Chapter 10
Meredith’s day started with Vance Brennan riding in on his high horse…and went downhill from there.
The Pippin Lake Development liaison appeared in the Acacia office with a printed copy of Meredith’s Alastair floor plan tucked under his arm and the look of someone who’d found a problem and intended to enjoy delivering it.
Her father was at a Phase One site walk with the builder, which meant Meredith and Connor had the office to themselves.
That particular configuration was either productive or distracting, depending on how often Connor did the thing where he rolled his sleeves up—a feat with one good hand—while frowning at a spreadsheet.
Today, she’d been doing well. Focused. Professional. Definitely not—well, barely—noticing the forearms, casted or not.
But now…Vance.
“Morning,” he said, not waiting for a response before spreading the design printout across the edge of her desk. “I’ve got a concern about the Alastair roofline.”
Meredith frowned, scanning the blueprint. “What kind of concern?”
“The pitch.” He tapped the drawing with a thick finger.
“I’ve been hearing from one of our contractors that this roofline might not meet the HOA architectural guidelines for Lakeside.
The pitch looks steep for the community standard, and if it doesn’t comply, we’ve got a problem—because this is the floor plan everybody’s buying. ”
Because it’s a masterpiece, Meredith thought, but kept her face neutral, ignoring the heat flickering behind her ribs. “Which contractor raised this?”
“Bayside Mechanical. They flagged it during a site review.”
Connor, who had been quietly organizing permit files at the cabinets, glanced over. He didn’t say anything, but Meredith caught the slight tilt of his head—the one she’d started to recognize as his I’m paying attention face.
She turned to her monitor and tapped the keyboard to pull up the Alastair specs.
“The HOA guidelines for Lakeside specify a roof pitch between six-twelve and ten-twelve for all primary structures. The Alastair is an eight-twelve pitch.” She pointed to the screen.
“It’s right in the middle of the approved range.
I designed it specifically to the community standards—I have the HOA design manual on my desk if you’d like to see it. ”
She also had it memorized but declined to drive that point home.
Vance didn’t look at the screen. “I’m just telling you what I’m hearing. These guys have built in a lot of communities, and they know what flies and what doesn’t.”
“And I’m telling you what I designed. The Alastair doesn’t just meet the guidelines, it exceeds the minimum by two increments. The pitch was calculated for both aesthetic consistency and hurricane wind-load resistance, which in this zone requires—”
“Look, I’m not questioning your math, miss.”
Miss. A step up from “kiddo” but not much.
Connor turned fully now to take in the exchange. Or to leap to her defense, based on the sudden squareness of his shoulders.
“I’m just saying,” Vance continued, apparently unaware that he’d detonated a small bomb, “maybe it’s worth having a second set of eyes.
Someone local, someone who’s been through the Okaloosa County permitting process a few times.
It’s a rookie move to assume your first design is going to sail through without pushback. ”
Rookie move. Seriously?
Meredith could have pointed out that she’d designed seventeen—including two award-winning—residential elevations and floor plans before she’d had an architect’s license.
She could have mentioned that the Alastair was the bestselling model in the entire Lakeside development, that two more buyers had requested it just last week, and that Vance’s boss had called it “the best coastal farmhouse design I’ve seen since that style was invented. ”
Instead, she picked up the HOA spec manual from her desk—a three-inch binder she’d tabbed and highlighted before she ever saw the inside of this office—opened it to the roof pitch specifications, and set it in front of Vance.
“Page twenty-three,” she said calmly. “Section three, subsection B. Approved roof pitch range, six-twelve to ten-twelve. The Alastair is eight-twelve. It’s compliant, it’s permitted, and it’s been reviewed and approved by Pippin’s architectural review board and Okaloosa County.
If Bayside Mechanical has concerns about a roofline they aren’t building, I’d be happy to walk them through the engineering and design specs. ”
Vance looked at the binder, then at Meredith with tapered gray eyes. Something shifted in his expression—not respect, exactly, but the uncomfortable recalculation of a man who’d shown up to a fight and found his opponent better armed.
“Well,” he said, straightening up and rolling the blueprint, “I just wanted to flag it. Better safe than sorry.”
“Always,” Meredith agreed pleasantly. “Anything else?”
“Not today.” He nodded vaguely in Connor’s direction and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
There was a beat of silence, then a soft chuckle from behind her.
