Chapter 7
SAM
Ifeel like I just shut my eyes when my alarm buzzes, cruel and insistent.
My head’s pounding, not from a hangover but from everything I read last night.
I rushed through three of Becca’s startup books.
I wanted to fit months of planning into one frantic evening.
Half the stuff was over my head. The rest sounded vaguely familiar.
I lean against the bathroom counter, brushing my teeth and staring at my own tired eyes. And like some kind of torture, my brain offers up a memory of her reading one of the same books from last night.
We are lying in bed; her hair is still wet from the shower and she’s wearing that oversized Oregon Ducks shirt she stole from me and those threadbare sleep shorts that barely cover anything. She has one of her books propped up against her thighs, flipping through it like it’s the Bible.
“Sam,” she says, pointing at a chart, “if we price at a breakeven for year one and build customer loyalty through seasonal packages—”
“Mmhmm,” I hum, sliding her book down enough to see the curve of her hip.
“Are you even listening?” she asks, fighting a smile.
“Not to the numbers,” I say honestly. “But I am thinking about return on investment.”
She snorts. “That’s not how ROI works.”
“Sure it is. I invest in loving you—” I hook my thumbs into her waistband and start tugging slowly—“and I get very good returns.”
“Sam—”
I kiss her. Lower. She doesn't finish her sentence.
I shake the memory off like water, spit into the sink, and stare at the man in the mirror. Do I even get to hope for more moments like that?
Becca always had the vision. She was the planner and strategist. She had a five-year roadmap and a budget spreadsheet that updated in real time. I’ve always been the builder, give me a blueprint and a toolbelt and I’ll make it happen.
But this time? I shredded her blueprint without even a damn conversation.
Why didn't I bring her in? I know she would not have wanted to invest, but we could have talked through it. She could have met Rick, done her research to feel comfortable, maybe come to some compromise.
Now there’s no going back. No Band-Aid big enough. If Holly’s salon doesn’t succeed, I’ve not only gambled away our savings, I’ve burned down our future.
I didn’t worry about these kinds of things with Hughes Construction. I inherited a thriving business. Granddad did the grind during the lean years, Dad cleaned up the contracts with iron-clad legalese, and I stepped into something built and shaped by their sweat.
I’ve done good work. I pushed into commercial builds, brought in new vendors, but no one sees that. They see the Hughes name and assume I’m coasting. Even the cabin project Becca dreamed up, yeah, I was on board, but it’s her vision. Her research. Her pitch deck that my dad actually complimented.
She’s the lightning. I’m just holding the wire.
So when Holly came to me with the salon idea, when she said Rick Saunders had a line on a property, that she needed me—it felt like maybe I had something that was mine to grow. No Dad. No Granddad. No Becca.
Helping Holly, yes. But also proving something to them, to Rick, and maybe to myself. That I’m not Hughes's lucky son, or Grandad’s golden boy grandson. That I can be a part of building something from the ground up too.
I love my business, I do. And I know I do good work. I am so damn lucky to have been given the start I did. But sometimes being told how lucky I am to have this feels like being told I didn’t earn anything at all.
I answer a few emails, call into the job site we’re wrapping this week, and skim our forecasts. It'll be tight shifting the crew to help on the salon, but I can float them for a bit if we get moving fast.
Then I pull into Le Jardin, the kind of place with cloth napkins folded like origami and a waiter who corrects your French pronunciation.
Not my scene. I’ve always taken more after my grandparents than my parents.
I love my folks, but they’re more wine pairings and country club.
I’m socket wrenches and corn-hole league. Becca always got that about me.
Holly, though—she’s always loved the finer things. And Mandy? She drinks it like oxygen.
“Sammy!” Holly practically squeals, throwing her arms around my neck. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to start!”
“Of course. Just a heads-up, most of these planning meetings won’t come with a wine list.” I grin. “We’ll be knee-deep in spreadsheets, not steak frites.”
Holly giggles, but Mandy's already stepping in.
“Hey you,” she says, voice lowering in pitch. She leans in for a hug, her breasts pressing firmly into my chest.
I step back instantly. “You good? Sound like you’re losing your voice.”
She laughs and gives me a theatrical little slap. “Oh, you’re cute. Come, sit between your favorite girls.”
I cringe. Why the hell did I say that?
I don’t respond. Just clear my throat as Rick rolls up behind her.
“Sammy-boy!” He gives me the classic one-armed bro-hug. “No Mrs. Hughes today?”
“Nah, she’s working.” Not technically a lie.
