26. Colton
twenty-six
Colton
I have to say, I’m pretty satisfied with how my plan is going so far. Even if it’s a real challenge to stay away from her. It’ll all be worth it.
The memory of her gazing at me down from her window plays as a softening background to the bleak day I have ahead of me. I’ve never thought of Kiara in the role of housewife, waiting for her husband to come home, but I have to admit, knowing she was in the warmth and comfort of her home, probably in light clothing (something easily removable), looking down at me with—what was that in her gaze?—desire, longing, affection, any or all of these—made something stir inside me that I never thought I harbored.
I wanted that. I could picture this as our future. Sharing an apartment, or maybe a small house if we could afford it. Her being warm and comfy as I braved the elements—fuck, this is so clichéd and outdated. But why do I like it so much?
Just as I liked carrying her in a fireman hold yesterday.
After she left the mountain, I stayed in the truck a bit, so she’d have a head start. If I’d pulled up behind her at Sunrise Farms, there was no way I wasn’t following her into her apartment. And she would have wanted that for reasons I don’t like.
I’m going to show her there’s so much more I could be to her.
So after ten minutes had passed, I pulled out and went to Lazy’s instead of going straight home, even if there was a good chance Kiara was already tucked in bed by that time.
Yeah, just that thought made me hard again.
This morning, I bypass Easy Monday and Millie’s coffee (ah-ma-zing coffee, as the sign says). I’m not in the mood for the curious glances and whispers behind my back. The downside of living in Emerald Creek is that your private moments aren’t private. Which can be an upside, depending on what’s going on in your life. But this morning, I’m not sharing the details of my date with Kiara. Because of course everyone will know we went on a date. A real one, this time. It wouldn’t be Emerald Creek if they didn’t.
I’ll settle for the mediocre coffee I offer at Harper’s Body Works.
I even go as far as sipping it in the garage, in the company of cars, amidst the smell of oil, looking at the heart of the business I’ve created for myself over the past few years, with the help of Merritt.
The first bay is empty, as that’s where we do the oil changes and quick fixes that don’t require an overnight stay. In the second bay is Chris’s truck that was damaged when a deer jumped across the road. Luckily, his pregnant wife, Alex, who was driving, didn’t swerve to try to avoid it. That’s when people get really hurt, or worse. Hitting a tree to avoid a deer is not something you want to do. Unfortunately, swinging the wheel is a reflex, and it takes a little training and a lot of nerves to be able to stay the course when collision with the animal is inevitable. Keeping straight and honking are the two things you need to do when a deer is rushing to you. Alex had enough self-control to do that, and the only damage was to the truck.
In the third bay, an Airstream is gleaming softly in the dark. Wendy and Todd, who own the smaller hotel in town, brought it to us so we could retrofit air conditioning units for the cross-country trip they want to take once they retire. Linwood has been working on it, and he’s convinced them to let him source parts to renovate the kitchenette. He’s bringing in a friend to work on the upholstery.
I’m a little envious of him working on that project. There’s something about breathing new life into a vintage work of art that makes all the sweat and elbow grease so worth it. Not to mention the satisfaction of making the owners over-the-top happy, as I know Wendy and Todd will be.
I sit on the steps leading to my office and sift through the printout of orders for the day. Three oil changes, including one for Ms. Angela. An inspection. And a tune-up for… Owen Parker’s bimmer? He was here a few weeks ago. Owen is a major pain in the ass. I sure hope we didn’t miss something last time.
It should be a standard day, with the two projects we have ongoing, and the inevitable calls early morning when the cold makes people’s cars uncooperative. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to leave at five tonight, get in a shower, and be at Lazy’s by six. Maybe Kiara will be there. Tension zings through my veins.
How long should I wait to invite her out again? I know where I’m taking her. Is this upcoming weekend too early? Should I wait a little longer?
Nah. She’s going to think I’m not interested after all. And she’s still on the app. Who knows what she’s doing on it now? I grab my phone and pull it up, hoping her profile will have disappeared.
It’s still there. She could be chatting with someone right now. Making plans for the weekend.
Screw it. I start typing.
Me
Are you free this S
Clear your Sat
Shit. She might have some catering to do this Saturday.
Are you free this Saturday during the day? Or the next?
Better: I’d love to take you on a second date. What Saturday are you available during the day?
I look at the message. Look at the time. 7:30 a.m. That’s way too eager, Harper. Give the woman some time to breathe. You wanted to show her how good dating you would be. Don’t smother her.
With that pep talk clear in my mind, I delete my message, pocket my phone, finish my coffee, then stand right as the shop’s phone starts ringing. I’ve made the choice to not have a receptionist for now. I can’t afford it, and the clients love to talk to the person who’s actually doing the work.
When I hang up, two of my guys are in the bays, working.
“I’m going to check on a guest at the hotel,” I tell them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Can someone take the phone?”
