Trouble with Travis

Chapter 1

RACHEL

“Not like that.” Rachel Gibson shook her head even though her client couldn’t see her. “Don’t be afraid. You can’t mess it up. Do it just like I showed you. Once it’s aligned, then slip it right in. Boom. Done.”

She glanced at the digital clock on the top corner of her laptop.

Crap, crap, crap. She was so late. A-freaking-gain.

She normally didn’t take clients in her bedroom, but she’d turned off the camera, so it wasn’t a big deal.

“I think I’ve almost got it,” the deep male voice assured in a tone that was not assuring.

Rachel stilled, took a deep breath, and did her absolute best to relax the tension from her shoulders.

Perfection is not measured by degrees. It is created by degrees.

She played the mantra over in her head. This particular adage was the extent of the philosophical genes making up Rachel’s DNA.

Seeing that most of her genetics came from a family who preferred to crack jokes at inappropriate times to deflect from thoughtful conversation, it was a miracle she’d inherited any deep thoughts.

That said, this philosophical saying was her go-to in the reality of her daily activities as the owner, manager, and only employee of her very own virtual personal assistant company. Also, as a mom to her two boys. Twins.

Anyway, perfection was within her grasp, degree by degree—if she could simply keep her shit together.

Or get her shit together. Either way.

She let out a sigh, watching her client’s progress on the screen.

This client was in California, so their time zones were close.

Rachel was in Denver, and thanks to the beauty of the internet, she could work virtually with clients nearly anywhere.

Although the new Australia client was starting to seriously cost her on missed sleep.

“Darn,” he said. Once again, he fudged the design. Perfection would not happen for him with this graphic design lesson.

“Just line it up,” Rachel encouraged. “Don’t overthink.

” Most days, her uncanny ability to find solutions to client issues was outweighed only by her inability to deal with her own crap.

Sometimes she even considered taking up the joke-cracking schtick that worked so well for her brothers and parents.

“I can’t get it. I’m telling you,” he replied, frustration lacing his tone.

Man, she did not have time for this. She had to get out the door. They’d need to reschedule for later, which stunk because she didn’t have time later.

Hell, she didn’t have time now.

“Okay, wait, I think I did it.” James sounded as relieved as she felt.

Thank goodness. She glanced at his work-in-progress on the screen of her laptop. Oh, thank, thank, thank goodness. Yes, he had it. She released a long breath.

“I can’t believe I got it.” He laughed, switching the video monitor from the graphic design program on the screen to his webcam. “You’re the best, Rachel.”

He gave her two thumbs up.

Even though he couldn’t see her, Rachel couldn’t help it…

she smiled. One more happy client. She’d been working with him for the past hour so he could create his own graphics for his start-up company.

He’d finally figured out how to copy and paste and now he knew how to move the images around.

Perfection by degrees. Her motto in process.

“I’ll practice some more and then we can chat in a few days,” he said, the pleased tone of his words causing that bloom of pride she adored so much in her job.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Rachel said, raising her voice into the speaker of the MacBook placed precariously on the edge of her dresser. She’d set down the computer so she could simultaneously apply her eye makeup while observing his progression on the screen.

They said their goodbyes, and she closed the laptop. Then she yawned. Last night had been another doozy. Could she get away with crawling into bed to sleep for the next eight hours? No. She could not.

Because the load of shit that needed to be done would not do itself.

That was the answer to that.

Accepting her newest client (the Australia guy) was the perfect supplement to her income. Unfortunately, she’d never been good at pulling all-nighters. Not even when she’d been an undergrad or when her twins were teeny tiny, itsy-bitsy, cutie patootie babies.

One step at a time, one project at a time, one client at a time, she was making all the things happen all the time. After all, the difference between boiling water and hot water was only one degree.

The difference between crossing the finish line in first place or second place was usually a matter of millimeters.

And the difference between “horribly late” and “let’s just reschedule” was nearly always separated by Rachel’s underestimation of time management.

“Rach?” her best friend Molly called from downstairs. “C’mon, hustle up. We’re going to be late.”

Yes, they were. But what was she supposed to say when James had needed an extra hour this afternoon? She did what she always did. Solved. The. Freaking. Problem.

“Coming,” Rachel hollered, hoping her voice carried out the door and down the staircase.

