“Maybe not, Owen, but you also didn’t defend her. You just stood there like a giant tool while that guy insulted her! I thought you were a better man than that.”
“I know, I know,” I said quietly, chastened byher tone. Iwasa better man than that. Throwing myself back into my desk chair, I removed my ball cap and carded my fingers through my hair. “Which is why I’m calling you. Tell me where she is. Tell me how to fix this. I don’t think I have to explain to you how I’m not used to having people challenge me. It’s not an excuse, but…”
“I get that,” she said softly. “But you’re not alone in this anymore.”
“I know,” I growled. “So tell me how to deal with her.”
Amara barked out a laugh. “You don’t ‘deal’ with Delia,” she said. “This is supposed to be a collaborative effort, right? Socollaborate. You agreed to the partnership, Owen, so act like it. Listen when she speaks, offer compromises. All she wants is to have a say in things, and by letting that guy run all over her the way he did, she’s wondering why she got into business with you in the first place.”
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“Yeah,” Amara agreed. “You really got yourself in some shit. But…she’s at home. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks, Mar,” I said, sagging with relief. “You’re really saving my ass here.”
“Your ass isn’t saved just yet,” she assured me, then hung up.
We’d barely disconnected when the text with Delia’s address came through, and I was in my truck not a minute after, winding through the streets of Traverse City, heading north up Old Mission.
As I drove, another text from Amara came through, my truck reading it to me.
Amara: She’s probably in her office,which is above the garage. Just go in the side door off the driveway and the stairs are on the left. Good luck!
Good luck. Yeah, I had a feeling I was going to need it.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to Delia’s house. Though I’d seen numerous photos of it on her socials—I’d been particularly intrigued by the comparison of when it was constructed to now—it was a whole other thing to be standing in front of the physical manifestation of all of her hard work. I had to admit, I was impressed. Though if there was anything I’d learned about her in the last week, it was that she was tenacious and had a head full of great ideas. Moving forward with the original architect and building plan without consulting her first was a mistake I wouldn’t make again. Especially not with the reminder that she was responsible forthismasterpiece, a house that belonged on the cover of a magazine but also felt lived in, like a real home.
I pushed out of the truck and inhaled deeply, my shoulders relaxing at the fresh, crisp scent of the nearby lake that wafted through the air. Then I steeled my spine and headed inside.
The stairs to the loft were right where Amara said they’d be. When I reached the little white door atop them, I knocked lightly. From beyond, footsteps padded nearer, the floor creaking softly under their weight.
When Delia swung the door open, her face fell from excitement to wariness in a heartbeat.
“What are you doing here?”
I winced, supposing I deserved her sharp, cold tone. “I came to apologize,” I said, offering a sheepish grin. “Can I come in?”
I studied her face closely, watching as apprehension flitted across her features before she jerked her head in an approximation of a nod and stepped back to admit me.
I was surprised by how clean, bright, and open her office space felt, so at odds with the darker, grey garage downstairs. It was all creamy whites and earth tones with a few pops of soft pink in her desk chair, keyboard, and throw pillows on the sofa. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets as I stood in the center of the room and spun in a slow circle, taking in everything from her impressive desk setup to the wall of bookshelves stuffed full of paperbacks and hardcovers.
“What do you want, Owen?”
I met her gaze at last. “I told you: I’m here to apologize.”
She pursed her lips, not saying anything as she waited for me to continue.
“Look…not having your back in that meeting, and letting Clarke talk to you like that? I fucked up.”
Delia’s forehead creased. “Clarke?”
“The architect?”
“Oh,” she said, huffing out a little laugh. “I’ve been calling him ‘the weasel’ in my head.”
I chuckled with her, my shoulders relaxing. If she was laughing, I was halfway to forgiveness.
“Well, heisa weasel, so that makes sense. And I fired him.”
