Page 19 of She Was Made for Me

“What about a Gantt chart? It’s a tool that shows how to structure…” I trail off as Violet looks irritated. Or is it amused?

“You don’t need to mansplain. I know what a Gantt chart is.”

Of course she does. This is her job, you fuckwit.

“What do you think this is for?” She gestures to the dry-erase board behind her. “Pictionary?”

I stifle a chuckle because even though she’s clearly still irritated with me from this morning, that was kind of funny.

Goddammit. The last thing I need is for her to make me laugh.

“Yeah, alright,” I mutter, frowning down at the floor. “Then let’s figure this out. First of all, we need to decide what we want to tell the architect on Monday.”

Violet lifts a shoulder. “We know what to tell him. Split the place into apartments. Make it modern.”

“Yeah… We’re not going to do that.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Excuse me?”

“I told you, we’re not removing those original features.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know, you want to keep the mantel and the floor, but—”

“Wewillbe keeping those things,” I say firmly.

Her hands go to her hips as she glares at me. “What makes you thinkyouget to decide that?”

“I’m the foreman. Rich asked me to head up this project.”

“Yeah, and he askedme, too.”

“But you don’t know anything about remodeling a house,” I say, my voice rising in exasperation.

Her eyes narrow, and guilt darts through me. Her father told me that in confidence, and she’s trying her best. Even I can see that.

“Maybe not,” she forces out through gritted teeth, “but I understand the importance of meeting client expectations on a project.”

“That’s not…” I shake my head, looking away as I realize there’s more to this than only her lack of experience. I think back to the woman I met in Joe’s, the one who admired the history of this neighborhood and felt sad to see it erased. “You know what’s pissing me off the most, Violet?”

She throws her hands up. “I havenoidea.”

“When we met, you talked about how much you love these old buildings. Now you’re doing your best to strip the history out of this one.”

“Oh,nowyou want to talk about what happened the day we met?”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, caught off-guard. The last thing I need is her pressing me again to confess that I was about to ask her out. “In Joe’s you said—”

“I know what I said. Unlikesomepeople”—she looks at me pointedly—“Ican actually remember what happened that day.”

Don’t bite.

“Then why, if you mean what you said about the importance of preserving old buildings, are you so insistent on destroying this one?”

“That’s a little dramatic. We’re hardlydestroyingit. But Dad said—”

“So it’s because he’s your dad?”

“No, it’s…” She shifts her weight, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “It’s because he’s our client,” she says after a pause. “It’s important to make the client happy.”

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