“Late,” Molly called back.

“Two seconds,” Rachel called again. Rubbing the remnants of concealer over the dark bags that seemed to have permanent residence under her eyes, she quickly pulled her hair up into a twist, securing it with some corkscrew bobby pins her mother-in-law insisted she try.

Former mother-in-law.

The meemaw to her twin boys.

The momster who usually always got whatever she wanted, even though Rachel couldn’t quite figure out how she did it.

A quick pop on the scale on her way out of the bathroom and she’d be on her way. One swift step. She could do this. Gah. She hated this part of the day.

She closed her eyes when the digital display blinked, and she considered whether the three cookies she’d eaten after lunch were going to prove to ruin her afternoon. Deep breath and she opened her eyes, glancing down.

Shit.

Damn, that thing was being a total asshole.

For the record, she’d eat the cookies again just to spite it.

Also, they were really yummy and a gift from a client.

They’d arrived at her doorstep warm—with bonus ice cream—and what was she supposed to do? They were meant to be eaten warm. So she ate them…warm. That was what one did with divine cookies.

“Rachel, seriously,” Molly called, but her tone sounded as though she’d just discovered the remnants of a dozen warm cookies from Heather’s Cookie Co. on the dining room table, and she didn’t really care if they were that late.

Double crapola.

“Don’t eat those,” Rachel shouted, grabbing her favorite sling-back black sandals on her way out of her bedroom, her toes sinking only briefly in the carpet because she was on a sprint.

Dammit, Molly was as good as Rachel for spiderlike senses around carbohydrates and sugar. Rachel should’ve put them away. Of course, her best friend would find the residual cookies.

But Rachel had plans for them—there were four left. Two for each of her boys.

If Molly ate one, then there would be only three and that meant an argument that Rachel did not want to referee. So if Molly ate one, then Rachel would have to eat one,

but she’d already had plenty, and she didn’t really want the scale to be more of an asshole because her best friend ate a cookie.

That made sense, right?

“Seriously, Molly, don’t eat that.” Rachel took the steps two at a time, skidding around the bottom of the bannister, deftly stepping over errant Legos scattered like land mines, past the corner of the office she’d set up there.

Yes, she could cut the third cookie in half for the boys. While that might teach them a lesson in sharing, it brought more challenges and probably the food scale to get an exact weight so things were precisely fair.

So it’d just be easier if—

She scooted around the corner into the dining room where the box lay open on the table.

Cookie in hand, Molly’s dark curls bobbed against the exposed pale skin of her shoulder as she turned to Rachel. Rachel, who had reached the room three seconds too late.

Molly lifted her looked-to-be-recently-threaded eyebrows as she bit, her hazel eyes sparkling with the perpetual perkiness that had become her brand.

Rachel made a strangled sound.

“Wha?” Molly asked as a few errant crumbles fell from her lips.

Rachel took a breath as her cell buzzed in her pocket.

“Want some?” Molly asked around the mouthful of carb-laden goodness.

Rachel shook her head, glancing at her cell. A client.

She needed to take this.

“Don’t pick that up.” Molly’s eyes turned to slits. “We’ll be even later. Not just cookie late, but client late. You know we can’t be—”

“It’s Cassie.” Rachel stared as the number flashed on the screen.

“Cassie?” Molly asked.

“Client.” Cassie had a tendency to try to do things herself that she really should let Rachel handle. “It’s probably important.”

“It’s after hours,” Molly said, totally correct in that assumption.

Rachel bit at her bottom lip. Molly wasn’t wrong…yet…

“That is why you shouldn’t pick it up.” Molly clearly knew better than to reach for the phone, since she and Rachel had been friends forever.

But, since they’d been friends forever, Rachel knew Molly’s fingertips must itch to grab the cell and bat it out of reach.

Crush it under her tennis shoe. That sort of thing.

“It is after five,” Molly continued. “We have a Little League game to get to. Your kids and my kid are expecting us not to be late. And boundaries are important.”

“What if the call is important?” Rachel wished she had powers of telepathy so she could reach through the signal and determine if it was something that needed to be dealt with before she picked up and made them both late. Later.

“What’s the likelihood that it’s not something that can wait until tomorrow?” Molly asked, her tone one of soothing comfort that usually worked for getting her way.