2. Peyton
PEYTON
If one more vendor texted me about folding tables, I was going to scream.
With only a couple of weeks until the Founders Day Festival, I was working around the clock to try to make it the biggest and best event Mustang Mountain had ever seen.
Vendors had turned in their requirements over a month ago but everyone seemed to have a last-minute request to add another table, extra chairs, or in some cases, a whole other booth.
I tossed my phone on the passenger seat and stared out the windshield at the open house I was hosting this afternoon. If one more thing went wrong today, I might lose my tenuous grip on the tiny bit of self control I’d been clinging to for the past few days.
It was bad enough I’d been “voluntold” to chair the Founders Festival when I’d only offered to help out if needed.
Then, Huck Barrett walked through the door last night like a ghost from a past I’d worked damn hard to forget.
I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, especially in Mustang Mountain, standing in front of me, holding a crumpled folder and looking like trouble wrapped in sawdust and swagger.
Though I hated to admit it, he was still so hot it hurt just to look at him.
Those dark eyes of his got to me, a midnight blue that seemed to shift from almost black to the same light color as the brilliant Montana sky.
I’d barely held it together long enough to shut him down with the kind of icy calm I’d perfected years ago.
The kind that said you don’t affect me anymore, even when I still dreamed about him at night and the way his lips used to linger over mine.
He’d looked right at me. Like he hadn’t disappeared and left me to lie to my dad with shaking hands and my heart in a never-ending freefall.
I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. That was ancient history. I’d built a career, earned the town’s trust, and clawed my way out of the shadow his mess had left behind. And I wasn’t about to let Huck Barrett drag me back into chaos now.
My dad’s personalized ringtone cut through my thoughts.
“Hey, Dad,” I answered, still slightly distracted by seeing Huck.
“Tell me you didn’t let that no-good Barrett boy speak at the meeting last night.”
Of course he already knew. My father had ears in every corner of Mustang Mountain. I didn’t even bother asking who’d called him.
“He showed up late,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t let him submit his bid.”
“Good,” Dad growled. “You can’t trust a man like that. Not then, not now.”
I didn’t respond. Not because I agreed, but because I wasn’t sure I didn’t. “Did you need something else? I’m about to walk into an open house I’m hosting this afternoon.”
“No. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t let the Barrett boy weasel his way into getting the contract for the festival.”
“No chance of that, Dad. Mayor Nelson wanted to award it to Levi Mercer, but I convinced him we’d save more if we gave it to the guy you recommended.
” I didn’t know why my father cared so much about a puny construction contract for the festival set up.
And I didn’t have time to figure it out.
“I’d better get inside and get set up before people start showing up for the open house. ”
“Alright, Peanut. Talk to you later.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too.”
I disconnected, grabbed my bag, and headed into the house.
It had been on the market for a while and I’d actually had two offers on it but both of them fell through.
The hundred-year-old two-story looked great on the outside but neither potential buyer wanted to pay for major structural repairs and my seller refused to get them done before the sale.
He didn’t want to be inconvenienced with having someone at the house.
Sometimes I wondered why I’d decided to go into real estate at all.
The first half hour I didn’t have a single person come through. Then I heard the crunch of tires on the drive and looked out the front window to see the contractor my dad had recommended for the festival project. I met him on the porch, wondering what he was doing at my open house.
“Hey there, Miss Winslow.” He nodded a greeting from the drive. “Your dad mentioned you might be in need of a quick fix to get this house sold. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by and see if I could help.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Mr. Franklin, but I’m not sure there’s anything that will help except a foundation repair.”
“Mind it I take a look?”
“Knock yourself out.”
He walked around the house, pausing every once in a while to run a finger over a crack or peer into the crawl space.
I’d been in this business long enough to know foundation problems were a major red flag for buyers and usually involved a very expensive repair.
But if Mr. Franklin thought he could fix it, I’d be more than happy to listen to his suggestions.
“This here’s not so much a foundation problem as it is a drainage issue.
” He stopped by the back door and tapped his thick-soled work boot over the soggy ground.
“There’s some minor soil movement. I see this all the time with these older houses.
They were built before grading standards came into play. ”
“Are you sure? We had it under contract but the inspector made it sound like the whole house might collapse so the buyers pulled out.” I was eager to get this place sold.
I’d already invested a ton of time in helping the owner get it ready for sale and staging it.
My agreement with the seller was set to expire in just under a month, and I was afraid he was going to try listing with someone else or attempt to sell it himself.
