Chapter Seven
Connor arrived at the office before Sam most mornings.
He’d be in his work gear, sorting through tools in the workshop or loading up the van outside.
Depending on where his jobs took him, he would sometimes stop back again midafternoon to answer any questions Sam might have, usually with coffees from Jenny’s Diner around the corner.
Although five was technically their service cutoff, Connor often continued working past then—dealing with power outages and helping those facing the prospect of a cold night in the dark.
Any calls that came in after five were forwarded to an after-hours service, which Connor monitored from his cell phone.
If he wasn’t back by closing time, Sam emailed him the run sheet for the next day before locking up the office and heading home.
It had been almost a month, and Sam felt like he was finally getting the hang of the job.
He could decipher Connor’s scraggly handwriting from the hastily completed quote forms, which Sam transformed into invoices and then sent out.
He knew what to ask a customer who was contemplating a water-heater replacement and which light fixtures to recommend for a kitchen renovation.
Any downtime was spent organizing the filing boxes of paperwork that lined the wall of the office.
He picked through piles of old invoices, parts orders, and insurance forms and filed them in the cabinets behind the desk.
When he got to the bottom of a box, he felt a little burst of pride as he broke it down and tossed the flattened cardboard into the recycling bin outside.
That Friday afternoon, a last-minute cancellation meant Connor had come back to the office early, and Sam was able to hand him Monday’s run sheet in person. Connor gave a low whistle as he flipped through. “Full up again?”
Sam nodded. “And for the rest of the week.” He tilted the computer monitor to show Connor the booking calendar.
“This is new,” Connor said with a slight frown.
Sam felt a flicker of trepidation. He’d been meaning to tell Connor but hadn’t found the right opportunity. This was as good as any. “It might have something to do with the post.”
“What post?” Connor looked up from the calendar to give Sam his full attention.
Sam navigated the mouse to the Instagram page he’d set up for the business. “I, um, thought it might be good to establish more of an online presence. Boost recognition within the community.”
He clicked on a thumbnail, and the photo of Connor in his muddy overalls popped up on the screen. There was something about Connor’s sideways grin and the way his eyes crinkled that made the image irresistible. It didn’t hurt that he was disarmingly good-looking in a salt-of-the-earth kind of way.
“Megawatt service?” Connor murmured, reading the caption Sam had posted along with the company’s contact info beneath the photo. It had already received hundreds of likes and shares.
“It kind of took off.”
Connor’s forehead furrowed. He reached over Sam’s shoulder to take the mouse and scrolled down the panel of comments.
OMG help me get my spark back!
How much for a house call? ;)
Sam realized he was holding his breath, afraid Connor would be angry. “I can take it down,” he said quickly. “I should have asked first. I’ll just take it down.”
Connor gave an awkward chuckle then straightened up and crossed his arms. “I mean, if we’re getting more work, why not? Lucky my old man doesn’t know how any of this stuff works.”
“Phew,” Sam said with a smile.
“Is this what they teach you at business school?” Connor asked wryly.
“Not really. You just pick it up as you go.”
Their eyes met, and Sam wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see a slight flush along the man’s neck.
“So,” Connor started, stepping back from the desk and folding the run sheet into a neat square. “You going to the game tonight?”
Sam scanned his limited knowledge of primetime sports events and came up blank. “Which game?”
“Oakdale Panthers versus the Abbott Wildcats—local rivals. The whole town gets behind the team.”
“Wait, who are you, and what have you done with Connor Finnegan?” Sam teased. “You wouldn’t have been caught dead at a high school football game.”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf.”
Sam had avoided anything to do with sports as a teenager and had no desire to start now. Besides, he hated football players. “Not really my crowd,” he said, busying himself straightening the pile of invoices on the desk.
“I’m not a huge fan myself, but it’s nice to get out and support. What was it you said about community recognition?”
“Look at you.” Sam smirked, secretly pleased Connor had caught on.
“Spielman will be there and a couple other friends.”
Sam swiveled in his chair. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how do you two know each other?”
“Brian?” Connor’s eyes twinkled. “He used to hook me up. Sold the best bud this side of Grand Island. But he gave that up when he met Jules. Somewhere along the line, we realized we enjoyed each other’s company even when we weren’t stoned.”
