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)
Before I get back to work, I call Mom, too, apologizing for having to cancel our Monday night dinner. “I have to get this done. Sorry, Mom.”
“Honey, I understand when work takes priority. I was a mayor’s wife for more years than you probably remember. But I’m guessing this means the meeting today didn’t go well?” She sounds sorry even though it’s not her fault.
My sigh is full of the weight of the world. “Definitely not. Chrissy tried to attack Jed, like, literally on the table, lunging for him. I probably should’ve called Officer Milson. But before I could do that, I was yelling at Uncle Jed to shut the fuck up.”
“You did not,” she whispers in shock.
I nod, though she can’t see me, and say, “I did.”
I’m expecting her to be disappointed in me for losing control and letting my professionalism slip. But Mom gleefully says, “Ooh, I bet that felt good. I’ve been wanting to tell that man off for most of my life at this point.” We both laugh, a common bond through our hatred of the man who almost ruined our family. “Are there video cameras in that conference room?” she asks through her giggles.
“I wish! I’d watch it on repeat just to see Jed’s face go slack in shock. I could almost hear his thoughts—” Mimicking Uncle Jed’s drawl, I say, “Whuut? Nobody speaks to me like that, young lady.”
“Stop it! I’m crying over here!” Mom exclaims, still laughing hard. “Oh my goodness, I’m going to miss you for dinner, but that was worth it just to hear that story. You can bet I’m gonna be telling it at yoga class tomorrow.”
“Mom, isn’t yoga supposed to be all Zen positive vibes? Not taking pleasure in someone else’s pain?” I don’t really care. I’m just giving her a hard time.
“Laughter yoga is a thing, dear. It’s good for the soul,” she informs me. “And I can’t think of a better person for this to happen to than Jed.”
We say our goodbyes, and though I’ll miss our dinner, the phone call was the little pep talk I needed.
Chapter 20
JESSE
It’s been less than a week since I’ve held Wren in my arms. The long weekend of three days, plus the three days to get us midweek, and those have been filled with texts and phone calls. They’ve taken some of the edge off. But I want to hold her, kiss her, fuck her. No, I need to.
She’s working, I remind myself for the kajillionth time. Trust her, her work, and that she has your back and is doing the contract as quickly as she can.
It’s not enough.
I grab my phone, sending her a text . . . Thinking about you. Missing you lots. I add a heart emoji, wishing I was better at writing poetry or something flowery to send. But I’m pretty much stuck at roses are red, violets are blue, bend over girl, I wanna fuck you and that’s not exactly what I’m trying to express here, even though it’s true.
Staring at my screen, I wait for the three little dots or an emoji. Something, anything, but it doesn’t come.
She’s busy.
Grumpier than I was before I sent the text, I rack up another round on the table I’ve basically owned every evening this week. Helping Mom means I’m done by noon, two at the latest. After that, I’m left to my own devices.
There’s not enough lawns to mow, horses to feed, or shit to shovel to keep me and every guy on my crew who’s looking for handyman work busy, though Aunt Etta said her barn hasn’t been this clean in decades. Which is quite the compliment, considering she usually cleans it herself and spoils her horse, Nala, like the queen that she is.
“I can’t keep doing this.” Roscoe’s been complaining every hour, on the hour, but keeps agreeing to another game every time we clear the table. “How long is this gonna take?”
“About twenty minutes, give or take. Depends on how long Tayvious takes with my basket of fries.”
Roscoe grunts. “You know I ain’t talking about the table. I mean this whole contract business. I need to work.”
“You and me both!” a guy at the next table interjects. I look over and see Seth, one of the electrical crew leads, sharing a pitcher of beer with his crew.
“Yeah, me too,” one of them adds.
“I know, guys.” I’m trying to show them that I’m on their side. Guys like us are men of action, and days of sitting on our asses aren’t good for our bodies or our brains. “I’m going stir-crazy, too, but we have to be patient. The contract’s underway, but Chrissy’s . . .” I trail off, not wanting to say what I really think of her. I don’t have any problem with women being in charge—hell, I like it in certain situations—but Chrissy has zero business sense and even less knowledge about what we do, so she’s holding up the process.