Cal nods. He’s short and broad, powerfully built, and radiates easygoing competence. Graying blond hair, short, neat goatee, with a plug of chewing tobacco between his teeth and lower lip. “Sure. Been doing this for damn near thirty years. My pops was a builder, and I grew up on-site with him, just like Delia with the Old Man, God rest him. I was framing by sixteen, supervising by twenty, and I’ve been lead project foreman for McKenna for the last twenty years. Do something every day for that long, you just remember that shit. Plus, it’s my job to know it.”
I nod, and we move on through the partially framed shell that will be a house. Right now, it’s a handful of walls kept upright with bracers, and a poured concrete foundation.
I spent the first week in the office, getting to know the HQ staff, learning their filing system, payroll, scheduling, accounting, all that. Now, halfway through my second week, I’m tagging along with Cal and trying to learn the basics of how to build a house. He’s been taking me from a site that’s just a hole in the dirt through the various stages, until Friday when I finally tour a completed, ready-to-sell spec home.
It’s eye-opening. You get this idea that building a house is complicated, but until you see it firsthand, you really have no clue whatsoever.
There are a million and a half moving parts, and just as many codes and requirements to keep track of, plus the manpower and subcontractors and their codes and their staffing and supply chain…
My head is spinning.
I’ve been avoiding Delia, truth be told. I want to be able to impress her with my knowledge of the business, next time I see her—
Next time I have to engage in the verbal sparring contest that is having a conversation with that woman.
The days go by quickly, and I’m on my feet more than ever.
My loafers are filthy, and the interior of my McLaren is…hard to think about.
By the end of the day, I’m ready for a beer and my bed.
Cal walks me to my car, and whistles when he sees it. “Man, that is one sweet ride.”
I nod. “Sure is.” I run my finger through the thick layer of dust on the windshield. “Not sure it’s practical for this environment, though.”
Cal cackles. “Hell no, it ain’t. You’re gonna spend any time on-site, you need a truck. Or an SUV, even, if pickups aren’t your thing. But that sexy little rocket there? One of these days, we’re gonna get a load of fill gravel and you’re gonna be paying for dent removal and repainting, if not a new windshield as well.” He points at his truck, a two- or three-year-old silver F-150, and it does indeed sport some pretty sizable dents, as well as a spiderwebbing chip in the windshield.
The thought of that happening to my McLaren makes my stomach hurt. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna go pick up a truck.”
He digs his wallet out of his back pocket, pokes through it, and removes a business card. “My cousin runs the Ford dealership in town. Tell him Cal sent you, and he’ll hook you up.” He points at the neon yellow hardhat on my head. “Ask Jamie in the office, and she’ll get you your own hardhat with your name on it. Keep it in your truck—wearing one on-site is a nonnegotiable. And it’s not just for safety code, either. Someone up in the roof joists drops his hammer on your head and you’re not wearing one, you’ll be a vegetable.”
I hadn’t considered that—I’d assumed it was mainly meant to satisfy a safety code, as he said. “Will do.” I shake his hand. “Thanks, Cal. See you tomorrow.”
As I get into my car, I watch him head back to the site—the guys have knocked off for the day, yet there goes Cal, doing one last walk-through for forgotten tools, checking this, that, and the other thing.
He takes the job seriously, he’s good at it, and he genuinely seems to take pride in what he does.
It’s a good feeling, knowing I’m a part of it.
Chapter Eight
Delia
On-site at a nearly finished home,just past dawn. Our guys usually start around eight, and Cal is normally on-site around seven thirty. When I do site checks, I like to do them early, before anyone is there. Especially now that I’m the big boss—I’m young, I’m not ugly, and I’m in charge…and a construction site is all horny and rambunctious men. It’s easier, some days, to just not deal with all that. I can, and do, I just don’t alwayswantto, and seeing as I’m the boss, it’s my prerogative.
So imagine my surprise when a big black pickup rolls up right as I shut off the engine of my vintage Bronco—it’s a resto-mod, and was the last gift Daddy ever gave me. It’s got some kind of ding-resistant paint, a new sound system, and a spray-out interior. The truck next to me isn’t brand, brand-new, but it’s pimped out. Tinted windows, lift kit, massive knobby off-road tires, custom exhaust, the works.
My Spidey-sense tingles. New truck, and a blingy one that somehow manages to stop just short of looking like the owner is compensating for something.
The door opens, and out steps Thai.
My breath catches.
His hair is still damp, and he’s dressed casually in light wash jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, with tan Timberland boots. And, fuck me—the jeans are just tight enough to cling to thick, powerful legs without being too tight. The shirt is like a second skin, wrapped around broad, hard shoulders and a wide, tapered torso. He didn’t shave today, so his jaw is stubbled with a blond dusting of fine scruff.
It’s not right. No one person should be allowed to be THAT good-looking.
Especially someone who’s as much of a bastard as he is. He sees me in my truck, gives me a friendly smile and a two-finger salute, and heads toward the worksite.
