9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Beck
Mondays used to be my favorite day. I’m a worker, always have been, and there’s something about a new Monday that just feels good, you know? A fresh start. A chance to conquer the world.
Except, today is not my day. Karma took my Monday and held her hostage and then chewed her up and spit her out.
And it’s not even nine a.m. yet.
First, I was dragged out of bed at quarter after five because my dog, Ace, felt the need to bark and whine until I got him out of his crate and fed him his breakfast. At quarter after five! He’s stubborn and dramatic and I knew I couldn’t go back to sleep until I dumped some food in his bowl.
Then I got a phone call from a guy who’s the father of one of my friends from school, moaning and complaining about how half of his barn collapsed overnight and asking if I could please send a crew over immediately. I spent the next thirty minutes on the phone, in between trying to shove some still-crunchy oatmeal down my throat.
I guess still-crunchy oatmeal is better than burnt.
Turns out my crew is hard to get ahold of at that ungodly hour, so I end up meeting three of them at the barn, get them started with the demo all while talking the guy off a ledge—he’d been rounding up his goats all morning.
Once I arrive at Integrity, I get a text from my neighbor, Rosie, asking if I might be able to coach Leo’s beach volleyball team. It’s a casual thing, she says, a summer city league deal. They just need an adult there sitting on the bench, making sure the kids all stay in line.
Work is busy, so I consider telling her I can’t.
But then I remember how Leo’s dad, my buddy, Byron, was always their coach before he passed away. Even when he was battling cancer and had to drop out of the adult city-league games, Byron still managed to show up and lead Leo’s team. I have to swallow down a ball in my throat when I think about how Leo didn’t even sign-up last summer since his dad had just died. That Leo wants to play again is a good sign.
I take a deep breath and text her back.
Sure. I’d love to coach Leo and his friends. Sounds fun. But you have to realize that for me, the words casual and volleyball can’t coexist. You know how maniacal I can get about volleyball.
She only sends me a laughing emoji and a “Thank you.”
It will be fun to coach Leo and his friends. I’m already thinking of drills I can run with the boys. Casual volleyball? I think not!
Soon, my phone is bombarded with other calls and messages, things about a delayed pressure valve and how someone on my painting crew apparently used the wrong color of paint.
At least it wasn’t at the mansion. I cannot afford any more problems or delays there.
I hear the click-clack of Dallas’s shoes as she enters our office building, carrying several bolts of fabric in her arms. She’s a fast walker—all business—and since my office door is open, I catch a glimpse of her across from the reception area. Her face is etched with concern, like she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders.
She only brightens when she sees Mary, who gets up to give her a hug around the bolts of fabric.
“Need some help with those?” Mary asks, and Dallas refuses quickly.
“I’m good.” She shifts the bolts to her other hip and cocks her head to one side. “How’s your grandson feeling? Any better?”
How does Dallas know about Mary’s grandson? I’ve worked with her for years and I’ve never even thought to ask about any of her grandkids.
That’s when they start talking and laughing about a diaper changing incident gone awry and I deliberately zone out of that conversation.
A few minutes later, after Dallas drops the fabric off in her office, she’s at my door, out of breath.
“Am I supposed to let you know when I’m having client meetings at the mansion, Mr. Billingsley? Because I’m having a client meeting at the mansion today.” I don’t miss the undertone of hostility in her demeanor.
“Are these prospective clients or existing?” I ask, leaning back in my office chair.
“Prospective. From Durham. Will the doors be unlocked or…?” Her tongue darts out of her mouth rapidly, like she shouldn’t have to wait for me to answer.
“I’ll be there on and off throughout the day, but if you want to give me a time—”
“Noon,” she says, cutting me off. She whisks her phone out of a bag hanging from her shoulder and starts typing madly. She barely meets my gaze as she thanks me and leaves.
I find myself measuring my day by how many times I see her go in and out, always on the phone. I visit a jobsite late morning and come back right as she’s entering the building again, carrying a large box. I jog to move in front of her so I can get to the door.
“Thanks,” she says, hefting the box in her arms as she darts past me.
“Can I carry it for you?” I notice the outside of the box shows a rainbow of pastel papers. “Reams of paper can get heavy.”
“I’m fine,” she says and then presses her eyes closed for a beat. “But thanks anyway.”
“At least let me get your office door.”
“I’m fine,” she repeats.
Why is she trying to be a martyr?
It’s not a big deal for me to open her door for her. Once I’ve gotten it open and she sets the box on the desk, I notice other boxes and bins full of pens and paper. “You love a good office supply store, I take it?”
