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)
“Jesse?” a female voice says.
Trying to figure out who it is, I carefully answer, “Yeah?”
“Oh, good. I need you to come in around ten so we can go over a few things.”
She pauses like I’m supposed to agree, but considering I still don’t know if this is the blood bank asking for a pint, my doctor’s office, or the bank wanting me to sign some shit, I don’t agree to anything. “Who is this?” I demand instead.
“Oh.” Whoever she is, she’s definitely not happy that I don’t know. If I hadn’t been so hung up on Wren for so long, I might be worried it was an old girlfriend chasing me down, but that ship sailed long ago. “This is Chrissy Ford, your employer and boss.”
I swear to God, she says it like she’s explaining that she’s the queen of England and I should properly worship her existence, even through the phone.
Is she seriously going for hoity-toity snobby when I saw her screeching and destroying property days ago? And I’ve spent my whole life hearing about what pieces of shit Jed and Chrissy are from Aunt Etta? And she’s putting my job site on pause, making it so my crews are struggling to pay their bills?
Yeah, I’m not really feeling her “bow down to me, peasant” vibe. I’m more in the “bitch, please” camp.
“’Sup?” I mumble, purposefully sounding too casual and disrespectful in order to get under her skin.
“Excuse me?” she snipes back. But something must make her rethink the locked-and-loaded rant she’s ready to unleash on me, because she makes an audible hmmph sound and then starts again. “Jesse, this is Chrissy Ford. I want to meet with you this morning to go over some Township details.”
That was too easy. The guys are going to eat her alive if she gives in like that every time.
“Okay. Can’t do ten, though, make it eleven,” I reply. “At the trailer at Township or the main office?”
I have jack shit to do today and could meet her anytime, but I’m being intentionally ornery to further test her because it’s fun. I grin as I glance down at my sock-covered feet propped up on the coffee table next to my protein shake. After seeing Wren off to work with breakfast in her belly and a lunch in her bag, I’ve already come home, worked out, showered, and gotten dressed other than my boots, which are stored by the door to keep my place clean. My big plan for the day is to head over to Aunt Etta’s barn to stay busy and productive. There’s always something to do over there, and if not, I can bother Wyatt. His workshop is behind Gran’s old house, and running saws at a hundred decibels is a good way to mentally unwind.
“Eleven is fine. The main office,” she clips out.
“’Kay. I’ll be there.” Click.
I hang up the phone, taking twisted glee in irritating her. Yeah, she might be my new boss, but right now, she’s the boss of nothing. She’s got no crews, no jobs, no contracts, and no right to call the shots. Jed’s awful, no doubt about that, but I could respect that he left us alone and I didn’t have to deal with him. Hopefully, after a little meet and greet, Chrissy will be the same.
If not, we’ll have to teach her how we do things around Ford Construction Company, or whatever the hell she’s gonna call it now.
If I’m going to the main office, there’s one thing I need to do first—stop by the Bakery Box. If I don’t bring cupcakes to Maggie, she’s likely to skin me alive, and I’d prefer to not be turned into a warning story for what not to do when you visit the main office.
I throw the lid on my protein shake and yank my boots on. I start my truck, loving the loud engine rumbles, and wave at Mrs. Capshaw’s front window. It doesn’t seem like she’s watching right now, but she hates my truck and its “needless noise pollution.” Of course, she pretty much hates everything.
Once downtown, I find a parking spot and walk the few doors down to Mom’s bakery. The bells jingle as I open the door. “Welcome to the Bakery Box,” Mom says automatically, and then she looks up. “Oh, hey!”
Her smile is home, this building almost as much so. The pine floors are shiny, probably freshly mopped mere hours ago, and covered with knots and nail holes that show their age. The glass display cases are full of delicious treats, and though the menu board on the wall lists out the details of Mom’s specialties, most folks order based on which one looks the best. Mom calls it “ordering by eye.” I call it “get in my belly!” appeal.
“Hi, Mom. I’ve gotta go into the office, so I wanted to grab a few treats for Maggie and them,” I reply. “Whatever you think they’ll like, because it sounds like Chrissy is over there acting like the queen herself.”