Page 22 of Lovingly Restored

“Believe me when I tell you she’s working on it.” Mrs. Lauri showed me the list earlier. It’s double-sided.

He gives me a ‘oh, shit’ look. It’s cute and vulnerable, and I wish he wouldn’t.

“Do you run your own business?” I ask.

He stiffens, like I corrected his posture.

“No.” The bed groans with relief as he stands.

Apparently, that topic isn’t up for discussion. At the door he pauses, one of those large hands wraps around the unpainted wood frame. He inspects the woodgrain and drums his fingertips in a simple rhythm.

“Come out and see the workshop one day. I can show you some things Icarpent.”

Couldn’t let that one slide, could he?

“If I have time.” I sit back against the headboard and pretend to read, feigning disinterest.

“Make some.” The floors creak as he walks away.

I try to enjoy the rest of my downtime, but my eyes skim the same sentence over and over, and the rock star keeps trading the guitar for a tool belt. Instead of a stage, he’s standing in a tiny bedroom, full of plants, and one very screwed nurse.

Chapter nine

Isaac

I’msittingonmybed, laptop open on my legs, when an email from the bank hits my inbox. My stomach flips as I read the message from the loan officer, eyes darting from line to line of the tiny text. My business line of credit was approved. I stare at the zeroes and swallow hard, raking a hand through my hair. That’s a lot of money. A lot of responsibility. Banks, lawyers, insurance. Employees, payroll, site safety. But this is what I wanted. What I’ve been putting off for way too long. I’ve been drowning in a sea of adulting, and it’s paying off. Berg and Dean are in; they transferred me the money that claims their place as co-owners, and they’ve signed all the paperwork. I’m working on Chris. He’s younger than us, and it’s scary to leave a sure thing. I get it, but I refuse to leave his ass behind. Some of my oldest contacts, friends of my grandfather, have spread the word about my new venture, and I’m receiving more inquiries than I can handle. Only a week living with Mummo, and I’m figuring things out.

“Isaac Lauri!” The voice of my feisty roommate comes flying down the hall.

“Jesus, now what?” I say under my breath.

Over the last week, Ashlyn has taken to hollering my full name whenever I do something that isn’t to her liking. Unfortunately for me, that’s a lot.

“Yes?” I call, pulling on a white t-shirt and leaving my bedroom in search of the impossible to please woman.

She pops her head out of the utility room off the kitchen. It houses the hot water heater, the ancient washing machine and dryer, and other odds and ends. “Get in here.”

I can only see about half of her face, but it’s enough to tell the general vibe is ‘pissed’. Why are small angry women so scary…and hot? I step in to join her.

“You left your laundry in the washer again, and I need to throw a load in.”

While I feel a strong urge to make a load related joke, I figure that type of humour isn’t her speed.

“So? Switch it over,” I say, leaning against the laundry sink.

Her eyebrows arch. “I’m not doing that. I get paid to dotwopeople’s laundry around here: my own and your grandmother’s. Stick to the schedule. It’s on the fridge.”

Not the fucking schedule again. That calendar I saw her consulting the day I arrived? It’s so much more than I could have ever imagined. It’s not a schedule; it’s a fucking flight plan. And it’s laminated.

“Ashlyn, you’re very good at your job, and Mummo loves you, but can’t anything be done organically? Not every single thing requires a fucking colour-coded schedule.”

Not only do I have my to-do list from Mummo, but it only took Ashlyn a matter of days to get my name on the refrigerator schedule.

“That’s where you and I differ, I suppose,” she says.

Eager to end my scolding of the day and switch my laundry, I step around her, but she moves the same way, accidentally blocking me.

She rolls her eyes, “Get out my way, you big oaf.”

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