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Owen doesn’t text me back, and now besides being sexually frustrated, I’m also pissed off. I love my big brother—and appreciate all the sacrifices he made after our parents passed, taking care of us and the homestead. But sometimes he oversteps, still trying to be the father figure and keep us all in line.
Frankly, he wasn’t that great at it, considering our reputation around town. The Wild Wilds.
And I earned every bit of that fucking title.
But I’m grown now. He doesn’t have to babysit me anymore.
My cell buzzes again and I scoop it up, already hot and on the defense.
J-Dog: Owen said you need a suit jacket and tie. I’ll have my assistant send over a few to pick from
Owen didn’t even trust me to text Justice on my own. A low simmer of aggravation bubbles in my gut, but I tamp it down. No sense taking it out on Justice, especially when he’s doing me a solid.
Colt: Thanks. I’m staying in Ms. Lottie’s apartment
I shoot him the address, then shove my phone in my pocket and swill my now-cool coffee, eager to get to work.
Destroying shit will make me feel better.
And so will hanging out with Trix all day.
I immediately shut down that train of thought and head downstairs, shoving away both aggravation and the dull throb of grief I buried years ago.
CHAPTER 11
TRIXIE
Colt’s broody, moody, and pissed off all morning long, a scowl marring his handsome face. Which is fine by me because he channels all that aggression into the demo and we make great progress, cruising through the to-do list. The dumpster’s already halfway full, the floors bare.
Together, we stack the few pieces of salvageable furniture up against the wall and chuck the rest. The former tenants left behind a kitchen table and chairs I can sand down and paint, plus a rolltop desk. With a good stain job, the piece will be the perfect showstopper for someone’s office.
Other than that, the space is empty. A blank canvas, ready and waiting for a good transformation.
Tipping my head back, I stare at the ceiling, thick wooden beams running the length of the room.
“What do you think about a walnut stain on those beams?” I point overhead.
Colt shrugs. “That could be cool. Or black, if you want to paint it.”
“Me?” I hook my thumb at my chest and laugh. “I don’t think so. No way am I getting up on a ladder and trying to paint anything—I’m scared of heights.”
“Guess the beams are good how they are then.”
“Hey—I thought you were supposed to be my handyman.”
“I am. But I don’t think that entails getting up on a ladder and risking my life.”
“You’d rather I risk mine?”
“It’s your shop.”
“Nice guy—” I grumble, perturbed with his attitude.
He cocks his head. “If I stain the beams, what are you gonna do for me?”
“Besides let you keep sleeping in my apartment, you mean?”
“Our apartment. I’m earning my keep around here.”