“Yup,” Patrick, my youngest mechanic, answers. I set the handheld next to his workstation before getting in my truck.
As I pull out, I see Owen Parker going the opposite way, signaling that he’s about to turn into the garage. I wave at him, and he waves back. I should have checked his file before leaving.
It’s over an hour before I return from the hotel—frozen fuel lines are tricky—and Owen is still there. He made himself comfortable in the waiting room, sitting squarely in the middle of the only two-seat sofa. Under the fluorescent lights, the top of his head shines a pinkish hue where his hair is prematurely thinning. He’s reading the paper, sipping reheated drip coffee from a Harper’s Body Works mug.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” I ask him. “What’s going on with your BMW?” I get behind the computer at the reception desk to pull up the detail of his most recent service. His car is still parked outside. He wasn’t due until ten this morning, I notice, which makes me wonder why he came in so early.
“Talk to you for a sec?” he asks me, his chin pointing to my office door in the back.
What the heck is going on? “Sure, come on over.”
He takes his coffee mug with him as he precedes me to the back. His suit is strained at the seams, barely containing the soft roundness of his body. It’s wrinkled, large streaks across the back of the jacket, and messy crisscrosses on his pants. His shoes try to look fancy but can’t do anything against the snow and the salt and the mud that prevail here eight months a year. As always, Owen is trying to look important.
I show him the stool while I take my seat behind my desk.
He sits without flinching and looks around my office, seeming to look for something to compliment me on. Coming up empty, he says, “We’re really fortunate to have you on the Select Board.”
Growing up, Owen Parker was my bully. My personal hell, my everyday battle. Not everyone who’s been bullied has the pleasure of giving not a fuck when they see their former tormentor. Of not even thinking that the tables have changed, or in my case, that there aren’t tables anymore. He has no hold on me. And I do not wish to have any type of hold on him.
This is thanks to my friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law, Ethan. He was older than me, and he looked out for me. He looked out for everyone. He straightened Owen out using fists and words in equal measure, just as he straightened me out by giving me the confidence I so bitterly lacked. Taught me how to fight back. Taught me I didn’t need to care what Owen thought of me.
So when Owen is clearly trying to make an overture by complimenting my space but can’t find anything because, let’s face it, the place does look like shit—the furniture has to be fifty years old and not in a good way, the visitor chair is a wooden stool, and the decor on the wall consists of yearly cardboard planners, staff schedules, a list of supplier’s phone numbers strategically placed to hide the smattering of brown spots that pay a testament to the previous owner’s weapon a choice: the fly swatter—when what Owen says is “we’re really fortunate to have you on the Select Board,” I measure all the progress made since our youthful years.
I nod. “Happy to help.” Owen is a lawyer, and he bravely decided to hang his shingle right here in Emerald Creek. And I applaud him for that. The thing is, his bread and butter, due to him being in Emerald Creek, is property disputes, maybe some small labor conflicts, trusts and wills, and real estate transactions. The concept of conflict of interest drastically reduces his pool of clients, and he’s stuck with who gave him their business first. His potential for growth is, at this juncture, extremely limited. And he’s only a few years out of law school.
But Owen loves the idea of being important. Being on the Select Board is a status thing for him, not a service thing like it is for me.
And that’s okay.
He shifts on the stool, choosing to cross one ankle over his knee, leaning his elbows on his thighs, and stapling his fingers. Owen should do yoga. He’d be great at it. Maybe he does? “So, we have an application coming up, for a variance,” he says softly.
“Uh-huh?” Select Board topics shouldn’t be discussed privately, but let’s hear him out.
“I’m not sure if you know how this works?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows to confirm this is a serious question.
Ah, there we are. Condescending Owen, taking newbie Colton under his wing. That’s a new one. I sit back in my chair (which has a back and armrests) and staple my fingers—not just to mimic his pose, but more so to hide my grin. “Tell me,” I say.
He goes into the details of the zoning regulations in Emerald Creek, which I’m pretty familiar with, but whatever. When he starts explaining to me under which conditions we can say fuck it to said regulations, I ostensibly pull out my phone, check the time, and place it face up on the army-green metal desk. Then I resume my stance, looking him in the eye.
He shifts his gaze to a spot on my shoulder. “George Richardson—you know him, right?”
I was born here, dickhead, just like you. Of course I know Georgie. I nod.
“He’s—”
We’re interrupted by a quick knock on the back door—the one leading to the bay—and the door flies open. My guys aren’t specially trained in privacy matters. I like it that way. I have nothing to hide. “Boss!” Linwood’s voice sounds in my back. “Oh, sorry.”
“Just a sec,” I answer without looking back. I nod to Owen to continue as the door shuts.
“Richardson’s applying for a variance.”
Yup, saw that on the agenda. Got the email from the town offices. Planned on looking at it tonight to prepare for our next meeting. I raise an eyebrow. “Is he?” Owen loves to feel like he has the upper hand.
