My brother tips me a two-finger salute, turns, and melts into the crowd before I can utter a single word.
* * *
By ten a.m.,I’ve ticked off almost half of the tasks on my list. I’ve logged a brief report about Hector’s dirt dump into his employee file, realizing when I did that it’s not the first time his failure to show up on time has cost the company.
Papi had a three strikes policy. As far as I’m concerned, three strikes seems excessive. Why should I let anyone fuck up a third time? What’s wrong with getting it right the first time?
Don’t get me wrong. Accidents are one thing. I’m not talking about accidents. I’m talking about dumbass moves. About being somewhere else when you’re supposed to be waiting on a dirt delivery.
I’m not eager to fire anyone. I’ve done it once right before Papi went into the hospital. He’d asked me to do it, and even though the guy I fired needed to be fired, it still wasn’t a fun time.
Hector probably needs to be fired, but I decide to give him one more strike.
Before I break for lunch, I reach out to my clients—or try to anyway. The family with the new construction is easy enough to contact, and the good news is they don’t want to change a thing. We’ll have some framing up by tonight. I leave a message on Ella Lambert’s voicemail, asking her to call me if the clean-up didn’t meet her satisfaction.
And then I try the lady with the house on St. Mary, but instead of the call going to voicemail this time, I hear the three-tone beep and then,
“We’re sorry, but the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service…”
I hang up. She must have changed her number. I look down on the papers from Papi’s meetings with her and grimace. He took her deposit last spring. Her orders for cabinets, lighting, and appliances were filled weeks ago, and the tile and granite should come in soon. I know we fell behind schedule when Papi got sick, but this is bad. We should have started the job in September. She’s probably ready to sue us by now. I roll up her plans and head for my truck.
* * *
A silver Infiniti QX80sits in the driveway at 1021 West St. Mary Street. Somebody’s home. I pull up and kill the engine.
As soon as I step out of my truck, the red front door opens and a baying, bounding white blur surges off the front porch.
I halt on the spot.Jesucristo.
“Clarence!” A woman’s voice calls from the porch, but I can’t spare her a look because this dog ishuge.He’s not even a dog. He’s a polar bear.
The bear stops three feet in front of me, tips up his chin, and bays again, aiming his warning to the treetops. Hell, they can probably hear him in the Space Station. See him too.
“Don’t worry. He’s friendly. Can I help y—Hey, do I—Are you—”
I look up, and I blink. It’s her. The redhead.
What the hell is she doing here? She’s wearing dark green scrubs over a long-sleeved gray shirt. Is she a nurse? Does she work here?
Maybe I’m in the wrong place. I glance down at the roll of plans in my hand.Delacroix, Eloise and Hudson.
Delacroix? Is that the name of Alex’s teammate?
“I—” I look up again and see she’s frowning. Definitely confused, but those blue eyes are sharp with wariness. “I’m Luc Valencia. I think we met at the soccer game.”
Her posture stiffens. She doesn’t move an inch, but, I swear, every line in her body hardens. “We didn’tmeet.”Her voice is hard. Flinty.
She looks angry. Why the hell is she angry? We may not have been introduced, but I’m sure she remembers me. And by the look of it, it’s ruined her day. I might have to rethink my Ice Princess conclusion.
I take a step forward and offer my hand. “We did. I—”
She steps back. “Stop right there.” At her words, I hear what sounds like distant thunder, but the sky is clear. No rain in sight. And then it dawns on me.
It’s the giant dog-bear.
He’s growling. His lip curled in teeth-baring menace. At me.
“Whoa—” I step back, both hands—the one holding the plans and the one I extended—go up in surrender. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Maybe I’ve got the wrong house.”
