Page 44 of Hate You Later
Good news, mostly. Since announcing Bryce’s leave of absence “to do some important post-divorce healing,” most of our investors are back on board for the warehouse renovation. This is a huge relief. We’re still a little over budget, but I’ll find more corners to cut.
I’m optimistic about how the finish details are coming together. My meeting with the landscape architect is particularly gratifying. He has some suggestions that will significantly lower the costs for the patios and roof decks. We switch from slate surfaces and irrigated planters to heat-resistant, recycled concrete pavers and xeriscape.
We also decide to move forward with artificial turf areas and eliminate potentially toxic plants. This pivot makes the entire project more cost effective as well as more pet friendly.
“You know,” the landscape architect enthuses, “this is such a landmark project for us. It’d be great press.”
“Excellent idea! I’ll have our team pitch that,” I say.
After I meet with the foreman to do a rundown of all the recent eco-conscious and sustainable changes I’ve made, I feel particularly proud. Not just because we’re delivering this project closer to on time and under budget. I actually believe all of these things will make this a better place to live—for everyone. It’s a great feeling to be a part of a project like this. Something I actually care about.
The warehouse is exactly the sort of place I’d want to live if I were putting down roots in Ephron. It’s not just apartments. It’s going to be a community. A work/live mecca that honors its residents like family with a built-in sense of belonging. Why hadn’t Bryce been able to see and appreciate that?
To my stepbrother, this building was all about showing off. He’d argued for valet parking with extra spaces out front to showcase his luxury cars.
I nixed that in favor of more room for outdoor seating, facing the river. It’ll be a great place to gather at sunset.
To me, this project isn’t about showing off. It’s about showing up. I just wish Bryce had kept his nose out of my part of the business.
Then again, if Bryce hadn’t meddled, I wouldn’t have made it my priority to be here, living on-site right now. I wouldn’t have this time with Lilly, and much as I hate to admit it, there’s something nice about being in Ephron again.
My phone chirps with a preset alarm reminding me to post today’s Petfluencer Challenge photo. Fortunately, this prompt is easy. I already have the perfect photo. I won’t fall further behind.
For the “What a Cliché” prompt, I scroll back and click a picture of Oliver sitting precariously on his haunches, grooming himself. His hind legs are pointed to twelve and three o’clock, and his tongue is hanging out. I caught him with his nose nearly buried in his own crotch. Any other cat would look ridiculous in this pose. But somehow, the little bastard has managed to look like a haughty aristocrat, even in this ignominious moment.
I caption the post “Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness” and throw in a few hashtags for his breed. The post gets a few likes almost immediately, and I get the dopamine hit of social media success.
Though I’m not sure five likes actually qualifies as “success.” Once again, I note that this stuff is harder than it looks.
I grab a cup of coffee and head back up to my loft to reply to messages and catch up on my social media. Lilly has left me three messages to call her so we can “strategize” about tomorrow’s planning meeting.
In the elevator on the way up, I try to imagine what I’ll say to Georgia. What will she do when she finds out I’m Bryce’s brother?Andthe guy who raised her rent. Will she even want our help with the fundraiser? Then again, how can she say no?
Will she take a swing at me too?
I don’t think her attack on Bryce was unprovoked. But there’s something about her that strikes me as feral, almost. The mere fact that I cannot begin to predict how she might react has me on my toes, second-guessing everything I might say to her.
I’m transported back to The Onion, that sensation of stepping sideways, repeatedly, trying to get around each other and failing.
Meanwhile, my whole body seems to echo with the memory of her hot, soft body slamming into mine. Her sparkling fingers on my chest. The curve of her long, black lashes and her wild, green eyes glowing under the fringe of her bangs. She’d still been flushed from her fight. Those lips.
I’m aching to know what they feel like smashed under mine. I shift uncomfortably and groan as the door dings, grateful both for the comfort of my jogging pants and the fact that there’s nobody else living up here to witness the fact that I’m stepping out of the elevator with a hard-on.
It’s become so difficult to stop thinking about Georgia. Sparkling, sparky Georgia, backed up against the starry wall of her shop.
I shake my head and consider sticking it in the freezer. Why am I even entertaining these thoughts when she clearly has a problem with my family? Why am I ignoring such major red flags and indulging in this fantasy? I give myself a tough talking to.
I am not here to save homeless pets. Helping the shelter might be the “right thing to do” as per Lilly’s admonition. But why does it always have to be me doing the right thing? Ephron’s problems are not my problems.
Furthermore, I’m definitely not here to start something with someone who inevitably would want more from me than I have to give right now.
A second, more stubborn voice in my head argues with the first. This voice sounds a bit like Cookie. It says,
“Is that what you’re really afraid of, Furball? Or are you actually afraid that you’re the one who’d want more? If you never ask for what you want, you can’t blame anyone else when you don’t get it.”
“What I want,” I argue back, “is to complete this project my way. To turn this waste of space into something I, my entire family, and future generations can be proud of.”
“I just hope they appreciate you,”the Cookie voice comments.
