Page 9 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

I chuckle at his impersonation, because Wayne’s right. There’s absolutely no way to dig a pool and not create a big, messy pile of dirt somewhere. If I were hired to put a pool in at the White House on the South Lawn, guess what? The president would be looking out at a pile of dirt for a while. That’s the way physics works. Holes have dirt, dirt needs to go somewhere. And I’m not hauling it halfway around the world just for her view. “I’ll handle it.”

It’s a vow I make seriously. I take care of my guys. I know a lot of workplaces say they’re a ‘family’ as a way to take advantage of people, but for us? I actually mean it. We give each other shit, but nobody fucks with them. Not on my watch.

And the fact that Wayne’s telling me to deal with it means he already tried his way and is sending in the big guns, a.k.a. me. Because I can play nice when the situation warrants it, but it’s not my natural state. This little conversation will be about setting expectations and boundaries with Kathy, something she probably thinks she’s immune to. But she’s gonna learn that they do apply to her where my crew and jobsite are concerned.

Thankful for the fact that this came up now and not four hours from now when I’d be sweaty and smelling like a trash heap, I walk over to the back door of Kathy Wilson’s house, knocking politely. When she doesn’t answer, I clear my throat, knocking again. “Hey Missus Willllsoooonnn!”

Behind me, Wayne snorts. “That’s old even for me.”

Before I can tell Wayne that I watched the old Dennis The Menace with my grandfather when I was little, the door opens and Kathy Wilson stares at me in utter, arrogant indignance. “Yes?”

The height difference from her back porch to her nook floor has nothing to do with the way she’s looking down at me. In her mind, I’m beneath her and the way she peers down her nose makes that loud and clear. Luckily, I’m used to dealing with that from other customers and my own family, so I use my tried-and-true method first—charm.

“We need to talk,” I reply reasonably, giving her a smile that’s gotten me out of trouble a lot of times… and into trouble just as much. “I hear you’re upset about where my crew’s been putting the excavated dirt? Something about your view?”

Kathy’s cheeks flush, my smile clearly doing what I intended, and she nods. “Yes. It’s unsightly.”

“Can I see what you’re talking about? You mind?” I lift my chin, indicating she should invite me in to show me the problem. Our meetings to discuss her project were in her back yard, with me walking around and holding my hands out to indicate pool size while she tilted her head, considering my suggestions, so this will be the first time I’ve actually been inside.

“Oh, uh… this way,” she offers.

I follow her through the door, knowing exactly what to expect. Except… her home doesn’t look anything like what I thought it would.

In taking this job, I know exactly how old her house is because I had to pull permits. It’s a turn of the century, two-story, American Foursquare-style home with two thousand, three hundred square feet of interior space, a spacious front porch with a smaller rear porch that’s been enclosed to create a sunroom, four bedrooms, a living room, and even a parlor-slash-dining room.

I would’ve thought it’d be decorated classically, especially given Kathy’s formal, traditional vibe. But the inside of her house looks like something from Modern Home Design. The kitchen she invites me into has been completely gutted and replaced with a long line of flat-front white cabinets, accented with shiny chrome pulls and glossy, white stone countertops, broken up by sleek stainless appliances. It’s nice and updated, but not in the way I thought it’d be for this style of house. The move from timeless exterior to modern interior is jarring, clashing dramatically, and if someone told me Kathy uses the kitchen island for her embalming hobby, I’d believe it. It’s cold and soulless in here, much like the inhabitant.

“First off, I’d like to apologize for the mess,” I offer, not the least bit apologetic as she goes over to her Keurig and puts in a pod. I doubt she’s making coffee for the help, so it must be time for her second—or third—cup of caffeine. No, scratch that—she probably drinks decaf, which is nothing more than bitter bean water as far as I’m concerned. “Heard it was a bit unexpected this morning.”

She nods primly, acting like an apology is the least she deserves. “Your men were quite rude about it.”

I lift a brow at her pompous act. She probably thinks my reaction is one of surprise or concern. Truthfully, it’s in doubt. Wayne, rude? No way. He was probably falling all over himself to apologize and smooth things over. At least to her face. Behind her back, with the guys? That’s a whole different thing. There, I’m sure he had some choice words about the situation. Maybe she overheard that?

I wait for her to demand a discount, my firstborn, or whatever ass-kissing she thinks she can get from me. When she stays silent, I continue with my professional spiel, dropping the charm and smiles in favor of flat information because I’m expecting this to go south and it’s preferable to baby step her toward my wrecking ball style, rather than hit her with it out of the blue. “As we discussed, putting in a pool is a process. One that’s worse before it’s better. What were your specific concerns this morning?” Keeping my face neutral and my hands behind my back, I wait for her to unleash on me.

I can almost see her analyzing how to approach this. Histrionics? No. Bossy demands? Maybe. Waterworks? Oh, she’s holding those in reserve.

For now, she goes with slightly snotty. “The dirt. It’s so unsightly. It disrupted my morning. How am I supposed to enjoy my morning coffee when all I see out my solarium window is dirt?” She makes ‘dirt’ sound like ‘shit’ and even crinkles her nose as if she’s actually smelling something foul when she glares out the back window.

Because you always see dirt when you look out the window. It’s just grass covered dirt, I want to comment, but I bite it back. I look out the window too, glancing over to the pile in question, but it barely intrudes on the general view. If anything, the only thing it seems to be blocking is a view of Dani’s yard, specifically, the patio area where the grill is located.

“We have to put the dirt somewhere when we take it out of the ground. It’ll be hauled off after we finish the grading,” I explain, not going into the details of how the dirt we haul out gets reused in our projects in order to create the right grading for the bottom of the pool. “Your choice is whether we put it in the yard or the driveway.”

It’s not actually a choice and we both know it, but couching it as such gives her a tiny modicum of control, which is important to a woman like her. Especially when we’ve barely started this project and have weeks of dealing with each other laid out in front of us.

“Well, I guess in that case… the yard.” She gives her answer, but she’s not happy about it.

Kathy starts to say more, but that’s all I need from her, so I interrupt to quickly add, “And I do want to warn you again… a construction site isn’t safe. We’ll have checkpoints when you can come out and inspect things, but you can’t walk onto the site during construction. For your own protection.”

She frowns, not liking being told no, and decides on another tactic. “I understand. It’s just that since my husband died…” Her voice has gone quavery, and I swear she’s pinching herself to make her eyes water.

She pauses, waiting for the expected sympathy. I don’t have any. If anything, I offer a silent little cheer to the late Mr. Wilson, since it seems he’s now free of a burden no one should have to endure. So I stay silent, which clearly only annoys her more.

In a bit of a huff, she continues, “The kids and grandkids don’t come visit much. Only at Christmas, you know?”

She’s trying to make it sound like she’s lonely and was simply socializing with the guys this morning, but we both know that’s not true. She wouldn’t dream of having a chit-chat with Wayne—or me—if we weren’t doing work on her property. She thinks she’s above us in whatever social hierarchy she’s invented in her mind.

I’ve spent my entire life learning how to size people up, professionally and personally, in minutes. And Kathy Wilson’s not a kind old grandma who spoils her grandkids with treats and hugs. She strikes me as the complete opposite.

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