Chapter 14
Meredith had been quietly preparing for the first Lakeside status meeting since she’d started, but never thought she would present for Acacia on her own. But Dad had left for Atlanta, and she needed to be the top-notch project manager he knew she was.
At least that’s what his text said.
“You ready?” Connor asked as he closed his laptop and scooped up some files they might need.
She looked up at him with a smug smile and flipped to a random page in her notated, color-coded, alphabetically tabbed Phase One binder. “Does this look like I’m ready?”
“That looks…” His brows flicked. “Somewhere between unhinged and awesome.”
The compliment gave her a shiver of pleasure and an added jolt of confidence she needed. Grabbing her linen blazer from the back of her chair, she slid into it, completing a totally professional look from clipped-back hair to no-nonsense flats.
“Let us slay,” she murmured on their way out, cracking up Connor.
The whole team gathered around the conference table at the Design Center—a room full of men.
Vance Brennan was there, of course, face in his phone.
Two senior sales associates she’d met briefly chatted quietly on one side of the table.
Doug Fenton, Lakeside’s lead builder and main site coordinator, sat at one end of the long table, sipping coffee and glancing at some notes.
Only her father was missing, and Greg Hollister, the big boss, who surely couldn’t be bothered with a status meeting.
Meredith knew her father, had he been here, would take the other head of the table, so she did. Sadly, the seat put her kitty-corner from Vance—who couldn’t be bothered to even look up.
Connor sat across from him, opening his laptop to her PowerPoint presentation, easily linking to the screen on the side wall. He’d stayed late with her last night so they could practice the connection and make sure there were no issues with the casting.
As they’d discussed, he kept her slides dark until it was time for Acacia to present their report.
Finally, Vance tore himself from Instagram and put his phone face down, looking around like he just realized there was anyone else in the room.
“Where’s Eli?” he asked.
“He had to make a quick trip to the Acacia headquarters in Atlanta,” she said.
His brow flicked up and he threw a look to Doug. “You knew this?”
The other man, a short, stocky bodybuilder type with a thoughtful demeanor and a can-do attitude, nodded. “It’s fine,” he said.
But Vance shifted in his seat as if to telegraph it was so not fine.
Meredith just took a deep breath, steady and grounded. She had twice his IQ, three times his class, and several impressive degrees to her name. Vance Brennan did not scare her.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Vance flipped a notebook to a blank page. “Then let’s get started,” he said. “Acacia, you’re up.”
Really? Shouldn’t Doug go first with a building report? Apparently, Vance wanted her off balance. No such luck.
“Good morning, everyone.” She stood and Connor clicked to her first slide—the Phase One overview listing all sixty-four lots, arranged by sales status and elevation selection.
“We’ve sold twenty-one lots to date, with the Alastair leading at nine.
We’ve been working with the site team to stagger elevation placements so we avoid identical facades on the same street, and we’ve completed custom revisions for six buyers so far—everything from bonus room conversions to expanded master suites. ”
She spoke directly to Doug, moving through the presentation with the confidence of a woman who knew every number on every slide because she’d built them herself.
Change orders for the Alastair model. The Sanibel revision.
Progress on the clubhouse design, including the pool house and gym she’d finished and submitted for approval.
Doug Fenton nodded along, occasionally jotting a note.
He’d been working with Meredith all week and had the quiet respect of a builder who recognized competence.
The sales guys—one was Andrew, the other William, but she didn’t remember which was which—followed on their tablets, chiming in occasionally in with some questions.
Vance checked his phone twice.
“I’d like to focus on the clubhouse,” Doug said. “We’re forging ahead because getting it completed will get buyers excited to go to contract.”
“Amen to that,” Andrew or William said.
“The design revisions are complete,” Meredith said, clicking to the floor plan. “Sign off on this and you can take the blueprints and lay the foundation.”
Vance looked up, and she sensed he’d just started paying attention.
“The event space is finalized at twenty-two hundred square feet,” she said, “with an additional eight hundred square feet of outdoor space on a covered terrace, that extends the usable—”
“Hold up.” Vance raised a hand. “Did you say twenty-two hundred?”
