Page 59 of Serving the Mogul

A dull headache pulsed at the base of my skull, and the temptation to sleep it off was strong. But, after James drove off, the sound of the powerful engine no longer a memory, I grabbed my work bag.

Turning on the lights in my home office, I settled at the workstation and booted my computer.

I had already transferred my hotel photos and, after picking a few, I began editing. It wasn’t as easy to lose myself in the work as I’d hoped.

Snippets of our fight haunted me, and after an hour, I’d made no progress.

Whenever my phone vibrated with an incoming text, I would grab it. Although my logical part insisted I never wanted to hear from James again––outside of a work context––my heart sank every time a new message wasn’t from him.

Newt texted to make sure I was okay.

Mom texted to ask about my migraine.

Roseann texted to apologize for the board’s decision and promised she would talk to them.

Dina didn’t text.

James didn’t text.

Every hour that passed without hearing from either of them worsened the pain.

I finally stopped working for the night. My progress was minimal, and I was ninety percent sure I’d trash it all after a good night’s sleep.

But the entire night wasn’t a waste. My primary purpose in working had been to occupy my mind from the shit-fest that had been my day. Sleeping and putting this behind me would help me focus better in the morning.

* * *

My focus was stilla problem days later.

I’d written my preferred crews for historic building renovation projects, and luck had stepped in to make sure the company I needed first––demolition––had a job cancelation last minute.

I was in the right frame of mind for demolition, and Tuesday evening, two hours after the crew had packed their tools and stopped for the day, I was still at it, breaking down walls.

The muscles in my back and arms had gone past the sore stage and were numb.

It was nice not to be sleep-deprived anymore. Yesterday, I ran ten miles to exhaust myself and slept through the night.

The physical exertion of demolition would help on the same level.

Thirst had me dropping the sledgehammer, and my abused muscles writhed like hell. Even getting to the makeshift table was torture, and after draining half the bottle of water, I said out loud, “You won’t accomplish anything else tonight. It’s time to go home.”

“I agree.”

My heart lurched into my throat when I heard the voice behind me. Grabbing the aluminum reusable water bottle, I spun and hurled it in the speaker’s direction.

A feminine yelp told me I’d hit my target, but that didn’t stop me from grabbing the sledgehammer.

“Hey, chill out!” The woman, with a huge wet stain on the front of her shirt, glared at me.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded, heart racing. “How did you get in here?”

“Your crew didn’t lock up, Sherlock,” she said in a sour voice. “You should probably mention it to them tomorrow.”

I blinked, surprised by her matter-of-fact response in a somewhat irritated voice. “Yeah, I’ll do that. You didn’t tell me the answer to the first question. Who are you?”

“Gianni Eckerle.” She offered a thin smile. “James probably never mentioned me, but I’m his sister.”

She moved deeper into the lobby, skirting the piles of debris.

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