Page 65 of The Wrong Guy
I grit my teeth together, swallowing the shit that she’s stirring up in my insides. We don’t talk about Dad much, not anymore. It’s not painful exactly, but it’s been a long time since he passed, so it doesn’t always seem relevant in the here and now. But it’s part of what shaped me into who I am, both his presence and his absence.
“Pretty sure you’re the fiercest person I know, Mom.” It’s the truth. She’s tough and strong, but manages to be soft and kind too. Hazel and I got the tough and strong parts, but are covered with spikes to keep people at bay, unlike Mom, who’s never met a stranger she couldn’t turn into at least an acquaintance.
“Well, if that’s so, then don’t you be arguing with me, mister. Wren doesn’t think any less of you. She never did—which I told you—and she doesn’t now just because Jed and Chrissy are going through Divorce Court drama.”
I want to hear her, believe her. And I’m doing my best to stay busy, keep distracted, take care of everyone else, but deep down ... I’m worried. What if this contract rewrite takes forever? I can’t do a damn thing about it, but I still feel like I’m letting my guys down with every passing day. And Wren might not think less of me, but she’s still this shining star of brains and beauty, and I’m a too-rough guy who’s good with his hands. When I’m idle, what can I offer her? A great fuck and a shoulder to lean on? That’s not enough for a woman like Wren.
I think that’s why I keep getting struck by these fits of jealousy. I want her so much, want to build a life with her, want to have a forever with her. But Oliver the Asshole is this bright example of everything I’m not, being shoved in my face over and over. He’s smart in a way I can never be, able to relate to Wren on topics I can’t even pronounce, and though I hate to admit it, he’s a good-looking, fancy-dressed guy who’s someone you’d expect Wren to be with, a.k.a. not a grunting caveman who can build her a house from the ground up and start a fire to grill some meat, like me.
“Well, shit,” I hear Mom say from a distance. Blinking, I come back from my own whirling thoughts to find her digging in the display case again. She comes up with one of those FAAFO cupcakes in her hand. “I thought I was giving you a pep talk, but I can tell by the way you’re gritting the teeth I paid the orthodontist to straighten that it didn’t work. So now I’m going with Plan B ... open.”
She holds up the cupcake, which looks like a vanilla cake covered in orange-and-green tie-dye frosting with a sugared grapefruit gummy in the center.
“No, thanks, Mom. I’m fine,” I stammer, willing to do anything, say anything ... as long as I don’t have to eat that thing.
“Too late. You fay-foh’d and now you’re gonna eat this. You need a spark to go off to the meeting with Chrissy so you’re not all wah-whiny baby, woe is me. Be the badass you are, go in there, and tell her how this new company is gonna work.” I nod, thinking that sounds okay. Good, even. “And that starts right here.”
She holds the cupcake right in front of my face, and I can smell the sourness. I shake my head, refusing, and Mom glares at me, her head tilted a bit threateningly.
Okay, just a little bite. How bad can it be?
I open to nibble at it, and Mom forcefully shoves the whole thing into my mouth, getting frosting from my nose to my chin. “Mahm!” I say, or try to say around the mouthful. I can’t even chew. I’m just moving my tongue around and swallowing to keep from choking. But eventually, I get enough down that I taste the cupcake. It’s ...
“Not bad actually,” I admit in surprise. “Is there jalapeño jelly in the middle?”
She nods, pleased with herself. “Sweetened with agave nectar.”
“Huh, who’d’ve thought?”
“Me,” Mom says dryly. “And that’s why you should listen to me. About Wren and about Chrissy. Now go before the sugar wears off.”
I grab the box of packaged cupcakes and a handful of napkins, cleaning my face as I make a run for the door. “Bye, Mom! Thanks!” I hear her muttering something about stupid protein shakes, but she throws up a wave goodbye. “And I’ll get that light changed later!”
The drive over to the main office is short, but I slam down the rest of my shake, wanting to have some protein in my belly with all that sugar. I should’ve planned what I want to say, but I’m more of a pants-er, as in, seat of mine, than a planner anyway. At least when it comes to meetings.
The headquarters of Ford Construction Company, or whatever Chrissy’s gonna call it now, is a simple suite in a nondescript building. The brown stucco looks bland and forgettable, and the single glass door has black film to keep the sun out and a white vinyl sticker with the company logo. It definitely doesn’t showcase what we can do, design-wise or build-wise.
The inside isn’t much better. Cubicles with movable walls, cheap carpet, and stark white walls make the space feel temporary and almost scammy. For someone so concerned with appearances, it’d seemed odd that Jed didn’t do more with the office, but when I asked him about it once, he said that he wasn’t putting money into a space no one sees.
Realistically, I decided he was putting the money into his own pocket.
At the front desk, Maggie looks grumpier than a mama bear chasing her cubs out of the water for the tenth time this morning. “Uh, hey, Maggie! I brought goodies,” I tease, holding up the box and hoping it’ll gain me entrance without getting my head bitten off. “Mom put in two Buttery Nipples for you. A matching pair.”
I wiggle the box in front of my chest, shimmying my shoulders a bit. Thankfully, it pulls a small smile from the woman who’s put up with more of Jed’s shit than anyone else, probably including Chrissy herself.
“Thanks, Jesse. I need these,” Maggie says, sounding exasperated and not waiting a second to dig into the box. She pulls out a cupcake with a tan caramel areola on butterscotch-schnapps frosting and takes a big bite. Moaning, she mumbles, “Gah, these are sooo gud.”
I grin, glad that I could bring a little bit of joy to her day. I lean on the counter to whisper, “What’s going on? I got a call to do The Bitch’s bidding today?”
Maggie giggles, sounding much younger than her fiftysomething years. “She’s got ants in her pants, probably realizing that she doesn’t have a clue.”
She gives me a knowing look as she takes another bite. I think she’s thinking like Wren, that I could have the run of the place if I play my cards right. But I shrug noncommittally. “Jed didn’t either. We all know you run the office and I run the job site. Who needs ’em?”
“Ain’t that the truth?” she agrees wholeheartedly.
Once upon a time, I think Jed hired Maggie to answer the phones or something equally low-key. But over the years, she’s become the true star of the show behind the scenes. You need to know the budget? Ask Maggie. Want to order materials? Maggie. Got an issue with your paycheck? Maggie ... well, she has a payroll company that does most of the work now, but for a lot of years, she was the one printing every check. Just about anything that actually makes the company function? Maggie does it or oversees the person who does.
I didn’t even realize how much she does until Winston was singing her praises one night after he started his own firm. He needed to hire help and couldn’t figure out how to post a job for “Maggie.”