I pull up out the front of the house ten minutes late, which adds to my fury. I hate being late. Dave is already getting in his truck and gives me a wave before driving off. Great. It’s Josh and me. Alone.
“Whoa. Who pissed in your Cornflakes?” Josh asks after one look at my face.
“Not now, Josh,” I mutter from between clenched teeth. “Let’s look at this kitchen and get out of here.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Josh
Ihaven’tbeenlookingforward to this afternoon. Because ever since the party—and the shitful, hung-over conversation the next morning—Greer has been treating me like the enemy. I can’t blame her. I deserve every bit of it. But Christ it hurts.
And when she fronts up at Manly with a face like thunder, I want to turn tail and run. She stomps past me into the house, down the hall and through the open-plan family room to the space where the kitchen is beginning to take shape.
I’ve already been through it with Dave, since Greer was late, and I love it all. But in her current mood, I have no doubt Greer will find plenty to object to.
Over the past few of weeks, I’ve learned a lot. She’s brilliant. She’s a perfectionist. And she’s a hard taskmaster with the tradies in the nicest possible way. When she puts her mind to it, she can also hold a grudge like an Olympic champion. As is evidenced by the curt one-line texts she sends me these days. And yet she still gives 100% to making this house shine.
Last but not least, I’ve learnt that any idea of forgetting about Greer and moving on with my life while still being in her orbit is futile. Which is why the phone call I received completely out of the blue yesterday seems like a lifeline I might have to grab.
I stand back and say nothing as Greer paces around, whizzing her tape measure back and forth and muttering to herself.
Finally, she stops pacing and skewers me with her eyes. “Are you happy with this?”
I don’t know what the right answer is. I’m happy, but in her current mood, I don’t know if she’s still unhappy about whatever pissed her off earlier or with the kitchen. Or me. Or all three. And I don’t want to make things worse by saying the wrong thing.
“Yes?” It comes out as a question. Silence. “Are you happy?”
She lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah. I guess so. There’s plenty of room. Plenty of power points. Plenty of bench space. They’re going to have to move those lights two centimetres to the left. They’re not centred over the island. Otherwise, it’s all good.” She picks her bag and laptop up and starts to make for the door. “I’ll email Dave tonight.”
“Greer,” I call as she’s about to disappear down the hall. She stops and turns her head but doesn’t move any closer.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?” This feels like the definition of poking the bear, but I can’t stand to see her so distressed. And my instincts prove right because she bursts into tears.
I’m across the room and taking her in my arms before I give it a thought, and finally, the pain that’s been a constant companion the past few weeks, the tightness in my chest, it all falls away when I touch her.
I let her cry herself out before wiping her cheeks with the hem of my t-shirt.
“Want to talk about it?”
“It’s just work,” she snuffles.
“Ah. Is it the Mean Girls again?”
She nods against my chest.
Acting purely on instinct, I lead her into the front room where we shared a pizza picnic the day the tree came down on us. There’s a pile of tarps in the corner left by the plasterers. I drag them over and help her sit in our spot. I can tell by the look she throws me she remembers what a perfect afternoon that was, despite the pain.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
She looks unsure for a minute before she decides. “Yes.” And she tells me about her afternoon meeting.
My blood pumps faster and faster as the story goes on. I’m furious with her boss for suggesting she’s not pulling her weight. I know first-hand how hard she works. But most of my fury is reserved for the piece of shit who stole her work. Intellectual property is no laughing matter, and what she did crosses every line there is.
“You know what? Those aren’t her ideas. That’s theft. And tomorrow, you’re going to go in there and tell your boss what happened and clear this whole mess up.”
“I am,” she says, but there’s little conviction in her voice. I can’t bear the beaten look on her face.
