Page 43 of Wrong Idea

“That!” She snapped her fingers with joy. “I would have gone viral if I had filmed it. Imagine a video with that strong, strapping man, down on his knees, dressed like he just got off a photo shoot with those fancy clothes of his.” She wagged her brows salaciously. “Anyhow, I walked in, and it smelled terrible!” She made a funny face of disgust. “So bad I thought I was going to be sick.” I grimaced. That had been my mess he was cleaning up. A flashback of me hunching over and throwing up all over his shoes came to mind.

“He was?” I croaked.

“Yeah.” She nodded, then her eyes softened. “I offered to help, but he said no. Told me it was his mess to clean up,” she shared.

Something about the fact that Carver, Daddy, considered my mess his made something inside of me start to crack. My insides turned warm and fuzzy.Is that stupid of me?Probably, but I knew it meant something.

“He also ordered these the first day he saw you walking around cleaning the offices,” Stan chimed in, not surprising me in the least that he had been snooping in on our conversation.

“Stan—“ I started to groan. He had been on me to call him. To forgive and give Carver another chance.

“What? Just saying, kid, the guy has real feelings for you. He cares. A lot.”

“That’s not true.” I shook my head. “He ordered them because we needed?—“

“He ordered them for you. He told me himself that’s why he ordered them.” That was something Stan hadn’t shared yesterday. “That was before I threatened to bury him in the mountain if he hurt you again,” he shared proudly, and my eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets.

“Stan!” I exclaimed, and Bertie laughed.

“I’d help you.” She winked and turned her attention to me.

“Now, beautiful girl, I know if I say this, you might think it’s some old woman giving you unsolicited advice, and maybe it is. But…” Her weathered hand stroked the top of mine. “There is something to be said about a man who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty and who doesn’t mind cleaning up messes. Trust me, Max. I know. I’ve seen a lot. Especially a man who can literally snap his fingers and have someone else take care of it. It means something, a lot, when that kind of man wants to do it himself.”

“Bertie,” I sighed.

“I know,” she sighed. “Matters of the heart are never easy, but then again, anything worthwhile usually takes time and understanding. He might have been grumpy or grouchy when I’d see him around, and I know a lot of the kids around here like totalk, but he was never disrespectful. Not to me, at least.” I liked that he wasn’t rude to Bertie.

“What about with the contractors?” I asked. Stan and Bertie both looked at one another, and Stan shook his head.

“O’Shea tried to screw him over. Knows what the Storms are worth and came up with some bullshit that would have cost the resort another thirty thousand to fix.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” I frowned, suddenly feeling protective over Carver.

“Bobby lied to Mr. Storm, honey. About something called a foundation alignment inside the new bid when Storm decided he wanted to get that building there almost done with. Bobby tried to be slick and make some extra money and padded the bid with fake work. There is no such thing as foundation alignments,” Bertie explained.

I knew Bobby, and it sounded like something he would do. He was great at what he did, or better said, his crews were, but he was known to take advantage of situations. Especially with someone new to town like the Storms.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice, almost familiar, sounded behind me, and hope bubbled up. When I turned around, the smile, the first genuine smile I’d had in a couple of days, disappeared.

“Hi.” The guy behind me smiled. I’d met him a couple of days ago when everything had blown up in my face, and because I had been distracted, I hadn’t really paid attention to the man. Carver’s brother stood there, his attention on me. He was close in build and height, maybe a little less muscle than his older brother, but his eyes were almost the same shade of blue as Carver’s

“Mr. Storm,” I muttered.

“Hey, Harry.” Stan grinned. “How can I help you, sir?“ Stan asked, but Harrison Storm’s gaze never wavered from mine.

“Would it be possible to speak with you in private for a moment, Miss Munoz?”

“Max. And of course,” I answered, standing up and following him down the hall and straight to the human resources office.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

“No problem,” I answered, standing as he took a seat at his desk.

“Please take a seat.” He pointed at the chair, and I frowned.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a shift to start?—“

“In an hour and a half.” He smiled gently. “Please?” He pointed at the seat again, and I sat down.

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