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Chapter Four
Latham
First thing Monday morning, I dial my realtor. Pete Benson and I were in school together, both playing on the football and basketball teams. We hadn’t really kept in touch, but the minute I returned to town and my ideas for the empty space next door started taking shape, I reached out to my old friend for help.
“Hello?” he asks, his voice groggy from sleep.
“Did I wake you?”
“It’s six in the morning. Fuck yes, you woke me.”
“I’ve been up since four. We have a situation.”
“There’s only one kind of situation I want to deal with at six in the morning, Lath, and your ugly ass isn’t it.”
“There’s another bidder for the property.”
Silence. “What? How do you know that?” He’s wide-awake now.
“I overheard a conversation I probably shouldn’t have.”
“We’ll come back to that part, but are you sure?”
“Definitely,” I reply, rubbing the back of my neck. “Can you confirm it?”
“Yeah, I’ll make some calls. Probably not until closer to eight, but I’ll get on it right away.”
“Thanks, man.”
“You prepared for a bidding war for this?” He’s not asking anything I haven’t wondered myself.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
Pete clears his throat. “Okay, then I’ll call Mrs. Morton’s realtor and see what I can find out. I’ll call ya.”
“Thanks. And Pete?” I ask, looking out the back window of the tiny apartment above the hardware store. “I’m not above playing dirty. I want that property.”
“Consider it done.”
We disconnect, and even though a part of me wants to gloat about my soon-to-be victory, a tiny part also feels something I wasn’t expecting.
Guilt.
I push her and her plans aside, choosing to focus on the day before me. We have a truck coming in an hour, plus a new shipment of power tools later in the day. This is the perfect opportunity for me to get a jump on some of the other small jobs I’ve been noticing need tending to, like a little reorganizing of the painting supply area and even a few updates in the kitchen displays. I have a big to-do list, and it wouldn’t hurt to head downstairs and get started before Dad and the rest of the employees come in.
Plus, if I surround myself with tedious, mundane tasks, maybe then I’ll stop picturing the way Harper’s red hair shone beneath the Sunday sun or the way her tank top molded to her perfect tits. The semi-woody in my pants tells me I’m full of shit, but a guy can hope, right?
A guy can definitely hope.
* * *
Mondays are a little busier than I anticipated. The temperatures are climbing fast, ensuring the afternoon will drop off dramatically. Everyone will either be inside, where their air-conditioning is cranking out the cool air, or they’ll be at the beach. My personal vote would be for the beach, but there’s too much shit to do to even consider enjoying a little sun and relaxation.
I’m helping a customer with new locks and a rekey project when the bell above the door chimes. I ignore the newcomer, since Dale is up at the counter to help. I continue rekeying, careful to make sure the grooves all match up. “This is the best brand on the market, so you should have no problems,” I say to the man, handing him his new locks and updated keys. “But if you do, give me a call and I’ll come out and take a look.”
“I’d be happy to give you a call,” I hear over my shoulder in a sweet, sultry voice. The male part of my brain (fine, it’s all male) starts to perk up with interest.
Until I turn around.