She gives a small smile, still a little out of breath from carrying the box. “You could say that.” She runs a hand along a pad of blotter paper on her desk.
“Blotter paper? And the purpose of it is?”
Her gaze appraises me. “Not everyone knows what this is called. The purpose is two-fold. To protect the surface of the desk and to look pretty.” She bites down on her bottom lip. “Isn’t it pretty? All honeysuckle and lavender?”
“Looks orange and purple to me.”
She waves me away with a tsk .
I think she’s having a long-term love affair with her office supplies, and it’s annoying.
And slightly cute.
The next time I see her, she’s on the phone practically running in those ridiculously high heels, heading outside again. “That’s not acceptable,” she says into the phone. A pause. And then another, “That’s not acceptable.”
I almost pity whoever’s on the receiving end.
She’s hardnosed.
And she doesn’t lighten her battleax exterior except to smile and wave at Mary.
She’s been like this since she first started working here over a week ago. And when I say she’s been in a tizzy about all things wedding planning, I mean a tizzy .
She keeps asking me about my stuff. About my job. Like she’s in charge of everything around here. I find myself giving the shortest answers I can, just enough to get her off my back. I have a process—one I’ve been doing for years—and I don’t need her help with it.
It’s not all bad, though, dealing with her. From what I’ve seen, she’s very professional with clients and vendors but it’s almost as if the professionalism tamps down the bubbly, quirky side of her so that side expands and inflates until she can’t stand it anymore. And then it explodes, and she lets loose with Mary or some of the others. Hearing her laugh in the reception area makes me smile, as much as I don’t want to.
She is a force to be reckoned with, but thankfully, with all my jobs I have going on, I haven’t been the subject of her wrath too much.
Until today. Because as I pull up to Willow Wood at eleven thirty, she’s pacing in front of it, a bag three-quarters of her size on one shoulder. She looks at her watch as I walk up.
“Good. You’re here.”
The word “finally” was implied. Strongly.
“The client meeting’s not until noon.” I make a show of looking at my watch. “Whew. Glad I made it. That was close.”
I shouldn’t. But I just can’t stop myself sometimes.
She gives me a withering look. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
I unlock the door for her and already she’s giving commands. “We need to mop this floor. It’s covered in dust. And I called Mary. She’s sending someone over with a sample of the carpet. Is the flooring for the entry in the truck you brought or some other truck?”
When I don’t answer, she wheels around. At my quizzical look, she sighs.
“You didn’t get my texts, did you?”
“I’ve had a morning, okay?”
“Haven’t we all? Look, I’m really hoping the sheetrock for that back bathroom shows up today.”
How does she know about the sheetrock delay? Probably from Mary. Still, her tone—the sheer bossiness—irks me. And the way she says it like I’m somehow personally responsible for the entire sheetrock supply chain.
Her gaze travels around the room before returning to mine. “I can mop if you can please bring in a sample of the flooring.”
Oh, boy. “You can’t mop my particleboard subfloor.”
She drops the large bag to the floor and rolls her shoulder back. “I read up on it. It’s fine as long as it’s a very light coat of water and you dry it afterwards. Have you seen the dust on this floor? It’s thick! We may not be able to show them the actual floors, but we can at least make these as clean as we can.” Her gaze darts around the room, and her narrowed eyes and tight mouth tell me she’s picking apart everything she sees.
“It’s really too bad none of the original flooring could be saved,” she says. “I was looking at some archival photos at the county library on Saturday and I think we can do a lot to restore this place to its former glory. It won’t take much.”
“We?” Whatever happened to you doing your job and I do mine?
A smile quirks her lips. “Well, you . You and your company. I guess what I’m saying is, I hope the flooring that was chosen is keeping with the spirit of the place.” She takes in the room again, her eyes lighting on the crown molding.
She is having a hard time giving up control of this project, isn’t she? “I think you’ll like it. It’s nice. And trust me, no one wants this place restored to its former glory more than I do. I grew up coming here.”
This renovation has to work. I’m counting on it. I made a commitment to Mayor Dobbs that I’d do a good job on the mansion. Besides, if I do, maybe she’ll persuade the board to pick my bid for the new wing of the YMCA. I came up with the design—with some feedback from Leo and a group of his friends—and I’m donating the labor. But none of that can happen if we don’t finish the mansion in time and if Dallas can’t book enough weddings.
“Well, good. I have a bucket and solution in my car.” She picks up her bag, slings it on her shoulder again, and hefts it on the counter, having to go up on her tiptoes to heave it up and over.
