“That doesn’t exactly sound like a positive statement.”
“Most people don’t go for a run and then eat ice cream.” Her eyes scrape down my torso. “Do abs just appear out of nowhere as you sleep too? There’s an ab. Oops, and another one. I mean, how do you ever get any sleep with all these abs forming left and right?”
I throw my head back and laugh, grateful for the levity to interrupt my thoughts. “It’s a hard job—”
“But somebody’s got to do it,” she murmurs.
I give her one last look before turning and pushing open the door.
Run.
Distance.
I need to keep my distance from her and from fucking things up.
And if taking a run every minute of every damn night while I’m here will help achieve that, then I guess I’m going to be the fittest damn guy on the planet. With self-growing abs apparently. Can’t say I mind that she noticed.
Seems fair given I stare at her hot-as-sin body every chance that I get. Squishy curves, my ass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ellery
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I wish I were, Ms. Sinclair—”
“Ellery.” I correct our demolition crew foreman for what feels like the hundredth time. If there is one thing I know about being a woman in construction, it’s don’t let anyone call you Miss or Ms. or ma’am. And sure as hell, not sweetie or honey. Any chance you give a man to reassert that you’re a woman is a chance for you to be handled with kid gloves when all you want is to be treated like just one of the guys.
“Ellery,” he says as I nod. “I wish I were.”
I roll my shoulders and stare at him while feeling like my head is going to explode. “So let me get this straight. Your crew all came down with the stomach flu at the same time?”
He nods but doesn’t meet my eyes. The question is why? “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you have no other crew you can replace them with?”
His sigh is heavy. “I don’t. No. You knew we were doing you a favor and traveling outside of our normal coverage area. They were all staying together in the hotel in town. The bug cycled through them.”
“Well, fuck.”
“I know it puts you in a tough position. I can make calls to some of the firms I know around here, but with the local union here on strike, I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
I twist my lips and place my hands on my hips as I turn and take in the drywall-dusted debris disaster before me.
“I have plumbing and framing coming tomorrow for that wing, and they don’t have any wiggle room on the schedule,” I say more to myself than to James. This is the problem with an expedited schedule. Trades aren’t moving in, finishing their work, and then moving out once the whole site is complete. We have them coming and going at all times for each of the varying renovations in various locations. It allows us to get one thing done and finish it in totality while other rooms are in partial stages.
It’s perfect in theory.
Until it’s not.
And right now . . . it’s not.
“I know you don’t. Believe me, I know.” His sigh sounds like the stress that was just heaped on my shoulders. “But I’m here. I’ve found two day laborers who can help with some of the less technical tasks. Between them and me . . . and maybe anyone else you can spare, we can try to get as much done as possible.”
“Thanks. Let me see what I can do.” I take a few steps away, already frazzled when it’s only seven a.m.
I lean my back against some rough framing and sigh as I fire off a text.
Me: My demo crew?
Joshua: What about it?
Me: A whole crew out sick. One you often use.
Joshua: Maybe they don’t like working for you.
Me: Don’t fuck with me, D.
Joshua: I don’t need to. You’ll fuck this up enough by yourself.
Me: Asshole.
Joshua: True, but I didn’t touch them.
I stare at my screen with pursed lips and debate if I believe him or not. Is he that stupid that he’d try to screw me over when he believes my success will ultimately benefit him?
No. I might not be his biggest fan, but he’s too selfish to do anything to jeopardize something he could gain from.
And now I’m left with the bare bones of a crew, a schedule I can’t budge much with, and only hours to figure out how to fix the issue.
The worst part?
Now I need to hunt down Ford to heap bad on top of worse with the news reporting this morning that a summer storm is going to hit us in a few days. It won’t exactly hinder our progress inside the inn, but it will slow things down on the café, kitchen, and rooftop bar.
Sure, our first week started off with a bang. It was productive. We further finessed our construction schedule as well as agreed upon interior choices so our designer could get everything ordered. Furniture, light sconces, fixtures, and everything in between had been selected. We have little room for errors or not being on the same page with our turnaround time to get this place back up and running so quickly.
And yes, Ford and I sat side by side or across the table while making these decisions, but every other waking moment has held a healthy distance between us. No more bumping into each other in the hallway while he goes out for a run, and I eat my ice cream. No more drinks on the boardwalk. Just grunts in response and him conveniently busy on a call whenever I need to talk to him.
Grumpy Ford has returned with a vengeance.
His father’s biography is the only thing I can pinpoint as being the external source of annoyance. The few times the book and its impending release have been mentioned on the television in the old bar—kept for our entertainment’s sake—he’s promptly turned it off. Even his phone calls to his brothers—or at least the ones I’ve been within earshot of—seem clipped.
Either that or the honeymoon phase between us is over, the newness has worn off, and he’s realizing he just doesn’t like me.
It happens.
But it’s worrisome when we have so much further to go and a contract—and this property—binding us together.
“Ford,” I state as he walks by, head down, answering a text.
He stops and looks up. “Yeah?”
“Bad news,” I say and then explain the situation with the help of James.
“I can help. Put me to work,” Ford states when we’re both done. “No offense, James, but putting a sledgehammer through some drywall doesn’t seem like rocket science.”
“No offense taken, but you really want to?” James asks, clearly shocked that a Sharpe is willing to get dirty.
“Yes.” Ford flashes a smile. “I could use something to smash to hell to take my frustration out on.”
“Follow me, then,” James says.
The work may look easy, but it’s exhausting. It’s not just the weight of the sledgehammer that tires your muscles, but it’s pulling the tool out once it’s stuck in the drywall. It’s the Sawzall vibrating as you cut the non-load-bearing walls and then hitting the beams with a hammer to knock them out of place.
And of course, since it’s all hands on deck, I decide to help too. Ford shouldn’t be the only one who has to switch gears.