Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“I get along with everyone,” I say breezily. “Even Cleo, and you know what she’s like.”
“A cathole,” he says with a laugh.
I smile, and we catch up on his work for a few minutes before we say goodbye. Then, I settle onto the couch to prep for my meeting while Simon snoozes on my lap. I review the notes that the potential client sent me. His name is Devon, but that’s all I know about him. The job is for an old house that needs an updated look, and he and his mother love my eco-friendly approach.
And they need someone to start immediately.
I’m their gal.
I grab my stuff and head out for my meeting in Sausalito—but not before peeking at the house next door, making sure my neighbor isn’t outside.
And dammit.
Mister Haughty Hockey is bounding down the steps confidently. He’s wearing charcoal slacks, a short-sleeve button-down that shows off his biceps, and aviator shades. Why must he wear aviator shades? That just makes it harder not to stare at him. I give in as he strides to a gleaming silver car parked by the curb. Of course his ride is spit-shined. Probably smells like new car and efficiency. I bet the inside doesn’t have a single food wrapper or rogue fry.
I growl under my breath, wait until the coast is clear, then I take off for the bus stop. On the way, I pick up a leftover cardboard takeout box from the sidewalk so I can toss it in the recycling bin.
Well, you have to practice what you preach.
4
DESPERATE TIMES
FORD
My mother clucks her tongue. “I should come down to handle this.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “You don’t need to,” I reassure her.
“Are you sure?” She arches a brow on the phone screen. “You’re running a hand through your hair. You do that when you’re stressed. Just let me help. I love to help.”
“If by help you mean fire everyone, then no, Mom.” I pace the empty living room, my footsteps echoing across the floorboards of the Sausalito home I bought for her and my dad. It’s been their dream to retire by the water, and you can’t beat the views of Richardson Bay in this seaside town across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.
“I only fired people who weren’t executing my vision. The last one didn’t know what to do with her time. The job shouldn’t have taken a week, even with the non-toxic paint I picked out. They do it so quickly on TV.”
I stride over to the sliding glass doors. “You manage to sound so reasonable.”
“I am, Ford. I’m incredibly reasonable. I expect excellence. You’re the same way. You expect excellence from yourself on the ice.”
She’s a little bit right, but I’ll never admit the similarity. My mother has been running the renovation like a reality TV show host—the kind who makes everyone cower. “Firing a dozen contractors and designers is not going to help you and Dad move in here by the end of the year.”
She shoots me a doubtful look over FaceTime as she adjusts her pearls. Because of course she wears pearls while watering plants in her Seattle backyard. “Was it really that many?” she asks airily. “It seemed like one.”
“It was hardly one.” I watch the boats gliding along the sapphire-blue water of the bay. It’s serene here and feels far removed from the events of this morning. I bathed Zamboni and worked out with the conditioning coach, gaining the necessary distance from the madness of that run-in. Did that sexy chaos demon get distance too? Has she given it a second thought?
I dismiss her from my mind and focus on the current problem. “Look, I’m meeting with a new designer, and it’s going to be great. You’ll be able to move in very soon.”
“I should meet with this person,” Mom says, setting the green metal watering can by a garden bed. “It’ll be easier that way.”
It’ll be easier if she’s not involved at all. The more involved she gets, the more opinions she has, the more issues she finds, the more problems she makes. She thinks she’s being helpful, but she’s steamrolling me, and I just want to do something nice for her and Dad.
I briefly remember wanting to do something nice for my ex-wife—and look where that got me. I’d arranged for a private chef when she wanted to learn to cook, only for her to shack up with him instead.
This is not the same, of course. This is for my parents. But I have a plan for this year, and micromanaging a home renovation is not part of it. Giving my parents the home of their dreams is. That’s the point of hiring a designer—not that it’s been easy. The last person I interviewed reeked of weed, and the person before that said her design aesthetic was actually brutalist, not environmentally friendly.