How she’s going to mop in that white blouse and straight, royal-blue skirt, I can’t even guess. I bite the inside of my cheek. “You need some help?” It’s almost painful to offer.
“I just need the flooring sample.” She taps her mouth with her finger and closes her eyes, like she’s making a list for herself. “And I have a bunch of samples of linens and then of course canopies and arch possibilities. We have to make a good impression.”
“We will,” I insist. This woman is trying my patience.
She’s just doing her job . Sometimes some of the most difficult people to work with end up being the most successful. I know this. But she’s still maddening.
My crew starts filtering in and settling into the jobs they were doing before the weekend.
“Can I get some help with something?” she asks a couple of members of the crew as they enter the mansion.
They glance at me, and I reluctantly nod my permission. I guess the sooner she’s squared away, the sooner we can work without interruption.
Within seconds, she’s got everyone up and scrambling, bringing in things from her mid-sized SUV, which is starting to look more and more like Mary Poppins’ bag. Or a clown car.
By the time I’ve brought in one of the boxes of hardwood that will go in the entry, she’s standing there, barefoot, the top buttons of her blouse open and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, walking a mop along the subfloor. She is a sight to behold, and no it’s not that she’s mopping—I’m not sexist.
It’s that I’ve never seen her without tall shoes on. When she notices me staring, she stops and rests the mop handle against her shoulder. She moves an auburn coil of hair out of her way. “What? It’s barely even damp!”
“I know,” I shoot back, abruptly arrested by the flash in her eyes. “Where do you want this sample?”
“Well, the floor’s wet.” She traps her bottom lip between her teeth.
Sighing, I set it down just outside the door, and then produce a box cutter from my toolbelt.
“I have a toolbelt with a box cutter, too.” She lets the mop handle rest against her shoulder as she walks toward me, the mop head sliding along the floor. “Not exactly like this toolbelt.” She laughs as she points to it. Suddenly, I’m aware of how beat up it is, the patina of the leather showing its age.
I’m also aware of her clean, coconut scent, and the flecks of gold in her blue eyes.
“During weddings,” she continues, “it comes in handy to have a few feminine products, body tape, a sewing kit, and bandages on hand.” She reaches out to my belt and tugs on the handle of the pair of pliers. “But I don’t have pliers in mine.”
An electrical current coils between us. Her eyebrows go up and surprise flashes in her eyes. With my luck, my face is probably doing the same.
“Oh!” She lets go of the plier handles and then raises a finger. “I forgot about the kitchen stools in my trunk!”
She steps back to allow the mop to drop away from her shoulder, but I catch it before she does.
“I can go get the stools.” If I focus on work, maybe I won’t think about how her hair skims her collarbones, showcasing them nicely.
Her brows go in the air. “Um. Okay.” Her gaze darts to my mouth and she takes another step back. “Thanks.” She pulls her keychain off her wrist, one of those complicated things with beads and fringy cords, hands it to me, and then starts carrying the mop to the kitchen.
I go around the edge of the room so I don’t dirty the clean floor, using the short walk out to her car to breathe. I wasn’t expecting Dallas to look so sexy. I can’t be distracted by this woman, and I certainly don’t want to be. We don’t even get along.
I open the trunk to her Tiguan. There’s so much stuff in there, neatly organized. I manage to dig out the bar stools—there are four to fit the large island—before closing the trunk. I’m no sooner inside when she’s back at the door, waiting for me.
“I’m calling it good on the mopping. Still need to try to use my old towels to dry it before they come.” She motions to the floor behind her. “Here.” She holds out her hands. “I’ll take the stools.”
“I got ‘em.” I’m carrying one in each arm.
“No, really.” She frowns and holds out her hands. “Allow me.” She makes a pointed look at my work boots.
The floors. Right. “Suit yourself.” I set one stool down so I can hand the other one to her with both hands.
Dallas takes the one I’m offering her and then sighs, so quietly I barely hear it. She wedges her hip against the other stool, hefting it up in her arm just enough that she can clutch under the seat with her forearm.
She walks gingerly over the still-damp subfloor, grasping one stool on either side of her. She’s so short they very nearly reach the floor, but she manages, and I’ll admit, I’m impressed.
Dallas Olivia Cardon is a whole lot stronger and more stubborn than I realized.
And when she sets the stools down, she turns to grin at me, her side-eye prompting a comforting pang in my stomach.
“You ready for this?” she asks.
I’m not at all ready for anything this little firecracker might throw at me.
That doesn’t mean I won’t absolutely love to hate every second of it.