Page 65 of The Renegade Billionaire
15
BRAXTON
“What amI looking for up here?” I despise the way my voice quivers as I lay on my belly on the damn roof because I’m too fucking scared to stand up.
Six weeks. That’s all it took for this old man to get me to climb onto the roof. Imagine what he could do if he used his powers for the good of the world. Jesus, he’s a tricky son of a bitch.
“Count the rotting pieces. How bad does it look?” Pops is shielding his eyes from the sun with both hands, and I swear the old man just might be dancing down there too.
Climbing up onto the roof was not what we had planned to do today. But after we cruised through town yesterday, we went to lunch with his friends where everyone in the place had ideas for the Hideaway.
Apparently before we prioritize projects, we have to know what we’re dealing with. Unfortunately for Pops, I don’t know a shingle from a gutter shield, something Moose had a field day with at lunch.
I stare at the black-and-gray rectangles in front of me. “I don’t know, Pops. It looks old, and it’s saggy in some places.”
“What the hell are you doing up there?” a loud baritone voice booms to the sky louder than a Fourth of July firework.
Scrabbling around on my belly so my head hangs over the edge of the roof instead of my toes, I find Cian glowering in my direction.
Just what I need.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“We’re working here,” Pops shouts back, though it sounds a little petulant, even from three stories in the air.
“And I told you that when you were ready, I’d come over and do it for you.” Perhaps Cian isn’t yelling. I’m beginning to think that his giant frame only comes with one volume—loud and aggressive. “Brax, get the feck down here, will ya, before you break yer neck and Madi skins my hide.”
His Irish brogue is thicker toward the end of his sentence. He’s pissed.
Army-crawling back around, I feel with my feet for the rungs of the ladder.
“Are ya taking the piss out, Braxton?”
I peer over my shoulder and see Cian sprinting toward the house.
“This is the ladder you used? You can’t place a ladder on a porch roof. You’re really going to kill yerself.”
“My ladder didn’t reach the roof,” Pops explains while I creep forward a few inches and cling to the hot pieces of sandpaper I now know are roof shingles.
“All the more reason to come get me, ya old fool. Braxton, so help me, St. Monica. Do not move from that spot. I’ll be right back with the proper tools, ya bunch of bubbletwits.”
“Did he just call us bubbletwits?” I call down to Pops, who’s stuffing his hands into his pockets and whistling to the sky.
Why does everything feel like a trick with this guy?
Moments later, Cian’s muttering as he stomps up the driveway, hauling a giant ladder as if it weighs as much as a jump rope.
“If one of ya gets hurt, that’s going to hurt Madi, and when Madi’s hurting, so is Elle, and Elle is very, very pregnant. If one of you makes Elle sad, I’ll bury you in the backyard and build a dog park over you.”
“A dog park?” It’s so very…specific. I bet up close he’s a scary motherfucker right now.
“Pops hates when dogs piss on his lawn. Imagine how he’ll feel being pissed on day in and day out.”
Pops grunts his disapproval, but I laugh so hard my belly shakes, and an involuntary yelp escapes when I slide two inches.
Cian returns to cursing while propping the biggest ladder I’ve ever seen against the house. He does something with it to brace it against the wood slats, then holds it steady from below.
“Get down,” he growls.