Rick winks. “Smart. Gotta keep ’em grinding or they start nesting. No one needs that.”
Mandy and Holly laugh too loud. I fake a smile but feel something sour twist in my gut.
I drop my messenger bag onto the table, unzipping it.
Inside is Becca’s startup book; highlighted, sticky-noted, dog-eared.
Her writing’s all over the margins, circling numbers, underlining key points.
It looks like a business professor went to war with a pack of Post-Its.
“All right.” I flip it open. “Let’s get to work. Mandy, since you said you’re handling the business side, what are your first-year revenue projections?”
Mandy blinks. “Projections? You mean like … how much we’ll make?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh. Well …” She sits up straighter, tilting her chin like she’s reciting a book report. “At Annabella’s last month, we had over $45,000 in bookings.”
They both nod proudly, like that answered everything.
“Okay,” I say slowly, “but Annabella’s is an established brand. They have loyal clients, online reviews, and paid marketing. What’s your client acquisition plan?”
“Client … what?”
"How are you going to obtain new customers?"
Mandy looks at me like a deer in headlights. "Well, people will see that we are open, and once they know Holly and I have left, they will follow, right?"
“Let's … move on,” I mutter, not choosing to dignify that with a response. I flip to a section in the book Becca flagged—Startup Phase ROI.
I try again. “Do you know what Annabella’s overhead is? Product costs, rent?”
“We got paid per appointment,” Holly chimes in. “And Mandy was hourly.”
“That’s wages. I’m talking about supplies, product sourcing, utilities, software, marketing tools …”
“I reached out to a few organic vendors.” Holly quickly flips open her own binder. “I got low, mid, and high-tier pricing options. Want to see?”
I take the papers from her, surprised. “This is actually really solid, Holls.”
She beams. “Thanks! I don’t have everything yet, but I wanted to get started.”
Mandy leans back in her chair and sips her Chardonnay. “Well, if we copy Annabella’s pricing, we’ll be fine.”
“But … we want to use more expensive products,” Holly says quietly. “Can we do that and still match their prices?”
“We’ll figure it out!” Mandy says breezily, waving the waiter over for another glass.
“Copying another business without a unique value proposition is a race to the bottom.” I glance at Becca’s notes in the margin. Mandy snorts.
“Let me guess,” she says, eyes flicking to the book. “Becca wrote that?”
I look up sharply. “Yeah. She knows her shit.”
“Oh, I’m sure she does,” Mandy replies sweetly. “She seems like the type who … loves plans.”
She doesn't mean it as a compliment. I’m about to say something when Rick leans over with a low laugh.
“Careful, Sammy. You keep quoting her like scripture and she’s gonna charge you consulting fees.
” He grins. "Planning is good. Needed often.
But you have to know when you should plan and when you should take action. Opportunity waits for no one."
I swallow hard, his words hitting a raw nerve I didn’t know was showing. If I would have brought her on as a consultant maybe this meeting would have gone smoother. Rick must read that on my face.
“Guys like us,” he adds, swirling his bourbon, “we don’t wait for permission. We take risks. Build things with our name on the door.”
The rest of the lunch is a fiasco. Big ideas are tossed around like confetti, but not a single concrete, actionable plan lands on the table. Until Rick drops a contract in front of us like a mic.
“Just boilerplate,” he says with a grin. “We’re all partners—different percentages, of course. This baby’s gonna take off. Think: fancy lunches and bottle service for years.”
“Or,” I say flatly, “maybe years of late nights and weekends grinding to turn a profit.”
They barely hear me. Mandy is already reaching for a pen. Holly, wide-eyed and eager, follows suit.
I slap my hand over Holly’s copy.
“We’re not signing anything until a lawyer looks this over.”
Rick’s grin tightens. “Sure, sure. Gotta make sure Daddy approves, right?” he taunts.
I don’t rise to the bait. Before my fight with Becca and her advice on not signing a contract, I would have let that comment needle me. Now, I only nod, calm on the outside, fury boiling underneath.
On the drive home, my frustration curdles into something deeper, regret maybe. Whatever it is, it isn't going away. I pull into the garage and stare into the dark cab of my truck.
Then I head to the shop behind the house where my heavy bag hangs. I crank the volume on the speakers and go at it hard, round after round. But the more I hit, the worse it gets. No release, only a mounting pressure that won’t quit.
“HEY!”
I turn, startled. Phoenix is standing in the doorway, leather tote slung across her shoulder.
“Sorry,” she says, raising a hand. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Music was a little … aggressive.”