Page 51 of Final Proposal

“I know it puts you in a tough position. I can make calls to some of the firms I know around here, but with the local union here on strike, I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

I twist my lips and place my hands on my hips as I turn and take in the drywall-dusted debris disaster before me.

“I have plumbing and framing coming tomorrow for that wing, and they don’t have any wiggle room on the schedule,” I say more to myself than to James. This is the problem with an expedited schedule. Trades aren’t moving in, finishing their work, and then moving out once the whole site is complete. We have them coming and going at all times for each of the varying renovations in various locations. It allows us to get one thing done and finish it in totality while other rooms are in partial stages.

It’s perfect in theory.

Until it’s not.

And right now . . . it’s not.

“I know you don’t. Believe me, I know.” His sigh sounds like the stress that was just heaped on my shoulders. “But I’m here. I’ve found two day laborers who can help with some of the less technical tasks. Between them and me . . . and maybe anyone else you can spare, we can try to get as much done as possible.”

“Thanks. Let me see what I can do.” I take a few steps away, already frazzled when it’s only seven a.m.

I lean my back against some rough framing and sigh as I fire off a text.

Me: My demo crew?

Joshua: What about it?

Me: A whole crew out sick. One you often use.

Joshua: Maybe they don’t like working for you.

Me: Don’t fuck with me, D.

Joshua: I don’t need to. You’ll fuck this up enough by yourself.

Me: Asshole.

Joshua: True, but I didn’t touch them.

I stare at my screen with pursed lips and debate if I believe him or not. Is he that stupid that he’d try to screw me over when he believes my success will ultimately benefit him?

No. I might not be his biggest fan, but he’s too selfish to do anything to jeopardize something he could gain from.

And now I’m left with the bare bones of a crew, a schedule I can’t budge much with, and only hours to figure out how to fix the issue.

The worst part?

Now I need to hunt down Ford to heap bad on top of worse with the news reporting this morning that a summer storm is going to hit us in a few days. It won’t exactly hinder our progress inside the inn, but it will slow things down on the café, kitchen, and rooftop bar.

Sure, our first week started off with a bang. It was productive. We further finessed our construction schedule as well as agreed upon interior choices so our designer could get everything ordered. Furniture, light sconces, fixtures, and everything in between had been selected. We have little room for errors or not being on the same page with our turnaround time to get this place back up and running so quickly.

And yes, Ford and I sat side by side or across the table while making these decisions, but every other waking moment has held a healthy distance between us. No more bumping into each other in the hallway while he goes out for a run, and I eat my ice cream. No more drinks on the boardwalk. Just grunts in response and him conveniently busy on a call whenever I need to talk to him.

Grumpy Ford has returned with a vengeance.

His father’s biography is the only thing I can pinpoint as being the external source of annoyance. The few times the book and its impending release have been mentioned on the television in the old bar—kept for our entertainment’s sake—he’s promptly turned it off. Even his phone calls to his brothers—or at least the ones I’ve been within earshot of—seem clipped.

Either that or the honeymoon phase between us is over, the newness has worn off, and he’s realizing he just doesn’t like me.

It happens.

But it’s worrisome when we have so much further to go and a contract—and this property—binding us together.

“Ford,” I state as he walks by, head down, answering a text.