Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I get to be outside, work with my hands, never tied to a desk or wearing a necktie noose. For all the shit we give each other, I like the guys on the job site, and as cliché as it may be, I like the idea of something I made becoming someone’s home.
Except today, it’s giving me too much time to think, and that’s dangerous.
From my current perch atop a ceiling joist, I nail in the next rafter tie before walking along the thin length of wood without a wobble to do the same thing again. We’re getting the framing done on this roof today so we can start framing next door tomorrow morning.
I scan down the row of homes, all in various stages of completion. The ones closest to the front are nearly finished, only missing some internal touches. The ones farther back are still dirt lots with brightly colored flags marking lot borders and the underground mains for water and power. But the houses aren’t all I see.
There’s a shiny black car that I don’t recognize driving in from the front of the subdivision.
Knowing he’s here for an electrical install precheck, I call down into the depths of the house I’m working on. “Hey, Mike, your girlfriend got a new car?” I laughingly tease because a Lexus like that has got to be an old-lady car. But I’m watching the car as it draws closer. When it gets to the area we’re working on, it stops in the middle of the road, blocked by various work trucks, concrete deliveries, and a grouping of trailers.
The doors open, and out step Oliver and Wren. They look around, perplexed at the blockade.
Wren is wearing a black pencil skirt, a short-sleeve pale-blue blouse, and heels. Her blonde hair hangs in perfect curls down her back, and she looks good enough to spread butter on and gobble up like a biscuit.
The Asshole is wearing a suit-and-tie combo that I don’t give a shit about.
What the hell are they doing here?
I’m no dummy. I know exactly what my most attractive parts are, and why Wren chose to slum with a man like me. To highlight myself, I prop a boot on the joist across from me; spreading my thighs out, I rest an elbow on my knee and flex my biceps a bit before whistling sharply, knowing Wren will look around for the source of the noise. She shades her eyes, scanning the surrounding homes at first-floor level, and then finally looking up higher. I know the instant she finds me because I see her chest rise when she sucks in a breath.
I don’t bother to hide my smirk as I shout down, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Wren doesn’t hesitate to be loud either. “We need to talk.”
We . . . as in me and her?
We . . . as in her and Oliver?
We . . . as in all three of us?
There’s only one of those options I’m willing to entertain. But Wren lifts one brow, reminding me of our conversation last night. She needs this case for some reason.
I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s a divorce, something that happens to more than 50 percent of marriages. Divide the money, split the company on paper, and Jed can buy Chrissy out, and that’ll be that. Done deal. Chrissy’s only in it for the money anyway. Always has been, always will be. And Jed can go on being the self-righteous narcissist no one likes, the way he’s always been, with a new little mini-me to fuck up.
But I’ll do this for Wren. Shit, I’d do damn near anything for her.
I wipe my forehead with a sigh. “I’m coming down. Gimme a second.”
I swing my legs a couple of times for momentum and hop down to the second-story plywood subfloor with a thud. Plodding down the stairs, I stop halfway to call back up, “Roscoe, finish up those rafter ties, will ya?”
“Aye, aye, boss,” he answers crisply, for once not backtalking or giving me a hard time. I never told anyone who I was seeing when Wren and I were doing what we were doing, but everyone knew when it stopped because I was a bastard—more than usual—for a long while after that. Hell, I probably still am. A woman like Wren will do that to a guy—fuck your brain up for the rest of your life.
Downstairs, I find Wren and Oliver standing in what will be the living room of this house. They look ridiculous in office attire, surrounded by wood framing and concrete. “Out,” I bark as I point toward the doorframe they came through.
“What?” Wren mutters in shock.
Oliver clenches his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed as he glares at me. “We need to go over a few things. Now.”