Chapter 19
Willow
“Yes, I understand the severity of the timeline. The contractors are certain they can finish on schedule.” I leave out the part where I am absolutely certain we will not finish in time.
“To make sure you’re staying on track. I’d like for you to send out an email of your weekly tasks and their status,” Tony says, and it’s in such a tone that it makes me feel about two inches tall.
I should’ve known that when I was assigned my own project, he would micromanage me.
It’d be nice if the company I’ve busted my ass for could trust me with this.
Even if it does end up going over the budget and timeline, I wouldn’t be the first person to have that happen to.
But unfortunately, those thoughts have to stay inside my little brain because I don’t feel like being fired today.
“I can do that, but I do want you to know that I have complete confidence in this project and would appreciate you reciprocating that.” Being firm like this feels abrasive, but it’s a tactic I’ve had to learn the hard way if I ever wanted to be taken seriously.
“Sure, but trust has to be earned. I know it’s frustrating to have eyes on your project, but if this is a success, you’ll have a lot more freedom.
” I can hear the squeak of his chair on the other end of the line, and it adds to the simmering fury I have.
I can just picture him comfortably reclining in his chair, having the gall to lecture me from the comfort of his big office with a view.
I’ve been at the company for twelve years. You think that would earn me a little bit of trust-induced freedom, but you know, beggars can’t be choosers; at least I got a project.
“I plan to knock this project out of the park,” I say through tight lips. My tone could use some work on being more convincing, but at least I didn’t mouth off.
“I’m sure you will. Listen, Willow, I’ve got a call coming on the other line. Send me that email by the end of the week, thanks.” The line goes dead, and I debate chucking my phone across the room.
The phone call leaves me with restless energy. I feel frustrated by the lack of autonomy I have over the project, but also anxious that I’ve overpromised what I can deliver. I need to get this energy out, and the only way I can think to do that is a nice long run.
It takes twenty minutes to dig through my half-unpacked bag and fling all my stuff haphazardly around the room to find my running shoes.
When Weston insisted I stay with him, he took on the task of helping me pack, and his way of organizing was to throw everything in as quickly as possible.
The fact that I have yet to unpack is further proof I’m living in a state of denial that I’m newly secretly single and residing just a few doors down from the man that still has the power to make my heart flutter.
Since I don’t feel like being eaten by a bear today, running on the gravel road instead of through the woods will be my safest bet.
Plus, with my sense of direction, I’d probably end up getting lost, and that doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to go.
There’s no GPS, and even if there was, the cellphone coverage up here is terrible.
With every step of my feet hitting the gravel, I feel a bit of relief. I’ve always loved the clear head running gives me. I get to think through all my thoughts in every single possible scenario. It's like my own little movie in my head. My best planning for projects is always done on runs.
I make a mental list of all the things I need to get done at the cabins, like finding a booking system that will be user-friendly for the family but also supports long-term growth for the business.
Then I need to really get started on making a mood board for the decor and seeing if Weston agrees.
Better yet, I should loop his style-loving sister in.
It would be a good reason to see her. She’s been working long hours at the hospital since I’ve been back, and I miss her.
I’ve missed her the entire time I was gone.
She was always the little sister I didn’t have, and I’m bummed we haven’t had the opportunity to spend much time together while I've been here.
Pulling my headphones out of my ears, I take a step into Weston’s cabin.
My new home for the next couple of months.
I’m seriously missing my rustic cabin right now, even though Weston’s home is really nice.
My room, even for a spare room quite spacious.
It has a whole bedroom set, a nice quilt, and even an extra throw blanket, which I’m pretty sure had something to do with either Aspen or Mabel, but I’ll give him credit for it at least being there.
The bathroom I was in even had soap that wasn’t a bar.
It’s clear to see that Weston has put a lot of time and effort into his home.
Maybe that’s why it’s so hard being here.
