Page 32 of Center Sneak

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A few hours later, I toss my small duffel bag in my beat-up car, and a tied-up grocery bag flies by my shoulder and lands in the trunk next to my stuff.

I whip around to find a nonchalant Calvin right behind me.

“Uh, what are you doing?” My hands are on my hips, and I tap my foot at him.

I thought I was doing this solo. Apparently, my brother doesn’t think I can manage this project on my own, and that kind of pisses me off.

I’ve run the day-to-day operations of this nonprofit for the last five years.

Yes, the initial idea for the foundation was my brother’s, but we built it together from the ground up.

I found the perfect location, a lovely brick house in the South End, which would be the perfect refuge for women and children fleeing domestic violence and difficult situations.

I was there throughout the entire process, painting and decorating the inside, perfecting every detail until opening day, and have been working countless hours since.

I’m the first point of contact with every woman who walks through the door, providing and connecting them to essential resources. I’m also the one who is there at eleven at night for an emergency or six in the morning walking a dog for an owner who is unable to.

I do all the little things in the shelter that may never get noticed, but they are important regardless.

Yes, I handle the small jobs, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle the big ones too.

It was my idea to expand our reach and add new shelters beyond Boston to begin with, but now my idiot brother thinks I need a chaperone for this endeavor.

Ugh.

How dare he?

“I’m driving,” I state as I slam the car trunk down and march over to the driver’s side, pull the door open, and plop down to mark my claim.

Calvin can tag along, but I’m in charge.

Chapter Nineteen

Calvin

Scarlett’s hands are gripped around the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. Her nostrils are flared, and her jaw is clenched as she mutters under her breath.

I’ve never seen this woman so pissed, but so adorable at the same time.

The thing is, I’m just not sure if she’s upset at me or the situation.

I continue to take her in as her eyes stay focused on the road ahead. She’s wearing a navy blazer paired with khaki pants, her back ramrod straight.

Her hair is often pulled straight back into a ponytail or a tight bun, but today it’s down in a bob, falling just above her shoulders.

I decide to test the waters and see how grumpy she actually is.

“I like your new haircut,” I say with a smile.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

A smile grows on my face as I continue to glance her way.

“Stop staring at me,” she says evenly.

“Can’t help it. You are so beautiful.”