Page 11 of Single-Minded
“Wow,” she said.
“Wow. I need to think through everything, but I haven’t felt sparked like this since I quit. Since before I quit.”
Patrick slid the bill tray onto our table and kept on going, as if he sensed there was something big going on with our discussion, and he didn’t want to interrupt.
Distractedly I pulled out my card and set it down to cover the bill.
Chloe took her purse out, but I waved her away.
“I’ve got this one. You can get the next time. Chloe!” Excitement zipped through me at the coffee shop prospect.
Our eyes met again, and my brows shot up. It was all I could do to sit still.
“I have to get to work, but tell me what I can do,” she said. “I can help you research or taste test or whatever.”
I laughed, because this was sort of crazy and yet sort of awesome.
“I’ll definitely keep you posted.”
By the time I walked out the diner door, I was absolutely buzzing with possibilities.
Chapter Four
West
Day two of the Holiday project was nearing an end, and I had yet to see Presley.
Which was just fine with me.
The guys and I had made good progress on the demo and hoped to finish gutting the main floor tomorrow.
Though ripping out cabinets, yanking up flooring, and pulling down drywall was damn hard work, this job, at least today, nearly felt like cheating in the battle with Nick, my competitor for the foreman position. Presley had cranked up the AC considerably yesterday when she’d noticed my guys sweating, so the temp was close to thirty degrees cooler than the other crew’s outdoor project in the Tennessee sun.
Nick was also dealing with a disruptive homeowner on their jobsite. Mr. Castille, a retired teacher, was apparently questioning everything they did and how they did it. Nick had to take time out to explain every step, which had to be exhausting and would likely put the project behind schedule soon, if it hadn’t already.
The job went more smoothly when the homeowner didn’t interfere or, like Presley, didn’t even bother to be home.
I hauled an old cabinet from the laundry room out to the truck for donation, as the cabinetry was still in usable condition. As I had every single time I’d come out here today, I glanced around for a sign of Presley.
I was jonesing for a glimpse of her. Just a glimpse. A guy couldn’t get in trouble from a glimpse.
Back inside, we were pulling out the last of the old cabinets from the laundry room when my phone rang. The babysitter’s name flashed on my screen, spiking my heart rate, as Allison didn’t call unless there was a problem.
I hurried away from the racket and exited to the back patio so I could hear, then answered.
“What’s up, Allison?”
“Hi, West. Sorry to bother you at work, but the girls’ mom hasn’t picked them up yet. I was wondering if you’d heard from her?”
I checked my watch. It was 3:32. She was thirty-two minutes late for her daughters. Dammit.
“I haven’t heard from her,” I growled, trying to keep my anger to myself. “How are the girls doing?”
“I’ve been distracting them with riddles, but Scarlet noticed the time a few minutes ago and told the others. Sienna and Nova are in tears, feeding off each other. Scarlet is marching around the house ranting.”
Sounded about right. If I wasn’t so pissed at my ex, I’d be amused by my oldest—by minutes—daughter.
I checked my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed a call or text. “No messages on this end,” I said.
