Page 16 of The Wrong Guy

I’m no dummy. I know exactly what my most attractive parts are, and why Wren chose to slum with a man like me. To highlight myself, I prop a boot on the joist across from me; spreading my thighs out, I rest an elbow on my knee and flex my biceps a bit before whistling sharply, knowing Wren will look around for the source of the noise. She shades her eyes, scanning the surrounding homes at first-floor level, and then finally looking up higher. I know the instant she finds me because I see her chest rise when she sucks in a breath.

I don’t bother to hide my smirk as I shout down, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Wren doesn’t hesitate to be loud either. “We need to talk.”

We ... as in me and her?

We ... as in her and Oliver?

We ... as in all three of us?

There’s only one of those options I’m willing to entertain. But Wren lifts one brow, reminding me of our conversation last night. She needs this case for some reason.

I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s a divorce, something that happens to more than 50 percent of marriages. Divide the money, split the company on paper, and Jed can buy Chrissy out, and that’ll be that. Done deal. Chrissy’s only in it for the money anyway. Always has been, always will be. And Jed can go on being the self-righteous narcissist no one likes, the way he’s always been, with a new little mini-me to fuck up.

But I’ll do this for Wren. Shit, I’d do damn near anything for her.

I wipe my forehead with a sigh. “I’m coming down. Gimme a second.”

I swing my legs a couple of times for momentum and hop down to the second-story plywood subfloor with a thud. Plodding down the stairs, I stop halfway to call back up, “Roscoe, finish up those rafter ties, will ya?”

“Aye, aye, boss,” he answers crisply, for once not backtalking or giving me a hard time. I never told anyone who I was seeing when Wren and I were doing what we were doing, but everyone knew when it stopped because I was a bastard—more than usual—for a long while after that. Hell, I probably still am. A woman like Wren will do that to a guy—fuck your brain up for the rest of your life.

Downstairs, I find Wren and Oliver standing in what will be the living room of this house. They look ridiculous in office attire, surrounded by wood framing and concrete. “Out,” I bark as I point toward the doorframe they came through.

“What?” Wren mutters in shock.

Oliver clenches his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed as he glares at me. “We need to go over a few things. Now.”

Oh, he wants to be the boss? That might work in his fancy city office, but not here. “We can do that ... outside.” I push past him, bumping his shoulder and leaving a smudge of sawdust on his pristine suit. I have zero regrets.

I keep walking, out to my truck by the curb, trusting that Wren and Oliver are behind me. If they came all the way out here to talk, they’ll follow me wherever I go. I lean back on the lowered tailgate, steeling my nerves.

For Wren, I tell myself.

Oliver strides up like this is some scripted performance of how to be intimidating. Too bad for him, it doesn’t work in the slightest on me. “This property is partially owned by my client, and we’ve come out here to discuss it. I will not stand for you barking orders and bullying us around.”

He lifts his chin an inch so he can look down his nose at me.

Sometimes, the power move is to rise to the occasion and meet your opponent face-to-face. Other times, it’s to seem completely unbothered by someone’s loud barking and bleating about. That’s the route I take here.

“It’s Jed and Chrissy Ford’s property. And you work for them, same as me. But it’s my job site, and I’m responsible for every person on it, including ones who show up in open-toed, thin-soled shoes”—I glance down at Wren’s peep-toe heels—“and dumbasses who don’t have the common sense God should have given them about safety.” I look back at Oliver, baiting him to blow up and show his ass.

For an uptight suit-and-tie type, he seems to be hiding a lot of entitled brat anger right below the surface. If this case is as important as Wren says it is, she needs to know what she’s up against.

“You’re right. Sorry, Jesse,” she says, interrupting the stare fest between Oliver and me.

I drag my eyes to Wren. I’d rather look at her anyway. She seems worried, and I hope I haven’t fucked up her meeting again, because I’m actually trying to help this time. It might not be information on strategy, but knowing who’s behind the strategy is important too.

“Apology accepted. Now, what’s up?”

Wren glances at Oliver as though checking if he wants to explain. When he stays silent, she tells me, “We’ve been going through the Ford Construction Company contract for Township this morning. And Oliver asked to see the development to know what he’s negotiating for beyond the contract, because I’ve been telling him about how important this development is for Cold Springs.”

He wanted to drive Wren out here alone in his rental car is what he wanted. But fine, I can go along with this ...

“Township is based on a suburban neighborhood design, mixed with brownstone-type connections. Each pair of homes shares a wall down the middle”—I point to the central wall of the one we left a moment ago—“but have their own yards, driveways, and garages. So they’re not your typical duplex. They’re small starter homes meant to be affordable for the people of Cold Springs. We’re on schedule to finish framing the row of homes on this side of the street this week, starting the other side next week. Finishers are already working over there.” I point to the street behind us that’s nearing completion. “And we’ll repeat, repeat, repeat till the end of the neighborhood.” I gesture toward the rest of the streets that have prepped lots ready for construction to begin.

I look at them both to see if that’s all they want to hear. Wren could’ve told Oliver that. Hell, she probably did.

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