Page 11 of Faking It With the Grumpy Single Dad

She shrugs. “Because I went through the same thing and had to overcome the same prejudice. I should’ve tried to prevent it happening to you.”

“It’s not happening to me. I don’t have a chip on my shoulder. This client is just… difficult. She really is.”

“Alright. Perhaps you should be on your way, then? You don’t want to be late meeting her a second time.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her. There’s no point in reminding her that it doesn’t even matter I was late to my first meeting with Poppy Minton, since she had to be roused from her royal slumber with several pounds of my fist against the front door.

“Yeah, I should go,” I mutter.

Flo smiles, apparently satisfied with our conversation. “So should we. Boys! Stop pummeling each other half to death and go get in the car! We have a fun day ahead of us and I’d prefer it if we’re all still in one piece by the end of it!”

Eli is the first to come barreling out of the living room. With his backpack slung over one arm, he hurtles past me, shouts a “Bye, Dad!” over his shoulder, and throws himself out the front door. Cody follows a moment later at a slightly slower pace, pausing long enough to give me a hug before darting after his older brother.

Flo tuts her tongue, but she’s grinning now. Her grandsons are her pride and joy. As they should be. After I was widowed, she stepped in and helped me raise them.

“I’ll see you later,” Flo says to me. She lifts her travel mug in a salute, gives me a wink, and heads out.

I allow myself exactly five minutes to enjoy the peace and quiet of the empty house before I drag myself out to my truck and start the engine. It’s late May, but the mornings are still chilly, so I grab my hoodie from the backseat and shrug it on. There’s a coffee stain on the arm and a streak of red paint on the cuff from a school project I helped the boys with, but it’s going to be a messy day anyway.

After all, before I can build Poppy Minton the princess palace of her dreams, we have to demolish the parts she doesn’t like.

And, goodness, there’s certainly a lot that she does not like.

***

Thankfully, I arrive at 1315 Atlantic Lane before my crew. I’ve only got two guys scheduled to meet me out here today, since this is the very first stage of the renovation process. Soon enough, I’ll have a whole team trucking into Mermaid Shores. I won’t need as many guys as I did for the Beaufort Manor project I did last summer, but it’s no question that the labor on this job isn’t going to come cheap.

Not that Poppy Minton seems to care about cost.

When I pull into the driveway, I’m greeted by the sight of a massive shipping container resting in the gravel.

Poppy, fully dressed this time in a pair of black jeans and a pink cable-knit sweater with short sleeves, is standing around the opposite side of the container, hands on her hips. Her pretty face is twisted into a puzzled frown. She doesn’t even seem to realize that I’ve arrived.

I take a deep breath and then hop out of the truck.

“Morning!” I call out.

She glances over at me, blinking in surprise. Her sleek blonde hair, light as cornsilk, is pulled back in a ponytail.

And she is, of course, wearing her diamonds.

“Hi, Joe,” she replies, her voice so warm and familiar that you’d think we’ve known each other for years. I never understood how people could be like that. Then again, I’m not much of an extrovert. Really, I’m only a people person when the job absolutely requires it.

“Is there a problem?” I dare to ask, coming around the shipping container to peer into the other side where the large metal doors have been propped open.

Only when I’m on this end of the driveway do I notice that the garage doors are also open. Inside, a pastel blue Ford Bronco, glossy and modern and effortlessly cool, is parked inside. It’s a gorgeous vehicle, undoubtedly the latest model. I estimate it cost her about ninety grand and try not to outwardly flinch.

“My things were delivered around six this morning,” Poppy informs me, gesturing to the contents of the shipping container. “I hired movers to unpack it for me today, but there was a scheduling conflict and they had to cancel, so now I’m wondering if I should just leave everything in there, given that you’re about to start a huge renovation on the cottage, except that the shipping company needs to come and pick this container back up in three business days, so it has to be empty by then, and I’m just not entirely sure what to do with all my stuff.”

I stare at her for a moment. “That has to be the longest sentence I’ve ever heard anyone say in one breath.”

She laughs. “Sorry. I get a little too verbose when I’m stressed.”

I wouldn’t think that a ditzy California girl would even know how to properly use the wordverbose. Maybe Flo is right—I am judging her too harshly.

Still, who dons pink cashmere and a sparkling tennis bracelet this early in the morning?

Someone who has no intention of personally handling her own stuff. That’s who.

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