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“Carter?” Mr. Wilder’s voice calls out, breaking me out of my endless thoughts of Brianna. “Are you listening to me?”
Shit.
“Yes, I certainly am,” I say, my gaze flicking toward him across the boardroom table as I try not to grit my teeth. Mr. Wilder is, hands down, the biggest pain-in-the-ass client I’ve ever met. Waters Construction has been working with him for over three years creating a new build for his multi-million-dollar home, and what we’ve built is incredible, probably the biggest residential property we’ve ever put our name on—the only problem is his wife.
Every time we get close to completion, she makes changes, and I swear, I’m so damn close to telling them to shove their house up their asses. It’s fucking ridiculous. This is the seventh time I have sat across from him with the finished plans in my hands, crossing shit out and starting over.
The meeting always goes fine, then he goes home to his wife, who decides she needs a fucking ten-foot water feature to be built into the design of her over-the-top foyer. Every time I tell my men that they need to knock down something that’s already been finalized, it breaks each one of their hearts. They value their work, just as I do, but clients like this make me want to throw in the towel.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I studied architecture and design in college, wanting to be taken on as a consultant in my father’s company, and when he passed, the whole thing came my way. It’s the most bittersweet moment I’ve ever experienced.
Dad had amazing grand designs, which we still offer. My clients love the originals, but since I’ve taken the reins, we’ve been doing more extreme builds that have put me on the map. To say it’s fucking awesome is an understatement.
Waters Construction is now known as the go-to company for high-end clients and celebrities who are looking for luxury and extreme designs. They’re after the wow factor and something to add to their portfolios to show off to their rich friends. Not once have I let a client down. We always come through. Seeing the look on the clients’ faces when they see their designer home for the first time is fucking priceless. It’s a high I will never stop chasing.
Just like Brianna Lucas.
But right now, dealing with these particular clients is a fucking nightmare. I mean, sure, this happens all the time. When people are paying a shitload of money, their expectations are nothing short of perfection. It’s understandable, and on builds like this, the clients will often request two or three changes to the plan after thinking on it for a hot minute. Not these assholes. They take nitpicking to a whole new level.
“So, where are we at with these new changes?” Mr. Wilder asks.
“All good,” I tell him. “All that’s left to do is to get your written consent on the new updates, then we can inform our builders.”
“Excellent,” he says, leaning across the table to shake my hand. He stands and rolls up the final plans before shoving them under his arm and making me cringe as he crinkles the paper I just spent the last hour working on. “I’ll get my wife to review this tonight, and I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Wonderful,” I say with a fake smile, the one I reserve for the hardest of clients. I show him out the door and let out a groan the second it closes behind him. “Thank fuck, that’s over,” I say to my secretary with a sigh before handing her a pile of papers and a copy of the latest updates from the meeting.
“Sooooo, after these final changes that should be a wrap on the Wilder property, right?” she questions as she starts going through the paperwork.
“I fucking hope so,” I tell her. “He needs the okay from the wife first, and we all know how that usually goes.”
“Ugh,” she groans. “The guy should just grow a pair of balls and tell her how it’s going to be.”
“That, he should,” I agree, “But I can’t deny that with her eye for detail and over-the-top taste, they’re going to have a picture-perfect home.”
“They will,” she agrees before putting her head down and diving straight into her work.
Making my way back to my office, I close the door behind me and drop down into my chair, swiveling to look out the window of my penthouse office suite. I let out a heavy sigh, bracing my hand behind my neck. I need a fucking drink after dealing with that.
My office takes up the two top floors of one of the biggest skyscrapers in Denver. It’s located in the heart of the city, with hundreds of employees that keep it running, and I get to be the lucky bastard at the top.
