“The best ones always do.”
Chapter Eight
Daisy
“Be honest, Mom. What do you think?”
“Honey, those French doors to the backyard make all the difference. I still prefer the other color for the exterior, but you know the market better than I do. You know what people want.”
She’s right. I know what I’m doing. But I still love getting her take. I may not always use her advice, but I love to listen to her opinion on things.
Charlie and I had only known each other a few months when we took the enormous leap to start a business together. She was just leaving her job as an entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles and moving to our little town to start a life with my brother. All it took was seeing the table she built while staying at my brother’s cabin, and her talent was undeniable. She has an amazing eye and excellent style. Her furniture is gorgeous and meticulous. Charlie’s love for her work was obvious. I was already working for myself doing interior design and dabbled in contracting formy clients. The two of us love creating concepts, tearing down walls, and saving old houses from destruction. It was a simple decision, but scary nonetheless.
In the male-dominated world of contracting and custom-made furniture, not everyone is as confident in two women running their job site as we would hope. Condescension, mansplaining, and outright misogyny occur, but ultimately, our satisfied clients prove the doubters wrong. We’ve barely been in business a year, and we’re already busier than we ever dreamed. It didn’t hurt that I already had connections and a client list, but now I get to be a part of the process from the start and control all the different aspects of the job.
I love Central Oregon, and over the last decade, the rest of the country has fallen in love with it too. It’s all thanks to Bend. A town with a simple name but a layered appeal. Twenty minutes outside of Goose Hollow—everything is twenty minutes outside of Goose Hollow—Bend has become one of the fastest-growing cities in the US. With its vibrant outdoor recreation scene, booming beer culture, and thriving food scene, the sweet mountain town has it all. Rafting, skiing on Mt. Bachelor, climbing at Smith Rock, and all the hiking trails are everything an outdoorsy person could want.
With this popularity comes people. Lots of people with lots of money. Housing has exploded. Everywhere you turn, there are housing communities being developed, commercial spaces going in and older homes being purchased and remodeled to today’s highest standards. Yes, there is a lot of money to be made, but more importantly, I get to be a part of shaping our community and saving older homes that have good bones but need a little TLC.
Our business couldn’t have kicked off to a better start, but with Charlie finding out she was having my brother's baby on the day of their wedding, things have been a little stressful. Icouldn’t be happier for the two of them, and I don’t want her to rush back, but it’s still a lot. Luckily, organization is something I excel at. We also didn’t overbook and only have two jobs going. Nothing I can’t handle on my own during her maternity leave. Orders for her custom furniture are the only things we need to push. Those orders will have to wait until our master builder is ready to get back to work.
And just like always, I share our plans with Mom. In fact, if Charlie isn’t with me when I meet with Mom to go over a new design, she’ll ask me what Mom thought later. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Mom has great taste, and we both want to hear what she has to say. She rarely makes suggestions, but when she does, we listen. We may not make the change, but we listen.
“I agree. Those doors are gonna be beautiful and open up the room. Thanks, Mom. I appreciate you.”
“Of course, dear. You and Charlotte”—Mom and Callen are the only ones who call her by her actual name—"are really taking the area by storm.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder, squeezing me into her side, both of us looking at the rendering of a craftsman remodel on my laptop screen. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”
“Thanks.”
“You keeping up with Charlotte out with the baby?”
“Yes, ma’am. We were well prepared, and Charlie is still Charlie. She’s not good with idle time. She’s helping with admin and some of the scheduling. Not sure how she’s doing it with a newborn, she has to be exhausted.”
The sound of boots in the entryway stops our conversation, and a moment later my brother Cal, looking happier than ever, with a diaper bag over his shoulder, enters the room carrying a baby seat with the now two-week-old Gracie bundled inside. Behind him, the new mom follows, looking beautiful but tired,her laptop clutched in her arms. Because of course, she’ll want to talk about work.
“Speak of the devil,” I say, walking toward her with open arms. “We were just talking about you.”
We embrace gently. She’s told me stories about her tender breasts and leaking milk. I don’t dare squeeze too hard.
I hug Cal next, but before I can get to the baby, Mom already has her unbuckled and in her arms. “Hello, my sweet baby girl. Welcome to your first Sunday dinner,” Mom coos to her granddaughter.
Sunday dinners are a thing for the McKinnons. Always have been. If you’re in town and don’t have other plans, it’s Sunday dinner at Mom's. It’s something we all look forward to now. As teens, it was annoying and often felt like a punishment. Especially after my brothers had all moved out of the house. Luckily, I had Mia and her parents. They were here nearly every week until retiring to Florida last year. Now that Mia and Angus are together, the tradition continues.
Although we may have to get a bigger table for the back porch. With Cal, Charlie and Gracie, Gus, Mia and Sawyer, Knox, Ryan, Mom, myself and, of course, Owen, the table is overflowing.
Yes, Owen Swift is at nearly every Sunday dinner. He’s been Cal’s best friend since the beginning of time. He and Mia were Mom’s fifth and sixth children growing up, and no matter how old we get, that never changes.
So, every week I get to share a meal with the most annoying, yet devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knocking boots with. He is pure sex on a stick. A stick I very much like to ride. I try not to think about how many other women have taken a ride with Owen. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just a fact. The man loves the ladies, and the ladies love him.
Don’t even get me started on what Officer Swift does to the female population when he steps out of his police car in his uniform. Women go feral. However, I prefer him out of his uniform. Both naked and in Wranglers and boots. Cowboy Owen, who took me on a sunset ride last week, is delicious. The way his ass and thighs fill out his denim is sexy as sin. Of course, I can’t forget about Coach Swift. Shorts and a T-shirt in the heat of summer on the high school football field, there is nothing wrong with that look either. No matter which version of Owen you get, he’s fine as hell. This can make Sunday dinners frightening. How the people closest to us haven’t figured out our secret is baffling.
The family sees our close relationship as a brotherly, sisterly type situation, and it was until I was a tipsy almost twenty-two-year-old college graduate, and he was a twenty-six-year-old with a beer buzz at my grad party. We were at Mia’s parents' place on the lake when things between us changed.
Since that night, when life puts us in situations where it’s just the two of us and we’ve had a drink or three, things happen.
Fantastically naughty things happen.
For years, it was brief moments in time. And the next day everything went back to the way things had always been. Friends. Someone I could count on to help me carry something heavy or even offer advice on how to deal with asshole clients. He’s always been part of my inner circle.
