Page 2 of Confessions of the Funny Fat Friend

I pouted. “Yeah, I have to get this contractor some keys. I’m not sure how long it’ll take. I might have to miss dinner.”

She shook her head, her blond curls bouncing. “We’ll wait for you.”

“You sure?” I asked, looking to Mara, who was busy chatting with the dress salesperson. Of the three of us, she was easily the most extroverted. “I feel guilty, like I’m already failing my bridesmaid’s duties.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’ll understand. And you call us when you get done, okay?”

“You’ll fill her in?” I asked.

Birdie smiled. “Of course.”

I left Vestido and went to my car in the parking lot. It was cheap and in regular need of repairs, but my dad had taught me enough about cars that I didn’t often have to spend money on a mechanic, which helped me tuck away that much more. With my new promotion, I was less than a year away from my savings goal. After that, I had no idea what I would do.

As I drove away from the store, I tried to imagine what life would look like when I finally had the savings I wanted after eight years of scrimping and living with my parents. I’d probably keep my job—I loved managing an apartment building and giving tenants good care and a safe place to live. There were so many shady rental companies out there, and luckily, I didn’t work for one of them.

They’d hired me as a move-out cleaner back when I was in community college, getting a business degree. When a manager spot opened, I applied, and they promoted me. Now that the company was developing a completely new apartment building, they’d given me a raise to liaise with the head contractor on the build, and I’d eventually manage the new complex.

It was exciting.

Even if it was a little inconvenient today.

But this would be my first time working with a construction company, my first time having a hand in something from the ground up. I couldn’t wait to see how it came to be. (And the extra pay wasn’t bad either.)

I reached Blue Bird Apartments and unlocked the main office. The building was fairly old, but I’d spiced up the office and its whitewashed wood paneled walls with lots of plants and some artwork from my mother’s studio. She worked at Brentwood University, teaching art classes to college students.

My favorite piece she’d created for me was a colorful chicken in my namesake.Henrietta. It was kind of an inside joke at this point, and my family’s entire home was decorated in chicken décor, from our kitschy salt and pepper shakers to the metal napkin holder shaped like a rooster.

At least we’d been able to talk Dad out of putting a weathervane on top of our suburban home.

Since I was already at the office, I worked on printing off some new unit applications, as we had a few coming available soon.

The bell rang over the door, and I stood up to greet the head contractor. Unfortunately, this wasn’t him. This guy couldn’t have been more than thirty, and he had thick black tattoos swirling down one of his tan arms. Part of me wondered how much his tattoo covered under his tight white T-shirt and jogger sweatpants, but I quickly shut down that thought. He didnotlook like the kind of guy in charge of a multi-million-dollar operation, and I had a diner to get to.

“Sorry,” I said. “The office isn’t open right now.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he replied, the slightest hint of a southern drawl in his voice.

I raised my eyebrows, so not in the mood for sass from a walk-in on a Saturday afternoon.

“Janessa told me to come this way to get my keys?” he said.

My eyes widened. “Janessa?” She was my boss stationed in the corporate office in LA and didn’t work with regular tenants...Shit. “You’re the head contractor?”

“That’s me. Tyler Griffen.”

“Henrietta Jones. But everyone calls me Hen.”

He extended his hand for me to shake.

My cheeks felt hot as I slipped my hand into his. It was large and warm and calloused. So freaking hot. Not to mention his grip was just the right firmness. “Sorry,” I said, turning and looking for a key in the lock box as I tried to calm my thoughts. “I thought you were someone else.”

When I turned back to him, he had an amused look on his chiseled face. Now that I looked a little closer, I could tell he worked outside. His white skin had a deep tan, like he spent a lot of time in the sun, and his strong jaw had a light cover of stubble. Not to mention, there were flecks of paint on his hands as he reached for the key. Interesting. This head contractor wasn’t just a stand-by-and-tell-everyone-what-to-do kind of guy. He must have been highly involved in the work. And that made me even more interested than the tattoos or his defined biceps.

I tilted my gaze down as I realized I was ogling. Clearing my throat, I tucked my relaxed hair behind my ear and said, “Why don’t you let me show you around the unit?”

“That would be great,” he replied with a crooked smile. “Thanks, Hen.”

God, the way my name sounded off his lips. “Is that a Texas accent I hear?” I asked as we pushed out the door and stepped outside.

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