Page 2 of In Love with Lewis Prescott
Vlad lets out a choking sound and hunches forward slightly, like someone has just shoved him. “Y-you can’t fire me!”
“I just did.” I point to the front door. “Leave.”
Vlad’s four-man crew seems to understand my command just fine as they quickly pack up their equipment and file out of the house in less than a minute. Vlad glances around at the movement, clearly dazed. When he turns back to me, recognition flashes across his face, then a scowl.
Muttering curses under his breath, he stomps out the door, tripping and nearly falling down before quickly righting his footing. Not cut off at the knees, but good enough.
I stand in the empty space and listen to the sound of his truck engine fading in the distance, my head spinning as I process what just happened. I just fired the contractor remodeling my grandparents’ home without a backup plan. I don’t have enough money to hire a new crew to fix the mess Vlad madeandcontinue with the rest of the remodel.
What the hell do I do?
Shame and panic converge at the center of my chest, making my heart pound like an out-of-control drumbeat. It was my idea to quit my job in San Francisco months ago, give up my Nob Hill apartment, and move out here to Half Moon Bay to renovate my grandparents’ home—the first and only home they ever owned after immigrating to the US from the Philippines. I promised my parents I’d honor the memory ofApongVivian andApongBernie by redoing their house the way they’d always wanted to but couldn’t afford. I thought this would be the perfect break from years of working my demanding corporate job.
And because I hired a shitty contractor—because of my lack of foresight due to being burned-out from years of seventy-hour workweeks—I’ve gone and screwed it all up.
Hot tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away. I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket to call my cousin Naomi, but I stop myself when I pull up her name in my contacts list. I called her enough times when I was overseeing the addition of the bathrooms and veranda to the house the last few months. Even though I know she’d happily listen to me vent because she’s my best friend and has been there for me since we were in diapers, something about this failure feels different—more raw and painful.
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and press a fist to the back of my neck, releasing a smidgen of the tension riddling me. I lock the door and walk down the driveway to my car. A dull pain shoots up my skull. I’m gonna need caffeine before I attempt to figure this out.
I head downtown and grab an Americano from the first coffee shop I see, then wander the streets in an attempt to clear my head. Between sips I breathe in the crisp, salty ocean air that whips gently around me. I take in the mixed architecture of the buildings—some stucco, some all brick, a few Spanish-style. It distracts me for a minute, but my thoughts circle back to the dreaded question that I have no idea how to answer: How the hell am I going to finish the renovation?
The thought of my grandparents’ house remaining a half-finished disaster because of my mistake has me on the verge of tears once more. I blink quickly as I turn the corner, nearly running into a tall, broad body clad in a leather jacket and dark jeans, traveling at jogging speed. I dart to the side so quickly I lose my balance. My coffee goes flying.
“Shit,” I blurt as I glance down at the sad pool of liquid gold seeping into the sidewalk.
And that’s when the dam inside me finally bursts and a tear tumbles down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. Can’t one fucking thing go right today?
“Are you okay?” a gruff voice above me asks.
I’m thrown by the irritation in his tone. Usually a question like that is spoken with concern.
I look up and see a tall, scruffy, thirtysomething blond guy in a baseball cap. When he whips off his shades, a worried frown twists at his face.
“Um, yeah.” I squint at him. “Are you?”
He nods, his hazel eyes lingering over my face before scanning over me, like he’s making sure I’m telling the truth and not, in fact, hurt. It’s weirdly off-putting—almost as off-putting as the fact that he hasn’t yet apologized for almost running me over or knocking my oh-so-necessary coffee to the ground.
He glances around, like he’s looking out for someone. Then he starts to step away before stopping and turning back to me.
I scoff. “You in a hurry?”
“Kind of,” he mutters.
I pick up my now-empty coffee cup and toss it into a nearby recycling bin. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. You must have a slew of people you’re late for mowing over while blindly turning corners.”
His expression softens. “I’m sorry.” He peers down at the coffee staining the concrete between us. “Really. Let me buy you another cup.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I insist. I could use some caffeine too. Clearly.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a sort-of smile while he scratches the thick wheat-gold scruff that poorly disguises his sharp-as-hell jaw. I wouldn’t normally let a stranger buy me a cup of coffee, but he’s at least being friendly now. And he sounds truly sorry. And I still need caffeine. What the hell, why not?
He points to a nearby coffee shop, and I follow him inside to the register. I order another Americano, then step off to the side to grab napkins from the counter by the wall. I walk the few steps back over to him, and when the barista, who can’t seem to stop staring at him, turns away to make our drinks, I notice he drops a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar.
“Wow. Big spender.”
“I used to work in food service. I always try to tip more than average to make up for all those stingy jerks.”
