Page 72 of The Billionaire's Teacher

I wasn’t going to let fear make the decision for me.

19

WES

Iflipped the lock on the shop doors and groaned. What a day. My employees—all two of them—had both called out, leaving me to do everything. Which, of course, meant that I didn’t get as much of my work done as I would have liked.

I could run the place on my own. No question. But I liked the freedom that having someone to mind the store provided. Basic sales and fielding phone calls were easy enough to manage, but they also took up time that I could spend doing other things.

Of course, in recent days, the only “other things” I’d managed had been obsessing about Sunshine.

“This has to stop.” I shook my head as I walked through the storefront to the hall that would lead me to the office. I had a little time before I was supposed to meet the guys for poker. At least I wasn’t hosting this week.

They gave me a lot of grief for not hosting often, but my townhouse was small and they were messy. I didn’t consider myself fussy or fastidious—two words that the guys liked to throw my way—but I would accept “particular.”

I sat at my desk and booted the computer for the first time today. I could at least check the shop email and make sure I hadn’t missed an important inquiry. Then I’d head out. And since we were meeting at Tristan’s, I’d swing over to pick up some wings on the way. He was almost a worse host than me.

Of course, with Tristan, it was because he was just busy. Constantly.

I shook my head. He had to love it. Otherwise, why would he keep at it, now that he was a billionaire? I sure wouldn’t.

I opened a browser and logged in to our email. There were vendor contacts—I’d need to check inventory and see what reorders needed to be made. An offer to trial a new wetsuit brand. Hmm. I was pretty happy with the choices I offered, but this company was looking to hit the lower end on the price point. If they could do that and still offer quality, it’d be nice to have that option.

I hit reply and typed out a quick response. I’d get some different sizes and see if the gang would all come give me their opinions. The women were all also divers, even if some of them didn’t love it. I hesitated before sending, then deleted one of the women’s sizes. Kayla was expecting. When I’d seen her at church, she was sporting a bump. I didn’t know a ton about pregnant women, but I didn’t imagine she’d want to try to haul a wetsuit on. Plus, she’d probably only be safe to swim, not to strap on the rest of the gear. I didn’t actually know. I’d never had a pregnant woman show an interest in diving.

I opened a new tab and did a quick search.

Okay, that was a big no. Hmm.

I pulled up our standard waiver that we used for classes and skimmed through the list of medical conditions we asked about. Oh, nice. Pregnancy was already there. Score one for Tristan. Or, probably, whatever service he used for boilerplate legal forms. Still, I was glad that I hadn’t been remiss in asking about an important condition.

I went back to the email, read it through again, and hit send. Then I filed it under vendors and moved on.

Three class enquiries followed and I replied with the standard response and attachments of schedules, costs, and forms. I grinned. I was going to have a great initial certification class starting in August if everyone from these emails signed up. More certifications meant more equipment sales. Or rentals. And more people who might go on trips. Because experience was showing that, around here at least, people were happy to settle on my place as “their dive shop.”

We were building a little community.

Which was just what I wanted.

I checked the time. I should probably get going. I skimmed the rest of my inbox and froze when I got down another six messages.

Sunshine?

I bit my lip and clicked it.

Wes,

Hey. Zee let me know you’d been calling and asking about me. I’m taking some time off—the hurricane survival bonus I got from your charter means I don’t need to fight for some of the trips right now. Plus, I missed my cottage and watching the sunrise from the porch.

Anyway. This is my email. So you can reach out directly instead of tagging Zee. If you want, of course. Maybe you’re satisfied to know that I’m doing fine. Hopefully the same is true of you.

Yours,

Sunny

I read it again. And then once more.

Feeling foolish, I hit print before closing out of the email program. I waited for the printer to spit out the sheet of paper before shutting down the computer. I took Sunshine’s email and folded it into a tiny rectangle, then shoved it into my pocket as I headed out of the office, pausing to flip the lights off. I did one more check of the conference room and changing area on my way through the shop. Then I set the alarm and left through the main doors, pausing to check that the locks were set, before heading across the parking lot to my car.

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