Chapter 12
WHAT’S SHAKIN’ BACON?
BILLIE
I sure didn’t have drink a Caesar in my one-night stand’s house while wearing his clothes on my bingo card for this century, but here I am.
Okay, so he was right, and it was more like a three-night stand, but who’s counting?
It’s a good Caesar, too. There’s even a pickled bean and a dill pickle in it. And it’s super spicy. Ugh. I wish I could hate this drink, but I need it so badly after what I’ve endured this afternoon. At least there’s no way it can get any worse.
I’m smiling at the thought while Stephanie, one of the women on my team and who worked on the interior of Peter’s—Darcy’s—house, graces us with a hilarious story about her kid doing the floss in the middle of her driveway, wearing nothing but a pair of Steph’s lingerie he clearly wasn’t supposed to find.
She’s getting into the neighbor’s reaction when my phone vibrates in the pocket of the soft track pants I’m wearing.
Absentmindedly and out of habit, I pick it up and look at the screen. My face instantly drops when I see the call is from my dad. Crap on a cracker. I have to pick up because if I know one thing about Tim Cameron, it’s that he doesn’t know when to quit.
I give the group an apologetic smile and hold up a finger as I back away and head out the door to the backyard.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Lizzie, we need to talk.” So nice of him not to bother with a hello.
“We are talking, Dad.” I keep my voice jovial. Sarcasm is not something he appreciates, and it’s a crying shame, really.
“You and that smart mouth. I mean, in person. I need to meet with you. Come by Victoria Hall on Monday morning.” His tone is the usual: short, demanding, and presumptuous. I take a calming breath, thankful for the breeze brushing against my face.
“I have an early kickoff meeting on Monday in Chester. I can be back before noon, though.” I used to ask whether that was okay, but I stopped because he would say no, and then I’d have to scramble to make myself available to both him and my staff.
“Big job?” Of course he asks that question.
When I took the company over from him, it was struggling.
People seemed to have lost all faith in contractors and the trades, and my dad had a reputation for being expensive and unpleasant to deal with.
I had my work cut out for me, but I’ve turned things around in the last few years.
“Yep. Full gut job.” There’s no way I’m giving him any more details.
I’ll never get off the phone, and he’ll be questioning every decision I’ve made.
It’s like he still doesn’t believe I’m competent enough to run this business when he’s the one who nearly ran it into the ground while I’m making strides and have a larger team than he ever did.
Our relationship is complicated and fragile.
He wasn’t in my life much after my parents divorced, and when I did see him, I tried to show interest in what he was doing, but he’d never let me use a power tool.
I was barely allowed to touch a hammer. Good Ol’ Dad didn’t think a construction site was meant for women.
At least he’s changed his tune about some things… Mostly.
“Good. Good. No sense bothering with small jobs, anyway. They always take the longest, and you end up making no money.” I mouth along with his words, having heard this at least a hundred times in my life from him.
“Right. Well, I was in the middle of something, so I have to go, but I’ll see you Monday at noon?” I cross my fingers, hoping there’s nothing else and he’s done talking.
“Yeah.”
“Bye, Da—” He’s already hung up. Cool.
Now I’ll be spending every minute until I see him wondering what the hell is important enough to be summoned to his second office at Victoria Hall.
His first office should be at his house, since the old Cameron Construction office is technically mine.
Except he insisted on keeping it for himself.
The one with a separate entrance and a picture window overlooking the woods that he absolutely needed once he retired and became president of the Balsam Bay Business Bureau.
My desk is tucked in a corner on the other side of the building, which is supposed to be strictly for storage.
So I share my space with tools, materials, and whatever else the team isn’t using on a job.
I’m not bitter about it, though. I don’t care where I work from, and I’m hardly ever at my desk, anyway.
Rolling my shoulders a few times, I take another deep breath and prepare to overthink the shit out of everything while making small talk in clothes that aren’t mine, smelling like fresh laundry and the man I absolutely need to forget.
My only saving grace is that for the duration of my time at Peter’s—damn it, Darcy’s—house, we don’t speak to one another again.
Monday mornings are a bitch to begin with, but they can truly kiss my ass when they start with spilled coffee and knowing I have to see my father.
To add insult to injury, I rushed through my site meeting and forgot to leave the printed construction binder with my team, which means I have to drive back to Chester after this meeting.
