Page 5 of Fake Shot
“Months, probably.”
“Months?” I practically yell the question. What the hell? All I wanted was to come home, go to sleep, and enjoy this next week of no travel before we start our road to the Cup—because this year, this team ... we have a serious shot at this. I don’t have time for this shit.
“Yeah. Everything the water touched will need to be ripped out. It takes time to dry things out so you don’t have a mold problem. Your electrical in all these rooms willprobably need to be rewired. You’ll need new studs, walls, floors, ceilings, insulation ... new everything, really. It’ll be more like a rebuild than a remodel.”
“How could one burst washing machine hose cause this much damage?”
“It wasn’t a slow leak, Colt. Water was coming out of that thing for at least a day or two. Think how quickly your washing machine fills up when you turn it on, and now imagine all that water running out of a hose for that long.” He nods his chin toward my front door, and I follow him to my entryway and out into the hallway.
“How far did the damage spread? Am I going to be repairing my neighbors’ places too?”
“It seems like we caught it before it got too far. Aside from the Millers below you, no one else has mentioned any damage. But you should call your insurance company because they’ll need to come in and do an estimate. They always try to low-ball you, so you might want to have a contractor here with you when they come in.”
I tilt my head all the way back and exhale, trying to release some of the tension in my neck and shoulders.
“Should I stick around for when the cleanup crew gets here?”
“You can. Or I can just have them take pictures of everything they have to dispose of, if you don’t want to wait around.”
“I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, so if I can get out of here and come back later, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure. I’ll take care of it. Just text or call if you need me.”
“Thanks, Andy,” I say as I turn toward the elevator, rolling my suitcase behind me. I’m almost too tired to think, so I dialthe one person who I’ve trusted to think for me over the past decade.
Two rings, and then Jameson growls, “It’s seven o’clock on Sunday morning.”
“Yeah, and I need a huge favor.”
Chapter Three
JULES
“You seriously slayed,” Audrey whispers as she leans toward me. We’re standing together at the front of the room, with the heads of four other nonprofits who are all looking for start-up funding.
“I didn’t do that alone. You were awesome too.”
“All I did,” she says quietly, tucking a piece of her long dark hair behind her ear while we wait for the applause to die down, “was talk a bit about the financials. It was your passion for this program that’s going to get us some funding.”
She might be right, but I couldn’t do this without her. I tell her as much as I loop my arm behind her back and squeeze her to my side in a quick hug.
The host thanks all of us for presenting and then welcomes each nonprofit to take a seat at the tables around the room. While the first half of the evening was a typical pitch fest where we had to sell the work of our nonprofit, thesecond half of the evening is an opportunity for potential donors to stop by and chat with us over drinks and hors d’oeuvres if they’re interested.
There’s an excited energy coursing through me as we take our seats. I don’t get nervous, and when it comes to my work, I almost never second-guess myself. I have an acute sixth sense about what’s going to succeed in our business, and this nonprofit that we’ve started as a spin-off of our company is no different. When I meet the right donor, I’ll know.
The first two people who come talk to us both express interest in investing in Our House, the all-female design and construction company we’ve built together over the past few years.
“It’s so weird,” I say to Audrey as the second man leaves. “We were perfectly clear about what we were looking for in terms of donors, and at no point did we indicate that we were looking for investors for Our House. This whole event is for nonprofits.”
Her response is practically a snort. “They must know a good business opportunity when they see one. But do they really think we’d turn over ownership ofanyportion of our company to a man, when the whole basis for our company is that we’re entirely female owned and operated?”
“Maybe ...” I bite the corner of my lip. “I don’t know, maybe the purpose of our nonprofit would be clearer if we could get a video testimonial from someone like Rosie?”
“Think she’d say yes if you asked her again?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug, thinking about the first woman I mentored. I met her when our friend, Morgan, who now runs all our business’s social media, suggested partneringwith trade schools to help develop a pipeline of qualified female contractors to work with us.
Even though we’re the same age, Rosie’s life experience makes me feel like a damn baby. She’s had it hard and risen above it—going to electrical school as soon as her daughter was old enough for kindergarten—because she’s determined to break past cycles of abuse and poverty to provide a better life for her child. As soon as she finished trade school, I hired her and arranged for her to complete her required hours of work experience with our master electrician, Jessica, so she could earn her journeyman license.
