Page 17 of The Wrong Guy

Oliver nods as he looks around. If he could kick the tires on the subdivision like a used car, I think he would, because he’s analyzing everything like he’s going to buy a house here himself and is picking out the perfect lot to see the sunrise over his daily cappuccino.

“What’s the ETA on finishing the whole thing so the investment begins returning a profit?” Oliver asks.

“Six months to full load out. Once we’re a few streets down, the ones up front can be sold, though. You’d have to ask Jed for the details on that,” I answer with no more detail than he could’ve gotten from the sales sign over by the turnoff.

His look is shrewd as he locks onto me again and hums in acknowledgment of what I said. “I think I’ve got what I came for. Shall we?” He touches Wren’s back and holds his other arm out in invitation, ready to escort her to his Lexus for the drive to city hall. “Look out for the mud there,” he tells her, pointing at the ground in front of her. “Wouldn’t want you to get dirty when you’re dressed impeccably.”

There’s barely any veil to his words. He’s flat-out talking about me. I’m the dirty mud that’ll soil her. Hell, I already have. And I don’t need him to explain to me that he’s more Wren’s type—smart, wealthy, clean.

She smiles appreciatively and takes Asshole’s elbow before giving me a professional look and a sweet-as-ice-cream smile. “Thanks, Jesse.”

Wren has to know that she’s driving me fucking crazy with this shit. I told her that this Oliver dude is after more than a contract and a divorce settlement. Or maybe she doesn’t realize. Or believe me.

“Hey,” I say, and she stops, looking back at me.

I lean around her, scowling at Oliver, and Wren has the decency—or maybe the fear of what I’m about to say—to tell him, “I’ll be right there. Just give me one second, ’kay?”

Once he’s climbing in the car and can’t hear me, I speak quietly to Wren. “Hang out for a little bit and I’ll take you home. Or the office, or whatever. Just don’t go with him.”

She looks up at me, and there’s something in her eyes that looks like pain, but I don’t know why. I’m not trying to hurt her. I’m trying to spend time with her, same as Oliver is.

“I can’t,” she finally answers. “I’ve got to get back, and maybe Oliver will share some thoughts after this little visit.” She looks toward the car hopefully.

I grunt in annoyance and sarcastically inform her, “I’m sure he’s got quite a few of those. Not a damn one having to do with Township.” She frowns at me in disappointment. Fuck, this asshole has her on a hook. “Yeah, sure. I get it,” I say as I step away, putting inches between us that feel like miles. “Have fun.”

She hesitates for a split second but then turns and walks to Oliver’s car. At least she opens the door for herself because him doing it for her would seem waaaay too much like a date, and I’m on the edge already. As the door slams and the Lexus pulls away, I try to stop myself from imagining what they’re talking about ...

That Jesse guy’s a real jerk, huh?

Jesse, the sweaty, stupid building contractor.

Do you actually have a past with a guy like that?

He’s probably staring at her thigh, maybe putting his hand there to comfort her from the upsetting interaction. And then slowly, slowly working her skirt a little higher so he can touch her skin.

Motherfucker.

I spin on a worn boot heel, needing to get back to work. I need a sledgehammer or a crowbar or something. But what I find is the whole crew standing stock-still watching the entire exchange among Wren, Oliver, and me.

“If you ain’t got enough shit to do, I can give you some more,” I snipe. Most of the guys hop to it, returning to their work so as not to have more.

Except Alan. He holds back and tells me, “There’s a construction pile over by the dumpster that needs to be tossed.”

I sigh, knowing I need to get back up on the joists to finish the rafters. But I nod in appreciation and head toward the dumpster. If there’s a pile of trash to be dumped, someone has the usually exhausting task of tossing it all into the dumpster, which is no easy or quick job. Right now, throwing shit around sounds like exactly what I need.

I grab the first chunk of pallet wood and wind up, swinging it out and up into the hollow dumpster, where it settles with a clang. “Me too, dumpster. I’m just as empty as you are.”

Only issue is, by quitting time, while I’ve made a good dent in the trash load and the dumpster is well beyond half-full, I still feel empty as hell.

Chapter 7

WREN

Three full days of silence is at least one too many. I haven’t heard anything from Oliver about how he and Chrissy plan to proceed. And even though I’m sure Jed has met with his lawyer, they haven’t contacted Ben or me at all. Oliver’s hands-on approach is unusual, but Jed’s team’s complete hands-off approach is worrying too.

There’s an informational loop here, and I need to be a part of it.

And equally bothersome, though I’d never admit it, is that I haven’t heard a word from Jesse since I left his job site. Not even a you get home okay? text, and he always sent me those.

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