“Correct. Plus the terrace, which brings the functional event space to the three thousand square feet requested.”
“The marketing materials promise three thousand square feet of indoor event space. Not outdoor. Not terrace. Indoor.” He looked around the table. “That’s a problem.”
The sales agents looked dubious, but Doug leaned in. “Go on, Meredith.”
She pulled up the original design brief on her second screen.
“The brief specifies three thousand square feet of usable event space, not exclusively indoor. The terrace was part of the design from the initial proposal—it’s covered, it’s permitted, and it’s integrated into the flow of the building.
In this climate, covered outdoor space functions as indoor space nearly all year round.
Even in January, we can have heaters when needed. ”
“Buyers don’t read it that way,” Vance grumbled, suddenly an expert on what buyers wanted. “They see three thousand, they expect three thousand under a roof.” He looked at William and Andrew. “Am I right?”
One of the men frowned. “They do like outdoor space for kids’ parties.”
“Not if it’s raining,” Vance fired back. “There are downpours here in August and September.” To Meredith, he said, “You’re from Atlanta. You might not know that.”
Meredith knew the weather patterns better than the local meteorologist but let the comment pass. “The terrace is under a roof,” she explained. “It’s a covered structure with—”
“I think we need Eli on this.” Vance said it like he was calling for a doctor. “This is the kind of design decision that needs senior-level sign-off. No offense, Meredith, but the clubhouse is the centerpiece of the development. We can’t afford a disconnect between marketing and architecture.”
The room went quiet. Doug Fenton looked at his hands, his body language screaming that he’d rather be out on the job site checking on contractors than sitting in this room. The sales associates studied their tablets.
Connor sat perfectly still, his gaze on her.
And all Meredith could do was make a decision—fight or flight.
She could pull up the design brief, the permit application, the county approval—all of which confirmed that the clubhouse design was exactly what had been agreed upon. She had the documentation. She had the numbers. She had every right to stand her ground in this room.
But Vance wasn’t arguing facts. He was arguing authority.
She chose flight, but only because she really did want her dad’s support before she died on this hill.
“I’ll loop Eli in,” she said evenly. “But the design is sound and I’m confident it aligns with the approved brief. We can move to the Phase One drainage update, which has been affected by some of the residential changes.”
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of infrastructure timelines and inspection schedules. Meredith participated, answered questions, and maintained the steady professionalism she’d learned from watching her father in a hundred similar meetings.
But deep inside, something was cracking.
Not because of Vance. She could handle Vance with one arm tied behind her back—and Connor could tell him as much, since he literally worked that way.
What bothered her was the silence from everyone else. Doug Fenton, who respected her work, hadn’t said a word. The Lakeside salesmen had stared at their screens. Nobody in that room had pushed back.
Nobody had said, “Actually, Meredith already addressed that.”
And the thought that crept in was the one she’d been fighting since the day Dad handed her this project: They think I’m here because of Eli. The boss’s daughter, playing architect. Nepotism in a hard hat.
She knew it wasn’t true. She knew her work had earned this—the Alastair model that outsold every other floor plan, the array of elevation alternatives she’d designed from scratch, the Phase One timeline that was running ahead of schedule. She knew.
And eventually, so would Vance and Co.
Back in the office, she closed the door and sat at her desk without turning on her monitors. Connor lingered close and watched her.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re doing the thing where you say fine and your jaw could cut glass.”
She almost smiled. “He’s never going to respect me, Connor. And the worst part is, everyone in that room deferred to him. Not one person backed me up. And I’m not counting you.”
“Doug knows your work is right. He’ll come around.”
“He shouldn’t have to come around. He should have said something.
” She pressed her fingers against her temples.
“And now Vance is going to call my father about a clubhouse design that is exactly what was approved, and Dad’s going to have to pretend it’s a legitimate concern so the client liaison doesn’t feel ignored, and the whole thing is—”
“Infuriating.”
“I was going to say exhausting, but yes.” She dropped back with a noisy exhale. “What is that guy’s problem?”
“What happened to ‘he’ll come around when he gets a bonus?’” Connor asked.
She huffed a breath. “He just ticked me off today.”