Either way, if I didn’t sell it soon, I’d never see a dime for the hours of time I’d spent working with him.
Mr. Franklin chuckled. “If I had a dollar for every inspector who made a buyer run away from a sale I wouldn’t be doing construction.”
“What do you think we need to do ?” I crossed my arms over my chest and waited while dollar signs rang up in my head.
“Honestly, I think we just need to regrade the yard to divert the water away from the house. Installing new gutters wouldn’t hurt, either.
Then we can bring in some fill dirt and reinforce a joist or two.
All in all, you’re probably looking at about six or seven grand.
It’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a foundation repair, and I can have it done next week.
” He jotted a few notes down and tucked his pencil back behind his ear. “What do you think about that?”
Six or seven thousand dollars was still a lot of money, but a far cry from the thirty or so thousand my seller was quoted by Levi to fix the foundation issues.
I trusted Levi but he had a tendency to be a little overly cautious when it came to repairs.
“And you’re sure that will satisfy an inspector? ”
Mr. Franklin cocked his head and studied me.
“I won’t guarantee that it will last forever and that there won’t be a foundation repair needed down the line, but what I’m suggesting isn’t just a temporary fix.
It should take care of the issue for quite a while.
I’ve got a reputation to protect, you know. ”
Though I hadn’t worked with Mr. Franklin before, my dad trusted him. He’d done some work out at the ranch and my parents had been pleased. If he could take care of the issue for a fraction of the price, maybe I could get this house sold before my contract expired.
“Let me talk to the seller and see what he thinks. Are you sure you’ll have enough time to work on this along with the festival set up?”
“You sure are your father’s daughter. I don’t blame you for being concerned, but I’ve been doing this a long time, Miss Winslow.” He flipped his wrist to check the time on his watch. “Speaking of time, I’m running late for another appointment. Let me know what your client decides.”
“I will. Thank you for stopping by.” I followed him around to the front of the house and stood on the porch while he got into his truck and drove away. Maybe his idea would work. Something had to give if I wanted to get this house sold.
After sitting in the kitchen for another hour with only one curious neighbor coming through, I pulled the open house sign out of the yard and tossed it in my trunk.
I wasn’t looking forward to spending my Saturday night working on more festival plans, but it’s not like I had a more attractive option.
With most of my friends out with their significant others, I was tired of being the third wheel.
I drove through town, trying to figure out what I could make for dinner with the meager contents of my refrigerator.
As I passed the sign for the café, my stomach growled and I pulled over to the curb.
A Cobb salad or a half a sandwich and a cup of soup sounded a whole lot better than whatever I had waiting at home.
I’d just gotten out of the car when I happened to glance across the street.
Huck Barrett was crouched down at the base of the railing leading up the steps to the Mercantile.
He was wearing a backward baseball cap over his thick brown hair and a toolbelt slung around his wait.
Well-worn jeans stretched tight across muscular thighs as he balanced in place, drill in hand.
I stumbled over the curb, almost landing flat on my ass.
With my keys clutched tightly in my hand, I accidentally hit the alarm button on the fob and my car’s horn started blaring.
My chest seized, my cheeks burned, and I ducked down as I tried to silence the alarm.
Nothing like drawing attention to myself while drooling over my ex.
Squatting between cars, I waddled to the rear bumper to see if he’d noticed me. His drill sat on the sidewalk but Huck was nowhere in sight. I sucked in a deep breath of relief.
“Everything okay over here?” His deep voice came from behind me.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a long beat, trying to think of a believable explanation as I turned around. He stood before me, all six-foot-plus of him in a snug fitting t-shirt and those jeans that molded to his thighs. “Um, yeah. I just dropped my keys and bent down to find them.”
“Can I help you up?” Huck reached out. Dark swirls of ink covered his forearm. That was new. He’d only had one tattoo back in high school. I’d dared him to get it the day he turned eighteen. For half a heartbeat, I wondered if he still had it or if he’d covered it up with something else.
Swallowing hard, I slid my hand into his. Warmth radiated up my arm, flushing my cheeks and making me wish I had a glass of something ice-cold in my hand that might be able to douse the fire rolling through my veins.
I pulled my hand out of his grip as soon as I got to my feet. Being around him knocked me off balance, and I struggled to regain my composure. “Um, thanks.”
Jaw clenched, his gaze locked on mine. “Take care of yourself, Peyton.”
Then he crossed the street, not bothering to look back.