Page 60 of Her Property

It wasn’t just any lake house they were building—it was a modern four-bedroom-and-matching-boathouse thing of beauty designed by Iwa Miyazaki, one of his favorite architects in the world. Graydon had a stack of coffee table books at home filled with her sleek modern designs. Alfred Jones, a hotshot lawyer in New York City who still managed to be a decent guy, had spared no expense in getting the job done right. He told Graydon he’d hired him because he was the best of the best up here in Barkley Falls. Jones had confessed he’d had to give up the lake house that had been in his family for years because of a property dispute last year. Because of that drama, he was meticulous about things being perfect the whole way through, from the land surveying to the view from the living room. While Graydon had high standards on all his jobs—it was why Grayscale was booked solid straight through to next year—this job felt special.

Graydon cut across the parking lot with his mind comfortably distracted on his work schedule over the final six weeks of the build. The designer to replace the fancy one who’d never showed up was arriving tomorrow, and he wanted the site to be spotless for them. He had words for the absentee designer. In his mind, when you signed up for a job, you saw it through, or else you helped make sure it got finished one way or another. But Graydon wasn’t looking after the design side of the build, so he kept his opinions to himself. He just hoped this replacement wasn’t half as flaky as the first.

There wasan electronic chime as Graydon stepped through the automatic door of the building, followed by a decisive crash and accompanying cry of “Well, shit,” at the cash register.

An elderly Chinese man’s small lumber order—but big piece of lumber—had slipped off his pallet shopping cart onto the floor.

“Chuck!” Graydon called. The wood had narrowly missed the older man’s toe. He rushed to his side.

“Graydon,” the man said, relief washing over his features. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

“What are you doing trying to haul this load out by yourself? Let me help you get this to your truck.”

The older man let loose a weary sigh as they went out the door. “I’m not as nimble as I used to be, Graydon. I don’t know why I think I can manage like I did thirty years ago.”

“Hell, I’m not even 40 yet and I feel it,” Graydon said, his muscles twinging in agreement as he angled the cart toward Chuck’s truck.

Chuck scoffed. “Oh how I wish I could be 40 again. Except for the kids. They were all pains in the butt when I was that age. You guys, too!”

Graydon laughed out loud at that. Chuck had been one of Graydon’s dad’s good friends, and he’d spent a lot of time playing with Chuck’s kids way back when.

While Chuck dug around for some rope, Graydon balanced the lumber across the bed of his truck. Then he hopped over the tailgate and began propping the pieces up against the cab.

“How were you planning on getting these up here yourself, anyway?” Graydon asked.

“Wait around until I found a young sucker to do it for me!”

Graydon laughed again, and Chuck launched into a story about a time he’d been fishing with Graydon’s dad, how they’d nearly capsized when they’d caught a giant carp. It was a story Gray had heard before, but there wasn’t a chance he’d remind Chuck of that.

Loading up the lumber was a small but labor-intensive job, and the late spring sun was warm on his back. Soon, Graydon was drenched with sweat. When he got the last of the pieces tied up, he stood and inspected the job, lifting the front of his shirt up to mop his forehead.

Then there was a loud thud from the road. The two men jerked their heads up toward the intersection next to the parking lot, where a silver hybrid SUV had slammed into the back of a big black mud-streaked pickup.

“Well, shit again,” Chuck said.

Though the noise had been loud, the accident didn’t look serious—the SUV hadn’t hit hard enough to deploy the airbag, and the woman in the SUV had her hands over her mouth, which was a sure sign of surprise rather than injury. Unfortunately, she had slammed into exactly the wrong dude: Brady Smyth, the high school bully turned town galoot. His truck was propped up on oversized tires the size of a tractor’s.

Graydon grimaced as the truck door swung open and a pair of meaty legs in camo Bermuda shorts and flip-flops slid out onto the side step.

“What the hell,” Brady yelled.

Graydon sighed and hopped over Chuck’s tailgate. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he jogged over to the scene of the fender bender.

Brady jumped down from his truck. It was a big drop for the pint-sized meathead, who hadn’t grown an inch upwards since the sixth grade. Brady had a shaved head and wore his sunglasses around the back of his neck, which gave the odd impression of having a face carved into the flesh there.

“What the hell you thinkin’ lady?” he shouted.

Graydon arrived at the mud-slicked truck just as Brady took his first step towards the SUV.

“Hang on, Brady,” Graydon said, in a tone that made Brady startle. He scowled when he saw who it was. Graydon and Brady had known each other since kindergarten, and the two had irritated each other for just as long. “Did you see what she did?”

“I did. And I’m going to help you figure this out.”

“But—”

“You wait right here.” Graydon said.

“Hell no, I won’t, I—”

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