I hate that my brain does this. I was so focused on making sure I didn’t take too long that I forgot a major detail.
I know the crew is fine; they still have demolition to do before they need whatever is in the binder, but I like to have things organized.
Especially at work. Sometimes only at work, if I’m honest with myself.
I emailed the digital copy to everyone as soon as I got into town, right after I realized the binder was sitting on the passenger seat, which was supposed to ensure I wouldn’t forget to pass it along.
I swear, some days the ADHD feels like it’s taking over.
Especially the closer I get to my period arriving.
Medication be damned—the luteal phase arrives and fucks with me, no matter what.
We have a good rhythm, my team and I. I float around to different sites, depending on who needs what, if we’re short a person, or on days when I need to do something with my hands.
I’m also the one who meets with potential clients, which includes my best friend and interior designer, Neve.
I set up timelines, manage the budgets, maintain relationships with other trades we need to call in, and handle permitting.
It’s a lot, but I love that things are different all the time.
Thankful for small mercies, like being half an hour early for whatever this thing with my dad is, I make my way to Shore Thing for a coffee and a treat to preemptively reward myself for whatever further shit shows today will bring.
The smell of coffee and sugar greets me the moment I step inside, and I fill my lungs with the blissful scent.
“Billie!” Matt, one of the shop’s youngest baristas, greets me.
“What’s shakin’ bacon?” His wince—and mine—are immediate.
“Oops. Sorry. I heard about the incident with Tammy.” Of course he did.
It’s unlikely any of the five thousand or so residents of Balsam Bay didn’t hear about my run-in with that stupid pig.
“I’ll allow it if you have a Nanaimo bar behind that counter for m—” I falter when Matt’s eyes dart to someone I hadn’t noticed.
Someone who is bringing a Nanaimo bar up to his luscious mouth.
He bites into it, unaware of the extra attention firmly on him, humming appreciatively as he chews.
Licking his lips, his eyes widen as they land on Matt, and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue when he catches the guilty look on the kid’s face.
“Sorry, Billie. That was the—”
“Last one? Yeah. Of course it was. Your face leaves nothing to the imagination, Matty. Do me a favor, never take up poker, all right?” With my attention on the menu hanging on the wall—the one I’ve memorized and don’t need to read because I only ever order one of two things—I straighten my spine and order.
“I’ll have a matcha latte, please. And, um, a cookie or something.
” I don’t even want it. I had my heart—and my belly—set on the crunchy, creamy, chocolaty goodness that is a Nanaimo bar.
“No, here. You have this.” Peter steps around the counter, his bitten-into treat in the center of a vintage plate.
“That’s okay. It’s yours.” I stop him with a hand, hoping he doesn’t come any closer, which, of course, he does.
“Beth-Billie,” he stammers, joining two names together as he corrects himself. The front door opens and closes behind us, and for the first time in my life, I hope it’s someone who wants to talk to me.
“Lizzie. I guess we both had the same idea to get a coffee before our meeting.” My dad’s hoarse voice makes me wince, my jaw tightening as I note the way Peter’s eyes widen at the tall man whose faint cigarette smell is already hitting my nostrils, making them itch.
“Hey, Dad. Yeah, I was early, so I came to get a matcha. I was going to bring you a coffee.” I wasn’t, but the moment I say it, Matt—bless his sweet soul—pours a dark roast into a medium cup and places it on the counter, leaving enough room for so much sugar and cream, it’ll no longer taste like anything remotely resembling coffee.
Dad takes the cup, unceremoniously. “Well then, I’m even more glad I caught you.
You never put enough sugar in.” Biting my tongue, I keep the no one needs four packets of sugar in their coffee comment to myself.
“Hi there.” My father extends his free hand to Peter.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Tim Cameron, president of the Business Bureau.
You’re the fella from Toronto who had a cottage remodeled, aren’t ya? ”
“Dad, this is Darcy,” I say, jumping in before Peter has the chance to. “And yes, we’re almost finished with the work on his house. Interior is all done.” I attempt to shoot Peter an apologetic look, but he’s grinning like an idiot.
“Great to meet you, Mr. Cameron.” The two men shake hands, and I shrivel up inside, wishing I could find myself a hole to crawl into and hide as my father and weekend fling meet.
This is not supposed to fucking happen.