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Tia
The schedule in front of me is blurring in front of my eyes. I think that I’ve been looking at this for hours now, and I’m getting confused by my own color coding. God, there are too many projects and not enough people to get them done in time. We’re going to need to hire some extra hands.
It’s a good problem to have as a contracting company, but it’s been happening more and more since I took on more responsibility at Connor’s Contracting, my family’s company. I love this business, and I love that we’re the number one builders in Green Hills, Tennessee, but it’s also a bit annoying since I’ve told my father time and time again that we’re biting off more than we can chew. He’s the one who meets with the clients, though, and I’m the one who ends up juggling the schedules and making the impossible possible.
We have a roof reconstruction, a greenhouse refurbishment, replacing insulation in an attic, and an interior paint job. And those are just the smaller projects. We’ve got two from-scratch buildings as well, all the way from foundation to drywall. All of these projects overlap in the next couple of months. I don’t know where he got the idea that we could fit this all in, but we’ll need at least two more people. And that’s if he and I both step in and work on the projects, too.
Everything has to be done by the 28th of September. My heart lurches for a second, because I know that day. It’s Wallace Monroe’s birthday, and this year he’ll be turning thirty. That’s a long ways away from when we were young and in love at eighteen, but it still feels significant. I hate the way my heart still skips a beat whenever I think of him. I don’t even have to think of him. Someone can just say something that just sounds like his name and my ears perk up like they’ve been waiting to hear news about him. Anything.
He’ll probably have a party for his birthday. Who knows. Maybe he’ll invite me?
I laugh out loud even though there’s no one to hear it. The office is empty. Yeah, right. Invite me? The girl who didn’t even speak to him when he came back from a fucking battle zone and dumped an entire grocery store’s worth of cereal on top of him? Not likely. I shouldn’t even care anyway. I only thought of it because I saw the day. I don’t care about Wallace. I don’t. Like a mantra, I repeat those words again and again: I do Not. Care.
I’ve seen him around town sometimes, and he looks good. It’s impossible not to notice that the good looks he had when he was younger have only intensified, body hardened with battle and face honed with serious intent. I noticed it when I dumped the cereal on him. But just because he looks good doesn’t mean I care. Or that I miss him. Or that I still dream about him and that no one I’ve dated has even come close.
I haven’t talked to him since the cereal incident—though there wasn’t much talking involved there—but then again, he hasn’t talked to me either. Two can play at that game. Not to mention that he probably has no use for me now that he’s a millionaire. He can have anything he wants in the world. Any woman. In this town there are hundreds that would fall over him if he let them. But it doesn’t matter. He’s free to do as he wants. It doesn’t matter to me. I have to keep telling myself that.
Shaking my head, I run a hand across my face. What is wrong with me this morning? I seem to be getting lost in these thoughts that I can’t shake. I have enough to do without Wallace Monroe invading my peace of mind today. I need to find my father and tell him that thanks to his over scheduling we need more hands. I’m not sure how that conversation is going to go. We can afford it with all the projects that we’ve got coming in, but finding reliable and skilled construction workers in Green Hills isn’t as easy as one would hope. We’ve gone through quite a few that weren’t up to our standards this year already. I’m not sure where we’re going to find more. And with all the work we have to do in such a short time, we can’t afford to hire people that will make mistakes.
I print out a copy of the schedule and find a clipboard—knowing my dad, he’s going to want to keep this copy to approve it—then I head out into the warehouse. We do have a couple of temps here working on storage and inventory, but I don’t think that they’ll be the right fit for helping us get the excess work done. They’re just not built for it. And that’s okay, construction isn’t easy, and it’s not for everyone.
