Page 41 of Because of Them

“I want to believe you.” The words hurt me, and I can see the pain in his eyes, too.

“Then I’m going to do everything in my power, every day, until you know it’s true.”

And I can’t explain why, but I believe that.

MICHAEL

The cool spring breeze whips through my hair and I curse when I realise I don’t have a hair tie within arm’s reach. There’s usually a couple looped around one of the straps on my toolbelt, but that’s safely nestled on the passenger seat of the truck, a few hundred metres up the gentle slope of the winery. The business shirt—fresh off the rack of the store I stopped at this morning—scratches at my neck.

Paperwork flicks in my hands as I try to find the printout I need. Finally finding the sitemap I printed three sizes too small, I shuffle the other pages, managing, only just, to keep a grip on them all. No one told me there would be so much paperwork. No one thought to say ‘hey Michael, get a clipboard so you don’t lose everything in the bloody wind.’ No one knew I was so damn thick that I would print a site map so small I can barely read the font.

My eyes squint, from the sun casting rays so bright the white paper is glowing, but also in a vain attempt to read whether the gradient of the slope is eleven per cent or seventeen per cent, or for all I know, zero. It’s not zero though, at least I know that much. I can tell by the way my right leg is bent from my position on the rolling hill.

With my eyes scrunched, brow furrowed, and shoulders so tense they might as well be touching my ears, I’m sure I’m the picture of cool, calm and collected. Just what Noah needs for our meeting. When he asked me to quote on this job, I doubt he realised he would become my father’s guinea pig. My big test. I wonder if it’s too late for him to back out. How much of his deposit would he lose if decided not to play along with my father’s games? Too much, I hope.

“You look like you need glasses.”

His playful jab works, loosening the tension and somehow earning him a laugh. Well, a fraction of a laugh. A slight, raspy exhale of breath, followed by the corner of my mouth pressing into my cheek.

“We have two printers in the office, one for all the big sitemaps and architectural drawings, and one for your standard contracts and letters and stuff.”

“And you used the wrong printer?”

My shoulders finally drop, resignation taking over my body until I’m drooping forward. “Can’t even print something right,” I mumble.

Straightening my back, I look across to Noah. His black pants and dark shirt look like they were tailored just for him, their boldness creating a contrast against the bright blue sky and green as paint grass. He stands with his sleeves rolled up, his hands propped in the pockets of his pants, and he looks … important. He might not have told his friends that he owns the winery, but he sure as hell looks the part. Guilt gnaws at mybones that he has to put up with me and my too tight shirt and too small paperwork.

Changing my grip on the papers so I can hold them with one hand, I use the other to sweep my hair out of my face, tucking it over to one side. The heat from the sun burns at my ears.

“Look, I’m sorry you got stuck with me. My dad wants me to … I don’t know … see my own potential or some shit, but it’s not fair that your massive project ends up with such a loose cannon of a project manager.”

He shrugs, tipping his head to one side until his ear just about touches his shoulders. “Everyone has to start somewhere. Seems kind of full on that he would throw you in the deep end, but I guess he has his reasons. Let’s go inside, we can look at the plans on the computer.”

Noah’s office is nestled behind the bar of the cellar door. The rustic wood and metal fittings from the open space carrying through into the small corner room. A wide steel framed window looks out to the sloping winery. Beyond it the sweeping hills of the Mornington Peninsula carry the view away towards the bay. It’s beautiful, but the finite details inside the room call for my attention. Exposed wooden beams run the length of the slanted ceiling, and a barn style sliding door separates the room from the bustling restaurant.

“The architect designed something more modern for the hotel space,” I muse out loud as Noah moves behind the large cement topped desk to turn on the computer.

“I think the words I used were sophisticated and classy.”

“You don’t think it’ll be too … different?”

It looks good. The architect’s drawings, even in their too small prints tucked under my arm, are clean, refined. Sharp lines and angles, smooth finishes, and not a hint of the rustic charm the cellar door building holds.

Noah’s face scrunches as he sits back in his chair. His arms drape across the armrests and he stretches his legs up onto the desk.

“Sit down.” It’s an invitation, not a demand, but I do what he says anyway. My body tenses, on edge and fully aware that in this space, he is in charge.

Something sizzles in the air for a moment. I crossed a fine line I hadn’t realised was floating between us. The fraction of an inch where this relationship cuts between being friendly to being strictly professional. I got too comfortable with Noah, stuck back when we were chatting in Callum and Cassidy’s backyard instead of moving forward in a professional way.

‘Never tell the client they are wrong.’I hear my father’s words as clearly as if he were in the room. Remembering the last time I screwed everything up.

I hold my breath. Waiting for Noah to tell me I’m wrong or send me out or cancel the contract.

“Breathe you idiot.” Noah throws a scrunched up sticky note at my face. “I will not have you panicking yourself to death in my office. I don’t need to deal with that.”

“Sorry I … um …” I stammer. “I shouldn’t have said that. Do you want to look at the plans? The architect had you on the emails.”

“You’re right though. I probably used the wrong words. I want it to look sophisticated, but it still needs to be cohesive with the look of the restaurant.”

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