Page 21 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

See you then, handsome

I set my phone facedown on my desk, but the damage is already done.

She’s got me.

And I think she knows it.

As I step onto the site, the hum of construction surrounds me—metal clanking, machines whirring, voices barking orders over the noise. The smell of cement dust clings to the morning air as I make my way toward the foundation.

Simon waves me over. His hard hat is cocked to the side on top of his head like a birthday hat.

“We have a problem,” he announces, and I groan inwardly. Always something.

I follow him to the edge of the platform where the foundation is settling. A section of the concrete is ever so slightly misaligned. It’s barely noticeable, but it matters. A lot.

“Who poured this?” I ask, crouching down.

“Team C. Looked good yesterday, but after it settled overnight, we got the shift.”

I run a hand down my face. A weak foundation makes a weak bridge. One small miscalculation, one minor crack, and the whole thing collapses.

“Gotta fix it. No shortcuts.”

Simon nods. “I’ll get the team on it.”

I stand, rolling my shoulders, already planning what I’ll write up in my progress report. It’s somebody else’s fuckup, but it doesn’t matter. This is my team, so it’s on me.

I blow out a sigh. A weak foundation is a death wish. Nobody notices until one day, at the absolute worst and least expected time, it all comes crumbling down. It’s better to subject it to early scrutiny, no matter how much time you have to sacrifice.

The foundation has to be solid.

So I’ll take my lumps now. Fuck what anybody says.

Shit is tense around the site, though. Nobody wants to be anywhere near a mistake this big. I retreat to the dirty white trailer that contains my on-site office. The hum of the rickety old air conditioner greets me as I step inside, along with the scent of stale coffee and industrial-strength hand sanitizer.

I sit at the long folding table stacked with blueprints, soil test reports, and structural analysis documents. I open up my laptop and pull up the 3D rendering of the bridge foundation, studying it closely, jotting down my thoughts in my notebook.

I check the clock on the wall. Only a few more hours until Raya. Seeing her. Kissing her. Setting off round three. The sex was amazing, just like I lied to my boys and said it was. I might even let her ass sleep over.

It’s strange how much I’m looking forward to ending my day with her. It’s almost like she already belongs in my life. She definitely moves like she does, showing up uninvited and expecting my attention. I never gave her the green light, but she drove right on in and made herself comfortable.

Most women try to play it cool. They wait around for the ‘what are we?’ conversation, hanging on my every word and expression for any hint that I want things to get more serious.

But not her.

I wonder if that’s a red flag.

I guess it's possible.

Or it could be exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

The doorbell rings exactly at seven o’clock.

She’s standing there when I open the door, smug and smiley.

“Hey, you,” she purrs.

“Hey.” My eyes flicker over her belted jacket. “Ain’t you hot in that?”

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