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)
“Pretty sure you’re the fiercest person I know, Mom.” It’s the truth. She’s tough and strong, but manages to be soft and kind too. Hazel and I got the tough and strong parts, but are covered with spikes to keep people at bay, unlike Mom, who’s never met a stranger she couldn’t turn into at least an acquaintance.
“Well, if that’s so, then don’t you be arguing with me, mister. Wren doesn’t think any less of you. She never did—which I told you—and she doesn’t now just because Jed and Chrissy are going through Divorce Court drama.”
I want to hear her, believe her. And I’m doing my best to stay busy, keep distracted, take care of everyone else, but deep down . . . I’m worried. What if this contract rewrite takes forever? I can’t do a damn thing about it, but I still feel like I’m letting my guys down with every passing day. And Wren might not think less of me, but she’s still this shining star of brains and beauty, and I’m a too-rough guy who’s good with his hands. When I’m idle, what can I offer her? A great fuck and a shoulder to lean on? That’s not enough for a woman like Wren.
I think that’s why I keep getting struck by these fits of jealousy. I want her so much, want to build a life with her, want to have a forever with her. But Oliver the Asshole is this bright example of everything I’m not, being shoved in my face over and over. He’s smart in a way I can never be, able to relate to Wren on topics I can’t even pronounce, and though I hate to admit it, he’s a good-looking, fancy-dressed guy who’s someone you’d expect Wren to be with, a.k.a. not a grunting caveman who can build her a house from the ground up and start a fire to grill some meat, like me.
“Well, shit,” I hear Mom say from a distance. Blinking, I come back from my own whirling thoughts to find her digging in the display case again. She comes up with one of those FAAFO cupcakes in her hand. “I thought I was giving you a pep talk, but I can tell by the way you’re gritting the teeth I paid the orthodontist to straighten that it didn’t work. So now I’m going with Plan B . . . open.”
She holds up the cupcake, which looks like a vanilla cake covered in orange-and-green tie-dye frosting with a sugared grapefruit gummy in the center.
“No, thanks, Mom. I’m fine,” I stammer, willing to do anything, say anything . . . as long as I don’t have to eat that thing.
“Too late. You fay-foh’d and now you’re gonna eat this. You need a spark to go off to the meeting with Chrissy so you’re not all wah-whiny baby, woe is me. Be the badass you are, go in there, and tell her how this new company is gonna work.” I nod, thinking that sounds okay. Good, even. “And that starts right here.”
She holds the cupcake right in front of my face, and I can smell the sourness. I shake my head, refusing, and Mom glares at me, her head tilted a bit threateningly.
Okay, just a little bite. How bad can it be?
I open to nibble at it, and Mom forcefully shoves the whole thing into my mouth, getting frosting from my nose to my chin. “Mahm!” I say, or try to say around the mouthful. I can’t even chew. I’m just moving my tongue around and swallowing to keep from choking. But eventually, I get enough down that I taste the cupcake. It’s . . .
“Not bad actually,” I admit in surprise. “Is there jalapeño jelly in the middle?”
She nods, pleased with herself. “Sweetened with agave nectar.”
“Huh, who’d’ve thought?”
“Me,” Mom says dryly. “And that’s why you should listen to me. About Wren and about Chrissy. Now go before the sugar wears off.”
I grab the box of packaged cupcakes and a handful of napkins, cleaning my face as I make a run for the door. “Bye, Mom! Thanks!” I hear her muttering something about stupid protein shakes, but she throws up a wave goodbye. “And I’ll get that light changed later!”
The drive over to the main office is short, but I slam down the rest of my shake, wanting to have some protein in my belly with all that sugar. I should’ve planned what I want to say, but I’m more of a pants-er, as in, seat of mine, than a planner anyway. At least when it comes to meetings.
The headquarters of Ford Construction Company, or whatever Chrissy’s gonna call it now, is a simple suite in a nondescript building. The brown stucco looks bland and forgettable, and the single glass door has black film to keep the sun out and a white vinyl sticker with the company logo. It definitely doesn’t showcase what we can do, design-wise or build-wise.