Sam shook his head in astonishment. “Nothing ceases to amaze.”
“Well then, fancy joining us?”
The expectant shift in Connor’s tone made Sam pause to reconsider. “I’ll think about it.”
Connor forced himself to stop looking over at the entrance to the stands.
A decent crowd had turned out to watch the game that night, and the bleachers were filling with people—none of whom, he noted with disappointment, resembled his new office manager.
When Connor had gotten home after work, he’d tried on three different shirts before deciding on the one he wore now, a simple blue polo he’d paired with his favorite black jeans.
He was sitting beside Brian and their friend Tyler, who’d come with his wife, Mimi.
Mimi was seven months pregnant and fanning herself vigorously with her open hand.
She seemed uninterested in both the game and the impassioned discussion Tyler was having with Brian.
Once, Tyler had spent a week’s worth of lunchtimes carving a cartoon version of their much-hated principal on the trunk of a tree behind the gym; now he worked as a geography teacher at their alma mater and made small talk with the old goat in the staff room. Funny how life worked out.
“It’s the way they’re doing it that’s wrong,” Tyler continued adamantly as Brian—sitting between the two of them—nodded along, sucking soda through a straw. “Setting kids up for failure with these multiple-choice questions.”
“And it’s not just high school kids,” Brian added. “At Matty’s preschool, they’re making them take worksheets home. At four, for fuck’s sake!”
Connor nodded, not really invested in the argument.
Again, he felt his gaze pulled to the entrance, and there was Sam, wearing a tan bomber jacket and looking around with a pensive frown.
Connor stood and waved him over. They all shuffled down to make room, and Sam sat on the end of the bench beside him.
“Glad you could make it,” he said.
“Sure, I mean—” Sam raised a tentative fist. “Go Panthers?”
“Very convincing.”
Connor turned to his friends to make introductions. “Tyler, Mimi, this is Sam.”
Tyler reached behind Connor’s back to shake Sam’s hand, and a roar rose from the crowd as the home team ran out onto the field. The cheerleaders shook their gold-and-blue pompoms from the sidelines and launched into a series of coordinated kicks.
Sam glanced over at Connor. “You clean up nice.”
Connor made a face to detract from the flutter in his stomach. “Shame no one will recognize me without the overalls.”
Sam laughed. “Come on, give yourself some credit.” As the game ramped up, he ducked his head and lowered his voice. “You’re going to have to explain this to me. I have no clue what’s going on.”
“I’m no expert,” Connor admitted. “But I’ll tell you what I know.”
He’d spent enough Sundays sulking in the living room with his dad glued to the TV to have absorbed a few things by osmosis.
He launched into an explanation of zones and stoppages while Sam listened attentively.
This close, he could smell Sam’s cologne, light and citrusy, and he spotted a small star tattoo on the underside of the man’s wrist, partially hidden by the sleeve of his jacket. How did I miss that?
He wasn’t sure why he’d been so insistent on inviting Sam.
It was clear Sam had no interest in football and had only shown up to be polite.
Maybe Connor had wanted another excuse to see him outside of work, where they were on equal footing.
He still felt weird about the fact that, technically, he was Sam’s boss.
At halftime, they all stood to let Mimi out—it wasn’t the first time she’d excused herself to pee—and Tyler headed to the concession booth for nachos and more soda. As Tyler disappeared into the crowd, a voice called out from the rows behind them.
“Look who it is!”
Connor turned to see Blake Plimmerton descending the stairs in their direction.
Blake had been in the same year at school, and after his GPA dropped too low to maintain his athletic scholarship at Wayne State College, he’d returned to Oakdale to work as assistant coach for the middle school football team.
Over the years, his bulky frame had filled out even more, his neck widening to swallow his jaw and a spare tire encircling his midsection.
The man swayed on his feet. His eyes were glazed, and he appeared more than a little drunk. “Sammy Bryant, what are you doing back here?”
Sam visibly stiffened. Recovering quickly, he fixed Blake with an easy smile. “Felt like a change of scenery. I see everything’s exactly how I left it.”
“That right?” Blake smirked and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “And here I was thinking you couldn’t get enough of little old me.”
Connor clenched his jaw, surprised by the red-hot anger that surfaced.
“Move on, man. You’re wasted,” Brian said, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “It’s a school game. Do better.”