. I lean back on the lowered tailgate, steeling my nerves.
For Wren, I tell myself.
Oliver strides up like this is some scripted performance of how to be intimidating. Too bad for him, it doesn’t work in the slightest on me. “This property is partially owned by my client, and we’ve come out here to discuss it. I will not stand for you barking orders and bullying us around.”
He lifts his chin an inch so he can look down his nose at me.
Sometimes, the power move is to rise to the occasion and meet your opponent face-to-face. Other times, it’s to seem completely unbothered by someone’s loud barking and bleating about. That’s the route I take here.
“It’s Jed and Chrissy Ford’s property. And you work for them, same as me. But it’s my job site, and I’m responsible for every person on it, including ones who show up in open-toed, thin-soled shoes”—I glance down at Wren’s peep-toe heels—“and dumbasses who don’t have the common sense God should have given them about safety.” I look back at Oliver, baiting him to blow up and show his ass.
For an uptight suit-and-tie type, he seems to be hiding a lot of entitled brat anger right below the surface. If this case is as important as Wren says it is, she needs to know what she’s up against.
“You’re right. Sorry, Jesse,” she says, interrupting the stare fest between Oliver and me.
I drag my eyes to Wren. I’d rather look at her anyway. She seems worried, and I hope I haven’t fucked up her meeting again, because I’m actually trying to help this time. It might not be information on strategy, but knowing who’s behind the strategy is important too.
“Apology accepted. Now, what’s up?”
Wren glances at Oliver as though checking if he wants to explain. When he stays silent, she tells me, “We’ve been going through the Ford Construction Company contract for Township this morning. And Oliver asked to see the development to know what he’s negotiating for beyond the contract, because I’ve been telling him about how important this development is for Cold Springs.”
He wanted to drive Wren out here alone in his rental car is what he wanted. But fine, I can go along with this . . .
“Township is based on a suburban neighborhood design, mixed with brownstone-type connections. Each pair of homes shares a wall down the middle”—I point to the central wall of the one we left a moment ago—“but have their own yards, driveways, and garages. So they’re not your typical duplex. They’re small starter homes meant to be affordable for the people of Cold Springs. We’re on schedule to finish framing the row of homes on this side of the street this week, starting the other side next week. Finishers are already working over there.” I point to the street behind us that’s nearing completion. “And we’ll repeat, repeat, repeat till the end of the neighborhood.” I gesture toward the rest of the streets that have prepped lots ready for construction to begin.
I look at them both to see if that’s all they want to hear. Wren could’ve told Oliver that. Hell, she probably did.
Oliver nods as he looks around. If he could kick the tires on the subdivision like a used car, I think he would, because he’s analyzing everything like he’s going to buy a house here himself and is picking out the perfect lot to see the sunrise over his daily cappuccino.
“What’s the ETA on finishing the whole thing so the investment begins returning a profit?” Oliver asks.
“Six months to full load out. Once we’re a few streets down, the ones up front can be sold, though. You’d have to ask Jed for the details on that,” I answer with no more detail than he could’ve gotten from the sales sign over by the turnoff.
His look is shrewd as he locks onto me again and hums in acknowledgment of what I said. “I think I’ve got what I came for. Shall we?” He touches Wren’s back and holds his other arm out in invitation, ready to escort her to his Lexus for the drive to city hall. “Look out for the mud there,” he tells her, pointing at the ground in front of her. “Wouldn’t want you to get dirty when you’re dressed impeccably.”
There’s barely any veil to his words. He’s flat-out talking about me. I’m the dirty mud that’ll soil her. Hell, I already have. And I don’t need him to explain to me that he’s more Wren’s type—smart, wealthy, clean.