“Page twenty-three,” Connor said as he sat behind his desk. “Section three, subsection B.”
“I keep that binder within arm’s reach for a reason.”
“To metaphorically clock him with it? ’Cause you did.”
She laughed. “With kindness, I hope. He is the client liaison.”
“With an agenda,” Connor muttered.
“He’ll get over it,” she assured him. “I’m not worried.”
“I’m not worried, either,” Connor said. “But I do find it curious that a plumbing and mechanical contractor reviews rooflines.”
Meredith frowned. “Why?”
He rolled his chair out and leaned back, eyeing her as he gathered his thoughts.
“I don’t know this business, obviously, but Bayside Mechanical doesn’t build roofs.
They don’t install trusses. They have zero reason to have opinions about roof-pitch compliance.
” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “So why are they flagging your design to Vance? Just to give him the satisfaction of calling your decision a ‘rookie move’?”
She considered that, but not for long. “They install ductwork under the trusses. They’re up in the roof cavity all the time and they probably noticed the pitch looked steep and mentioned it to Vance.
It is a little steeper, but that’s what gives the sense of drama and a genuine farmhouse look.
Subtle, but if you’re in new builds a lot, it’s noticeable. ”
“I guess,” he said. “Still doesn’t make sense.”
“Contractors overstep all the time,” she said, even though he had a point. It was definitely not in the Bayside Mechanical wheelhouse. “Honestly? It might be a test.”
“You passed.”
“Well, I’ve never failed in my life, so…”
His mouth slid into an amused smile. “Why am I not shocked? Ever get a B? Ever, even once?”
“AP Environmental Science in high school,” she said without a second’s hesitation.
“Still carrying it, I see,” he teased.
“Forever,” she volleyed back. “But I aced the final, did three times the amount of extra credit, and got a five on the AP exam.” She playfully brushed her nails over her collar, making him laugh.
“Vance might have an ax to grind, but trust me. By the time we’ve finished the first few homes in Phase One, and this place is selling several lots a day?
He’ll shut up and take his bonus to the bank. ”
Connor nodded, slowly pulling back into his desk and wincing at the effort on his bad wrist. “That’s a good approach, but I’m still keeping my eye on that clown. I don’t like the way he treats you.”
A little shiver of something that felt wholly feminine and unfamiliar danced down her spine. A protector? Had she ever had one—other than Dad? Not in her life and, honestly, she did not hate the idea at all.
She turned back to her monitors and tried to refocus on the permit amendment for Lot 112, but her concentration had been fractured. Not by Vance—she’d handled Vance, filed him away, moved on. That was easy.
What fractured her concentration was…yeah. Her administrative assistant busily typing with his left hand, his brow furrowed, his too-long hair falling across his forehead.
Focus, Meredith. Permit amendment. Lot 112. Shear walls.
She lasted about four minutes before looking at him again.
It was going to be a long day. Week. Month. Was he ever going back to Gainesville?
At the end of a day that did, indeed, smack her from every angle—three permit amendments, a conference call about drainage, and a revision to the clubhouse floor plan that was going to ruin the beautiful flow—Meredith eyed the clock and had the rare wish to go home.
“Are you leaving soon?” Connor asked as he turned off his computer and started to straighten his desk for the next day—yet another thing about him she liked.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Meredith. Those permit revision drawings will wait, and I know you’ll fix the clubhouse problem you’ve wrestled with all day.”
“I haven’t…” She gave a guilty laugh. “Okay. I have. But I drove with my dad today and he had to do a site inspection for,” she lowered her voice and stage-whispered, “another potential client. He said he’d be back around six, so I’ll go another round with the clubhouse.”
“Why don’t you text Eli and tell him I’ll bring you home?”
“You?” The word came out like a croak.
“I know, I know. Scary to drive with me.” He lifted his arm. “I take off the cast and I’m fine.”
“No, it’s…okay. I’ll wait for my dad.”
“We could stop and get a drink or a bite to eat.”
For a minute, she wasn’t sure what he meant. Get…a drink?
“I could use some air and a change of scenery,” he said, sounding far more casual than she felt. “Let’s go down to the harbor and find some fried food and…whatever you drink.”
Wait. What? What was this? Just two co-workers getting a drink after a Monday that had started rough and got worse…or was it something else?
Whatever it was, Meredith was tempted. So much so that she tapped her mouse, shut down the computer, and lifted a shoulder.