Page 14 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“Yo Ace, we got a problem.” Jamal, one of the younger engineers at the firm, jogs up to me with a clipboard in hand. “The concrete delivery got delayed.”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah. We’re already behind, so…what’s the move?

I exhale sharply, pressing my fingers to my temples. Delays, inspections, budget issues—it’s always something. I shouldn’t take this particular setback personally, but I do.

I should have an answer for this. I’msupposedto have an answer for this. But some days, I blank, and it’s like I never went to school for this shit at all. Then I beat myself up about it and hope nobody notices.

I glance at my team, all scattered across the site—men hauling rebar, supervisors shouting over the noise of the machinery, surveyors taking measurements. They all look to me like I know what I’m doing. Like I got this.

“See if we can reroute some of the labor to prep the eastern span in the meantime,” I say, voice steady. “I’ll call the supplier and see if I can make something shake.”

Jamal nods, already moving. He’s a good kid.

I pull out phone, my thumb hesitating over my call log before I flip to the messages.

Raya.

Again.

My jaw tightens as I stare at the notification. I’m remembering that kiss. That fuckingkiss. Herlips. She had me by the throat, and she knew it.

Something about her puts me on edge.

I think it’s the way she looks at me. It’s unsettling how her eyes stay fixed on my face and then don’t fucking move. Like she’s studying me. Figuring me out. That shit makes me uncomfortable.

But it’s also intriguing, I can’t even lie.

I let my phone drop back into my pocket. I got a bridge to build, which means I don’t have time to be obsessing over a woman who knocks me off my square.

“That’s game, nigga!”

“Hold on, hold on.” I tuck the ball under my arm and wipe a hand across my sweaty forehead. “You sure? Seemed like a travel to me.”

Bron laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t start that bullshit. Just take the L.”

I grin as I struggle to catch my breath. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and I’m hooping with my boys in the park. This shit is like therapy. No deadlines and no responsibilities, just sweat, competition, and friendly shit talking.

Titus shouldn’t be playing b-ball. He’s short, broad, and built like a linebacker. That’s my boy, though. Met him in undergrad. He has the kind of warmth that makes people let their guard down. Dayton is tall, but just as broad as Titus. He’s been my right hand man since high school. Jovan, slim and lanky, is Dayton’s cousin, and Bron linked up with us at a pickup game years ago. Bron is small and nerdy, but his aura is unmatched.

After I lose the game, we crash at the picnic table.

“What y’all niggas been up to?” Bron asks us.

I grin in triumph, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I’m lead on the bridge.”

“Oh, shit!” Titus reaches across the picnic table to dap me up. “That’s major.”

Dayton gives me an approving nod, while Jovan slaps me on the back. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he says. “We finna be out here drivin’ across one of them DEI bridges.”

We all laugh at that.

“Yo, I’m about to propose to Shara,” Dayton says, wiping sweat off his face.

“Damn, for real?”

He nods. “It’s time.”

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