And there he is, straightening his posture, puffing out his chest. He nods. “And that’s where you come in.” He clears his throat. I strive to show no emotion. Just glance at my phone. It is getting late. “He and I… we do business together.” Course they do. Georgie is the largest land and building owner in Emerald Creek; Owen is the only lawyer in town. Georgie uses Owen. Nothing wrong with that. “Which means, I don’t want to vote in favor of the variance. I-I-I-don’t want to be seen as doing him a favor, you see—but!” he adds with a finger raised, “I wouldn’t—if I did. I would be doing the town a favor. But no one’s gonna understand that. I mean, you know it. You know how people are around here. They just stop at appearances. They don’t see the bigger picture.”
“But you do,” I say, wondering if he’ll catch the irony in my tone.
“I do! Thank you. Thank you for noticing.” He leans back, then catches himself when he remembers he’s on a stool. “You know, you’ve come a long way.”
I take a deep breath so I don’t roll my eyes. I really do want to know why he’s here, why all this flattery, and then it hits me just as he says it.
“We’ll need your vote in favor of the variance—the town will need your vote.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I was going to look at it tonight,” I say right as another knock sounds on my door. “Be right there!” I shout.
Owen stands slowly. “It’s important.” He extends his hand to shake mine, and I don’t really see a reason not to. “You’ll do what’s right.”
I free my hand and stop myself from wiping it against my jeans. “I said I’ll look at it. That’s all I said.”
He looks down at me pointedly while I pull up his file on my desktop. “Tell me, what did we miss in your car last time? Didn’t we have it in a few weeks ago?”
He frowns. “My car?” Then he breaks into a small chuckle. “Nah, that’s just for… purposes of, ya know, why I was here. You got me?”
Seriously? He needs to build an alibi for talking to me? This guy is nuts. “Totally got it.” I force a smile as I stand, round my desk, slap his shoulder, and open the door. “Glad you’re happy with our services,” I say as he walks through the now crowded waiting room.
He waves goodbye, not looking back at me.
Scanning the waiting room, I meet Chris’s gaze. “Patrick’s got me,” he says. “Almost done.”
I nod, Owen’s words still ringing in my ears. You’ll do what’s right. The bitter taste in my mouth has nothing to do with my subpar coffee. “Who’s next?” I ask. All the faces are familiar, and that’s no surprise. But there are a lot of people here this morning. Way more than had an appointment.
“Ms. Angela can go first,” Willow says.
I frown, looking down at the computer. “Ms. Angela?” She’s not on the schedule. Neither is Willow, but I can guess why she’s here. “What’s the problem?”
“Oh, you know. Oil change,” Ms. Angela answers.
“Already?” We had her during foliage, three months ago. “Got the warning light on?” I convinced her to upgrade to a newer model. She shouldn’t be having problems. That was the whole point. I look out the lot where she parked her SUV. “Gimme your keys,” I say, wiggling my fingers at her.
“I was here last,” she says. “Lynn was here before me and she said she has an appointment for her oil change, and Sophie needs to get back to the library, but she booked her inspection today. Maybe you can get started on them while we all just… chitchat.” She sits deeper in her armchair, crosses her hands in front of her belly, and smiles at me.
I can’t believe her. She didn’t see me this morning at Millie’s, so this is what happens? She holds her gossip court right here? “Need a refill on the coffee?” I ask, my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes on her.
“Oh, don’t you worry over that. I made a fresh batch,” she answers with a sweet smile, meeting my gaze. “Also cleaned the dirties. Tidied up the cupboard. You know.”
At that moment my accountant, Emma, comes in. She catches the last of Ms. Angela’s words. “I keep telling him he could use a female touch around here,” she says. “Hi, everyone. I got yogurts and fresh eggs for you, Colton. I’ll put them in the mini fridge, don’t forget to take them home.”
Willow sighs audibly. Chris rolls his eyes. Grace told me all about the drama with Emma a while back. I don’t want to get into it. But I don’t want drama either. “I wasn’t expecting you today,” I tell her.
She stiffens as she places an egg carton and little glass jars of yogurt in the fridge. “You’re welcome anyway. And you’re right, I’ll see you next week.” She turns to the audience as she walks back out. “Just trying to be nice,” she snaps.
Luke—who doesn’t have an appointment either—holds the door for her, giving her the once-over.
“She’s a good accountant,” Chris offers once Emma’s gone.
Ms. Angela tut-tuts. “How were the trails last night?” she asks. The room falls silent. Luke perks up, Chris chuckles, Willow and the rest pretend to be fascinated by their phones or their cuticles.
If Emerald Creek ever needs a motto, it should be: Hide from the gossip and the gossip will find you . “I’ll get started on your oil change, Lynn,” I say as I grab her keys, then take refuge in the bay.
Around lunchtime, everyone who was there this morning is finally gone without having gotten a word out of me about how I spent last evening. And I send Kiara the text message I’ve been mulling over for hours.