Page 11 of She Was Made for Me

He can’t be serious.

Kyle glances past me down the hall, as if he’s expecting someone might be lurking in the next room or hiding under the stairs. The expression on his face when he looks back at me is priceless. “You’re the project manager,” he says flatly.

Before I can respond, Dad says, “What do you think, Vi? Up for something a bit different?”

I glance between him and Kyle, at a loss for words.

“This entire place needs to be gutted and remodeled. I’ve got Kyle here as the foreman, and we need a project manager. I figured since you’re between jobs right now, it would be the perfect opportunity.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world around me to vanish. I should have told Dad the truth when I had the chance. I should never have agreed to visit him in New York. I should have known better when he said he had something to keep me busy for a while. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“I’ll pay you,” Dad adds, chuckling. “Whatever the going rate is for a project manager on a renovation project like this.”

I wince, staring at the floor. How the hell should I know what that is?

The weight of Dad and Kyle’s gaze presses against me, and I force my eyes up. What can I say? I can either tell Dad the truth now, in front of Kyle, which will be twice as humiliating, or I can agree to something I have no clue how to do.

Okay, yes, I know how to manage a project, even if I’ve had no direct experience doing so. But remodeling a historic building in Brooklyn? I wouldn’t know where to start.

I make the mistake of meeting Kyle’s eye. He’s gazing at me curiously, and on instinct I straighten up, lifting my chin.

“Uh, why me, Dad?” I ask, stalling for time.

“The timing is perfect,” he says again. “You don’t have anything to do for a while, and I think you’ll do a fantastic job.”

His unwarranted belief in me makes me cringe. I don’t doubt my ability to manage a project, but I don’t relish the idea of jumping in at the deep end in a completely new industry and under the watchful eye of my father.

And that’s before we even get to the fact that I’d be working with Kyle, the thought of which is equal measures awkward and appealing.

Dad looks between me and Kyle, smiling. “I wanted the two people I trust most on this project.”

Oh, God.

Guilt gnaws through me and I twist my hands together, miserable. I can’t tell him the truth now. It would crush him. I’m going to have to do this.

Dad’s right, anyway—I don’t have anything else to do. I’ve sent out resumes, I’ve emailed contacts, and I’ve heard nothing back. I can’t sit around twiddling my thumbs, waiting. I’ll go crazy. I’m already feeling antsy at having nothing to do.

Besides, part of me reasons, if I do this then I’ll haveactualproject management experience to put on my resume, which is huge. And it’s not like I’m not trained in this. I know what to do. Sure, the building stuff will be a steep learning curve, but I’m a fast learner and I love a challenge. This will definitely keep me busy while I wait for a real job opportunity, and it will help meprogressin my career, rather than tread water.

I swallow, giving Dad a weak smile. “Okay, count me in.”

“Excellent!” The way his face lights up makes me want to shrivel up and die, but he doesn’t notice, turning to lead us further into the house. “Right, let’s have a look at what we can do with this place.”

I trail behind Dad and Kyle, barely able to focus as Kyle asks all kinds of questions, jotting things in his notebook. We step into a large room, which Kyle refers to as ‘the front parlor.’ I’m momentarily distracted from the situation by the beauty of the room—the intricately detailed crown moldings, the rich dark wooden floors, the rosette around the light fixture on the ceiling that Kyle points out. He explains the history of these types of townhouses—I hear him use the term ‘Greek revival’—and despite myself, I’m riveted. His eyes are bright as they move around the room, his deep voice ringing with passion as he speaks, and I almost forget Dad entirely as I watch Kyle. When he moves near me to show us the pocket doors, my body tingles with awareness.

“That’s great,” Dad says, bringing my attention back to him, “but I’m thinking of a more modern feel. I want the place split into several apartments.”

Kyle frowns, scrubbing a hand over his messy beard. He opens his mouth to say something, but appears to bite his tongue.

I don’t say anything either, but have to admit that seems like a shame. After spending so long in the commercial area of Silicon Valley, a place with so little character, the charm of this neighborhood—this building—is hard to deny. The thought of deliberately stripping away that history to create a bunch of apartments feels like sacrilege.

Still, it’s Dad’s place, not mine. He’s the client in this situation. He’s the one we need to please. I’m sure Kyle is used to working with people who have a different vision for a project from his own.

We head from the front parlor to the back parlor—because apparently one parlor wasn’t enough in the nineteenth century—and out to what looks like a balcony. Kyle says it’s a later addition, and that these spaces were often used as tea rooms. I don’t drink tea, but I imagine the balcony would be a nice place to bring my laptop and work outside.

There are two floors above this one, each with two bedrooms and a bathroom, but they’re a mess, with brick and wiring exposed in places as half the walls have been torn out. It gets worse when we go down to the basement. Kyle explains it’s a ‘garden-level basement,’ which means it’s half below street level on one side, but you can walk out into the yard at the back. Whatever it is, this is apparently where they stored all their junk. There’s no sign of the kitchen that Kyle tells us would have once been here, and as for the yard, it’s little more than an overgrown tangle of weeds and building materials.

By the time we’re back in the entry hall, my head is spinning, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Not just with the house, but with the foreman, who I can’t seem to take my eyes off.

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