Page 64 of The Wrong Guy
That was too easy. The guys are going to eat her alive if she gives in like that every time.
“Okay. Can’t do ten, though, make it eleven,” I reply. “At the trailer at Township or the main office?”
I have jack shit to do today and could meet her anytime, but I’m being intentionally ornery to further test her because it’s fun. I grin as I glance down at my sock-covered feet propped up on the coffee table next to my protein shake. After seeing Wren off to work with breakfast in her belly and a lunch in her bag, I’ve already come home, worked out, showered, and gotten dressed other than my boots, which are stored by the door to keep my place clean. My big plan for the day is to head over to Aunt Etta’s barn to stay busy and productive. There’s always something to do over there, and if not, I can bother Wyatt. His workshop is behind Gran’s old house, and running saws at a hundred decibels is a good way to mentally unwind.
“Eleven is fine. The main office,” she clips out.
“’Kay. I’ll be there.” Click.
I hang up the phone, taking twisted glee in irritating her. Yeah, she might be my new boss, but right now, she’s the boss of nothing. She’s got no crews, no jobs, no contracts, and no right to call the shots. Jed’s awful, no doubt about that, but I could respect that he left us alone and I didn’t have to deal with him. Hopefully, after a little meet and greet, Chrissy will be the same.
If not, we’ll have to teach her how we do things around Ford Construction Company, or whatever the hell she’s gonna call it now.
If I’m going to the main office, there’s one thing I need to do first—stop by the Bakery Box. If I don’t bring cupcakes to Maggie, she’s likely to skin me alive, and I’d prefer to not be turned into a warning story for what not to do when you visit the main office.
I throw the lid on my protein shake and yank my boots on. I start my truck, loving the loud engine rumbles, and wave at Mrs. Capshaw’s front window. It doesn’t seem like she’s watching right now, but she hates my truck and its “needless noise pollution.” Of course, she pretty much hates everything.
Once downtown, I find a parking spot and walk the few doors down to Mom’s bakery. The bells jingle as I open the door. “Welcome to the Bakery Box,” Mom says automatically, and then she looks up. “Oh, hey!”
Her smile is home, this building almost as much so. The pine floors are shiny, probably freshly mopped mere hours ago, and covered with knots and nail holes that show their age. The glass display cases are full of delicious treats, and though the menu board on the wall lists out the details of Mom’s specialties, most folks order based on which one looks the best. Mom calls it “ordering by eye.” I call it “get in my belly!” appeal.
“Hi, Mom. I’ve gotta go into the office, so I wanted to grab a few treats for Maggie and them,” I reply. “Whatever you think they’ll like, because it sounds like Chrissy is over there acting like the queen herself.”
“She is not!” Mom says, shaking her head. She disappears beneath the counter, her hand reaching into the case. “I swear, she’s a real piece of work. Always has been, always will be. Can’t believe she’s gonna be my landlord now. No telling what crap she’ll try to pull ...”
While Mom rants, I look around the bakery. Hazel helps Mom several days a week, bouncing between the Bakery Box and waiting tables at Puss N Boots, and while I help when I can, I’m usually relegated to the kitchen to deal with Helga, Mom’s favorite and temperamental industrial mixer. I haven’t been up front in a bit, and my detailed eye scans for potential things to take care of. The paint seems okay, the tables are in good repair, but there’s a light bulb in one of the ceiling fixtures that’s out.
“Want me to change that real quick?” I offer.
Mom reappears like a weird version of Pop Goes the Weasel and looks to where I’m pointing. “Hmm, hadn’t even noticed it yet. Nah, let’s do it after hours so we don’t make a mess with the ladder and stuff.” I make a mental note to do that next time I’m here before opening, because she’ll forget about it, too focused on new flavor combinations and recipes to try.
She closes up the pink-and-white-striped box she’s filled. “Put two of Maggie’s favorite Buttery Nipple ones in there, a My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard cream-filled one, two Chocolate Orgasms, and a new one Hazel named—FAAFO. She said it means ‘fuck around and find out’?” Mom’s brows lift, double-checking if Hazel is pulling one over on her, because it wouldn’t be the first time Hazel’s done something like that.
I laugh and agree. “Yeah, that’s what FAAFO means.” I repeat it the way she did, like it’s an actual word—fayfoh. Already knowing the answer, I ask, “Who’s that one for?”
“Queen Bitch herself, of course. Maybe don’t tell her the flavor combo?” Sparkles of wickedness shine in Mom’s eyes, and when I open the box to peer inside, hoping for a hint, Mom fills me in. “It’s based on this cupcake show I saw on Netflix one day, where they had to do two flavors that don’t make a lick of sense, but still taste delicious together. That one’s grapefruit jalapeño.”
I legitimately cringe, revolted at the very idea. “That sounds disgusting.”
Mom frowns severely, and if I was closer, I think she’d smack me for insulting her food. I hold up my hands, making it clear that I’m not trying to catch her hands. She settles, soothed by my silent apology. “I know! People love it, though.” She shrugs like she doesn’t understand it either. “The sour is this brightness, then heat is deeper, and it’s all soothed by the cream-cheese frosting.”
It still sounds absolutely awful, but I have the wherewithal to fix my face and hide my thoughts.
“You want one to go?” she offers.
I shake my head quickly. “Nah, thanks, though. Got my protein shake in the truck. I’m a growing boy, ya know?” I pat my flat belly, knowing Mom’s not fooled a bit.
“Speaking of growing up—”
Shit. I walked right into that one. Hell, I lobbed the verbal ball into the air for her to spike it back at me. “Yeah?”
“How are you and Wren doing with this whole contract deal? You two are just getting yourselves sorted, and I don’t want this to ...” She stops and shakes her head. “Nope, not putting that into the universe. You two turn to each other, even when things get hard. Promise me that.”
That’s Mom’s advice about everything. Put good out and the universe will respond in kind. Of course, none of us remind her of the time the universe fucked us all over and took Dad away. Instead, we go along with her positive vibes, which are salted by the occasional FAAFO. It’s a good balance.
“We will, Mom,” I assure her. “We’re doing okay, just missing each other because she’s working nonstop and I’m not working at all. I’m not exactly a ‘sit around and twiddle my thumbs’ type.”
I’m not a “spill my feelings” kinda guy, either, but moms are built different. They know their kids, or at least mine does. And she hears the undercurrent trying to pull me down in the simple statement. “You’re not working because your company is going through rough times. It’s got nothing to do with you or your value. You men always tie up all your identities in your jobs. What you do is not who you are, Jesse. Who you are is a kind, caring, hard-working, patient man who loves with a fierceness I’ve only seen in one other man. Your father.”