On Tuesday, Graham let out a loud, angry curse from his office. Normally, I leave him alone unless he calls me in or needs something specific, but with the ire in his tone, I can’t ignore it. Peeking my head in his office, his eyes are locked on the screen of his computer, a hand running through his thick hair.
“Everything okay in here?” I ask, trying to insert some cheer into my tone.
“No, everything is fucked. This entire project is cursed.”
I tilt my head to the side and step fully inside.
“You’re going to have to expand on that one, bud.”
I know it must be bad when my gentle teasing doesn’t even get me a glare.
"Our permitting is apparently invalid, and because of that, the zoning administrator won't send the building inspector or approve our opening date. You know, the date we have plastered on absolutely everything?" He runs a hand through his hair once more, making it stick up at odd angles before he rubs both hands over his face. I have the sudden urge to run my own fingers through the locks, to smooth them and try to calm him down. When his hands drop to the desk, his head falls back, tipping toward the ceiling as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Like this, it’s impossible to ignore how exhausted he looks. I wonder how late he stays each night, or if he takes the weekends off at all. He’s here before I arrive every morning and still working away when I leave. He looks like he could use a full night's rest and a long weekend off, though I doubt he'd appreciate that suggestion.
Instead, I need to help solve the problem at hand and take some of the weight off his shoulders.
"The permitting is invalid?" This is confusing because Grant is always on top of permits. But a moment later, I remember this wasn't originally Grant's project. "Fucking Chet," I mutter.
“I don’t know who is to blame, but I do know that no one has answered a single one of my calls this morning. Not the zoning administrator, not the inspectors, not even Grant.”
"Grant's down in Ashford and gets spotty service there," I say mindlessly, considering the predicament we’re in and the best way to solve it as quickly as possible. Both because it’s my job, and because I want to have some small hand in erasing that haunted look from Graham’s face. "How long has this been happening?"
“A few days,” he says, begrudgingly, but when I lift an eyebrow, he sighs and expands. “I got an email on Thursdayfrom the building inspector, saying he was waiting on the zoning administrator to schedule his coming out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.”
"Because I should be able to handle this on my own. It's my whole job. I've managed projects in big cities with much higher stakes." A flash of embarrassment blooms on his face, clear as day, and I soften. He values doing his job well, and from what Sutton says, he’s really good at it. I can see how he would walk into Seaside Point and think everything will be simpler because it’s a small town. “I called on Thursday and got the runaround, and then I was promised an update on Monday, but got nothing yesterday. The building inspector just emailed me to say that the permits are missing and that he can’t do an inspection without them. I’ve tried calling the zoning administrator three times already, and he isn’t answering.”
And he won’t.I don’t say as much, since that won’t help his stress levels, but if I know Chet, and he’s going to drag this out as long as possible as retribution for Graham working with Taylor Contracting instead of his son’s company.
“Have you tried calling his assistant, Maryanne?” I ask.
“Twice, and she also gave me the runaround.”
“Were you mean to her?”
“What?”
“Were you mean? Did you scare her by being all...you? If you did, you just said goodbye to your one line of communication to Chet until he deigns to call you back.” His jaw goes tight, which gives me his answer before he even speaks.
“I was professional,” he says, his voice curt. “I don’t see why niceties should matter. This is business, not a political race. I don’t need to make friends with everyone.”
I roll my eyes.
“That might be true in other towns, but now you’re in Seaside Point. You need people to like you here if you want toget anything done without a huge headache. Your all-work-no-play, friends-are-just-networking-opportunities mindset isn’t going to work. You need to be friendly.” He gives me a blank expression, and I let out a deep sigh, shaking my head. “Thank God you have me. Can I see the original permits?”
Step one in fixing this mess is making sure we actually have our ducks in a row. While I never worked for my brother in any official capacity, I have helped a couple of times when he was super busy in the summer and needed someone to help keep him organized, including occasionally bringing his paperwork to City Hall to file it on his behalf. Graham nods, handing me the papers, and immediately, I relax, seeing that my hopes were right. Carl Stevens’ firm may have been listed as the insured and licensed contractor on the project, but Daydream Resorts' legal team filed the actual permits.
Reaching over to his desk, I grab whatever other papers I’ll need, sifting through and trying to ignore the way my arm brushes over his chest before grabbing a manila folder and sliding them inside. Leaving his office, I grab my tote bag from my desk, slide the documents inside, and sling it over my shoulder. Finally, I turn to my boss, who followed me out into the hallway. “Come on. We’re going on a field trip,” I say.
“A field trip?”
“Today’s going to be a good day, even if I have to make it so. Let’s go, Graham.” I head out the door without another word, but he follows me, jogging to catch up after he grabs his phone and wallet, so I call it a win.
Since it’s a gorgeous day out, parking is always abysmal outside City Hall, and I thought Graham could probably use a cool down, I decided walking was in order. At some point, Graham rolled up the cuffs of his white business shirt, revealing his impeccably toned forearms, bringing his formal business vibes down a notch and, unfortunately for me, his hot factor upone hundred percent. I’ve always been a forearm girl, and his are perfect specimens: perfectly dotted with dark hair, veined and muscled in a way that desperately makes me want to know what they look like when he makes a fist. I was a bit distracted during my night with him, and mygod, I’m now filled with regret. The only thing that stops me from completely ogling and drooling over them the entire walk over is knowing I’m on a mission. Once we reach the entrance, I lead us through the front doors. Graham stops at the directory, but I keep walking.
“Come on, Graham, follow me,” I say, tipping my head in the direction I’m headed.
“How do you know where to go?”
