Page 63 of The Wrong Guy
Jesse nods thoughtfully, and I feel like he’s letting my words sink in and really considering them. But he also asks, “Is she really that bad?”
The scrunchy face that accompanies the question says he doesn’t really want the answer, but I don’t sugarcoat things.
“We spent three hours arguing over whether the electrical lines could be run underground or if they had to be run on poles. She completely didn’t understand that was a nonnegotiable ... because the freaking electricity is already on-site and run throughout the property.”
“You didn’t,” he argues disbelievingly.
I nod my reassurance. “Yep, all because she didn’t like the aesthetic of wires in the air. So she wanted them rerun underground so she didn’t have to see them.”
“Shiiiit, maybe I’ll go to Newport tomorrow too,” he laughingly suggests. He’s not doing any such thing. The other guys will, but Jesse will remain true to the bitter end. I just hope that’s not sooner rather than later with Chrissy at the helm of the ship otherwise known as Chrissy’s Construction, with a heart over the i in Chrissy.
And unfortunately, I’m dead serious. It’s one of the company names in consideration. I’ll save that one for later. Jesse’s had about as much as he can take right now. Still, I think about him drawing little hearts on his paperwork every day and giggle.
“Someone’s getting a bit too cold.” Jesse rises from the floor, grabbing a fluffy towel as he does. He holds it out wide as I stand from the lukewarm water, and quickly wraps me up in it, rubbing me gently to help me dry off.
In the bedroom, he pulls back the blankets and gestures for me to get in. “I need pajamas or I’ll freeze.”
“Not with me behind you.” He grins devilishly.
“You’re staying over?” I ask, hearing the hopefulness in my own voice.
“Couldn’t kick me out now if you tried. Get into bed while I go warm up your leftovers. Dinner in bed, and then you need some sleep.” He points at me and then the bed, allowing for no arguments.
Not that I want to argue. A bath, dinner, and sleep sound like heaven right now, and I’m one for three as of yet.
“Yes, sir,” I snap jokingly, not used to people telling me what to do or taking care of me. But I kinda like it ... from Jesse.
“Careful, Birdie. You start that shit and there’s no telling when you’ll get to rest,” he warns. His dark eyes have gone instantly molten, promising all sorts of naughty fun. I’m heavily considering starting that shit right now, but a yawn escapes, and Jesse’s brows knit together in concern. “Bed. Now.”
He guides me to lay down on my propped-up, freshly fluffed pillows, and places a quick peck to my forehead. “Back in a second,” he tells me, nearly running for the kitchen to heat up the leftovers.
But even that’s too long, I guess, because I fall asleep before he gets back. I dream that he strips down and climbs into bed with me, arranging us into big and little spoons, with me as the little spoon. I think I argue about wanting to be his jet pack, but he chuckles and tells me to go back to sleep. All I know is I sleep well, warm and safe wrapped in Jesse’s arms.
Chapter 22
JESSE
I don’t know the number on my phone, which usually means it’s a spam call. I go to hit “Decline,” but for some reason, it accidentally answers. Rolling my eyes at my fat-fingering and already annoyed at the interruption to my not-at-all-busy day, I say, “Hello.”
“Jesse?” a female voice says.
Trying to figure out who it is, I carefully answer, “Yeah?”
“Oh, good. I need you to come in around ten so we can go over a few things.”
She pauses like I’m supposed to agree, but considering I still don’t know if this is the blood bank asking for a pint, my doctor’s office, or the bank wanting me to sign some shit, I don’t agree to anything. “Who is this?” I demand instead.
“Oh.” Whoever she is, she’s definitely not happy that I don’t know. If I hadn’t been so hung up on Wren for so long, I might be worried it was an old girlfriend chasing me down, but that ship sailed long ago. “This is Chrissy Ford, your employer and boss.”
I swear to God, she says it like she’s explaining that she’s the queen of England and I should properly worship her existence, even through the phone.
Is she seriously going for hoity-toity snobby when I saw her screeching and destroying property days ago? And I’ve spent my whole life hearing about what pieces of shit Jed and Chrissy are from Aunt Etta? And she’s putting my job site on pause, making it so my crews are struggling to pay their bills?
Yeah, I’m not really feeling her “bow down to me, peasant” vibe. I’m more in the “bitch, please” camp.
“’Sup?” I mumble, purposefully sounding too casual and disrespectful in order to get under her skin.
“Excuse me?” she snipes back. But something must make her rethink the locked-and-loaded rant she’s ready to unleash on me, because she makes an audible hmmph sound and then starts again. “Jesse, this is Chrissy Ford. I want to meet with you this morning to go over some Township details.”