He’s literally everywhere. He's in the pictures hung by the TV with Maverick and Rhett next to him. His cowboy hats are hung near the front door and his scent lingers in every room. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I was a piece of this family, and I’m not anymore.
Being here is a cruel reminder of that. Not being with Weston was hard, but losing his family felt like I was losing my own, especially since all I have left is my grandpa.
Weston’s parents have a knack for making everyone feel like one of their own, but when Weston left me, they distanced themselves. At least I know why now, can’t say the same for my dear old dad.
You would think that, after people keep walking out on me, I would be numb to it all.
And I try to be, if I don’t think about it, and I just shove it really far down.
It doesn’t hurt as bad, but being in this house makes it impossible to shove into that tiny little box in my heart.
It makes it raw and real and something I have to deal with.
Maybe that’s why life brought me here, so I can deal with all the things I’ve avoided for years.
For once, I want somebody to pick me. Make me a priority even when it’s hard, or the future is uncertain. I realize just how sad that is, but you know what, I pick me, and for today, that’s good enough.
Walking into the kitchen. I grab a glass of water and take a few big chugs. A few drops escape my bottom lip and trail down to my chest as Weston walks through the garage entrance to the house.
His eyes immediately meet mine. They slide down my body, perusing it, and I feel a sudden rush of heat. I know that look in his eye. I've seen it many times before. He used to make me feel like the most powerful woman in the world when he would look at me with pure hunger.
His mouth quirks up on the side as he starts to kick off his boots. “Glad to see you still like running.”
“Glad to see you still like staring.” My retort was purely instinctual.
He laughs a little bit, no shame in his game at all.
He looks me dead in the eyes as he says, “Believe me, if I stared at you as much as I wanted to, you would be serving me a restraining order.”
Having spent the last twelve years of my life in New York, I’m used to people being bold. But I’m not used to this. I’m not used to it coming from Weston and I’m not used to it coming from someone I’m supposed to be having a professional relationship with right now.
Clearing my throat, I try to move past the moment because I feel awkward even though he clearly doesn’t.
He’s still sporting that stupid sexy smirk.
Part of me wants to throw my glass of water at it to wipe it right off, but really, he hasn’t done anything besides make me feel utterly discombobulated and stand up for me.
That’s what makes it so difficult not to let my walls down again.
He hasn’t done anything, aside from completely turning my world upside down years ago, and it would make things a hell of a lot easier to hate him if he did.
It’d be easier to want to stay away if he did, but no, he shows up like a perfect gentleman and does all the right things and says all the right things all the time. Disgusting, really.
Steering the conversation back to professional grounds, I say, “The new contractor will start on Monday. They somehow were able to start right away, and I genuinely cannot believe it. Or the fact that they have a shorter turnaround time than the last group. We might just finish these cabins in time, after all.”
“That’s great. What sounds good for dinner tonight?” He walks into the kitchen and swings open the refrigerator.
“I wasn’t under the impression we’d be eating meals together,” I respond, setting my glass down and leaning against the kitchen counter. I’ve been here a few days, and this is the first time he’s approached this particular topic.
“I think it’d be a waste for both of us to be cooking in this kitchen. Last time I checked, we were trying the whole friends thing out, remember? I’m pretty sure they eat dinner together sometimes.” Friends. Why does that sound like a taunt? And why do I feel like he’s using it against me?
After that run, I am absolutely famished, so I’m not going to argue with him. “How do you feel about grilling some burgers?” I suggest.
“Whatever you want, Sunshine.”
My heart does a little flip-flop at the sound of my nickname coming off his tongue.
I used to have dreams where we were still together, and that was the only time I’d hear his voice, the only time I’d hear that nickname.
I miss it. So as much as I want to tell him to stop calling me that, I don’t have the heart to, or my heart doesn’t have the strength to.
It’s almost like it lets me pretend for just a second that that moment twelve years ago never happened.
So for now, I am going to play pretend. Pretending that twelve years ago didn’t happen and that I haven’t spent every single day thinking about Weston.