Two weeks later
By Monday morning,I’ve convinced myself that if I stay busy enough, I can outrun the constant distraction of thoughts of Grace. It’s a lie, but at least it’s a productive one.
My office still smells like old paint, years of dust, and unopened possibility. I came here to work, not daydream. I need to get my ass in gear. Cardboard boxes line the walls. Blueprints cover the desk. A folding table stands in for real furniture because, apparently, I thought it would be “motivating” to wait until I was profitable before investing in a decent desk.
By noon I’ve met with three decorators, two flooring reps, and a man who tried to sell me lighting fixtures that looked like they belonged in a medieval dungeon. “I’m going for ‘inviting mountain escape,’ not ‘dungeon chic,’” I grumble. My surly mood has destroyed any professional filter I might’ve previously engaged.
He nods like he completely understands and hands me another catalog filled with iron chandeliers that look capable of holding a hostage.Fuck’s sake.
The building supply meetings blur together after that. Discussions about lumber costs, tile samples, blah, blah, blah. I almost fall asleep at one point until a terrifying conversation about septic upgrades ends with a number so high I briefly consider bagging this whole damn venture and fleeing back to Merrie Olde England.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Chill, man. It’s simply part of the process.
By Tuesday, I’ve set up interviews. I need an admin, a front desk manager, and maintenance. Okay, I need one of every position. But primarily someone who knows what they’re doing. An overachieverwho can keep this entire operation from sinking while I learn which end of a blueprint is up.
The first receptionist candidate shows up forty minutes late and introduces herself by saying, “I’m really more of a vibe person than a schedule person.”
Next.
The second one spends the entire interview texting under the table and answers every question with, “That shouldn’t be too hard, I guess.”
That would be a hard pass.
My office manager candidate informs me she can only work between ten and two, refuses to handle payroll, and asks if I’m “emotionally available as a boss.”
I blink at her. Twice. “Professionally?” I manage.
She sighs like I’ve let all of the air out of her tires.Trust me, lady, I know the feeling.
The maintenance manager interview goes better. Right up until he casually mentions that he once “accidentally” drove a riding mower into a koi pond. I don’t even want to know the details.
By Friday, my brain feels like oatmeal. I’ve hired exactly one person. A quiet, no-nonsense woman named Kara who has already reorganized my files, labeled my boxes, and gently suggested I buy a real desk. She might be my favorite person on the planet right now.
I lock the office late, the parking lot empty and the trees shadowed in twilight. Tiny flashes of memory skate to the forefront, visions of swaying on the dancefloor as the moon danced with the lapping water of the lake below. My shoulders ache. My eyes burn. And for the first time all week, the noise in my head fades just enough for her to slip back in.
Grace.
Her laugh. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about Elvis. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just another guy passing through her life. Or at least that’s what I try to tell myself, knowing by her radio silence it’s obviously not true.
I blow out a slow breath. Okay. I still think about her more than Ishould. But at least now I’m building something while I do. And for the moment…
That has to be enough.
I stopat the convenience store because I can’t begin to make myself cook, and I’m honestly too tired to even attempt to decipher a take-out menu. Okay, let’s be real. It’s going to be a liquid dinner. One of the Michelob ULTRA variety. Probably need to grab some beef jerky or peanuts. Something that resembles protein. I mean, I’m not a total savage.
I’m exhausted, physically and mentally. I ache down to my very bones. And I still have to come up with a plan on what to tell Milton in a few weeks if I haven’t figured out what to do about this dinner. I’m honestly running out of excuses.
I grab a six-pack, some pretzels, a suspicious-looking stick of meat pretending to be beef, and a Wall Street Journal I won’t read.Dinner, I groan.
Sliding everything onto the counter, I reach for my wallet and look up at the uninterested cashier… and that’s when the air leaves my lungs.
She’s staring at me from over his shoulder. There. Behind the register. On the magazine rack. Grace.
What. The. Fuck?
Her eyes… those penetrating, soul-wrecking blue eyes are fixed on me. Even in print, they feel as if they’re calling to me.
My chest cracks in two. An internal torment akin to an iceberg calving in the middle of the ocean, where only I can feel or hear it. My voice squeaks out, broken and distant. “Can I have one of those?”
