Page 4 of Forgotten Dreams

“Good,” she mumbles. “I was wondering when you would be leaving. When you’re here, I can’t do what I want.”

“Like what?” I ask, my eyebrows pinching together.

“Like call my friends and talk smack about my boss.” She smirks and winks at me as I roll my eyes. The first person I hired was Mikaela when I decided to open this place, and she is worth every single penny.

“I have two meetings.” Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes at me.

“You act like I don’t have your schedule”—she puts her cup down—“or that I do your schedule.” I don’t answer her. “Tomorrow, we have the weekly meeting,” she reminds me, “at eight o’clock. A couple of things need to be moved around on the schedule.” I look over at the big whiteboard she keeps on the side with every project we have going on and who is at what project. She used to do it on her Excel sheet, but then my father came into town and said it would be easier for everyone to see it. So she gave in, and now it’s there front and center.

“Sounds good.” I nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“It’s your turn for coffee and donuts,” she calls out right before I walk out the front door.

Slamming it shut behind me, I walk down the four steps and then turn right to go to the driveway where my truck is parked. The CW Construction logo is on the side of the black truck in orange writing with my phone number beside it.

Pulling open the door and getting in, I toss my keys in the middle of the console where the cupholders are, then place the phone down in the other cupholder before starting the truck. The minute I pull out of the garage, my phone rings, the display showing me it’s my father calling. I press the green button and wait to connect before I say, “Good morning.”

“Hey, son.” His voice fills the truck. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” I reply. “I’m on my way to Charlie’s to quote him for the barn he wants to fix up and add on to.”

“Oh, I saw the project in the folder. It looks like it’s going to be a big project.”

“If we bid properly,” I say, “I think it’ll be great for the business.”

He chuckles. “You are already over the projected numbers that we thought you would be at after two years, and you did it in less than a year.”

“Well, it helps that the Cartwrights fucked everyone over with their bullshit, and no one wanted to work with them. Plus, when the news came out that their old project was crumbling, it was the perfect time for a new person to come in and start their construction business.” I laugh. “It’s a good thing I’m the one who took Everleigh’s phone call when she called.”

“It’s a good thing,” he repeats my words. Almost a year ago, Everleigh’s mom’s bakery was torched, and she needed it to be rebuilt. The last people she would have turned to were the Cartwrights because of their bad history together. From the gossip around town, she was in the car Waylon Cartwright drove the night he was drunk, killing two bystanders plus the two people who were in his truck. That was when the Cartwrights’ house of cards slowly started crumbling. Even though they tried to hide it, they found out that Waylon was wasted when he was driving. But being the narcissists they are, instead of pointing fingers at their son, they pointed at everyone else around them. “Let me know if you need me to send any of the crew back down.”

“I will, but I have a good bunch of guys working for me here now. I should be thanking the Cartwrights for that,” I joke, knowing the last thing I’ll ever do is talk to them. It was bad enough that they fucked over Waylon’s girlfriend, but then they also tried to fuck over Waylon’s best friend, Brock, who was also in the truck that night. He also worked for them as an architect, but they fucked him over. They stole his plans, and the greedy sons of bitches modified them without even working with the structure to make sure it was reinforced and nothing was up to code. And because they had everyone in their pockets and bribes out everywhere, no one said anything. That is until the buildings literally started to sink into the ground. Now there are class-action lawsuits everywhere, and no one wants to do business with them. It’ll only be a matter of time before the Cartwright name is erased from Montgavin's memory.

“Okay, well, I have about five guys here itching to come up there,” he shares, and I can’t help but smile. When I first started here, we thought it would only be the bakery, and then I’d go back and work with my father. I don’t know what it was, but I felt in my bones this is where I was meant to be. So I took another job while doing the bakery, and then they just kept coming in. There were so many times that I talked to my father about fronting me money to start my own construction company. I started CW Construction, and now I have my own team of twenty, which is crazy when you think about how fast we grew.

“It’s because I’m fun to work with and for,” I tell him, and he groans.

“I’m fun too,” he snaps.

“Dad, you stopped being fun when Mila”—I mention my sister—“started dating one of the workers,” I remind him. “I believe you said, ‘I’m going to bury him under a slab of concrete if he puts one finger on her.’

And what did that do?” I ask.

“Your mother and I had words,” he admits. I may be two states over, but I can feel the glare directed straight at me.

“And…” I egg him on, knowing exactly how this turned out. It’s the single most joked about thing at all our meals together.

“They got married,” he grumbles, “under my protest.”

“You walked her down the aisle.” I laugh. “And they have two kids.” Two children who my father worships. He even took a step back from work to spend time with them while Mila went back to work. He says it keeps him young.

“I have to let you go,” he blusters. “You’re annoying the fuck out of me.”

“Love you, Dad.” I laugh.

“Love you too,” he responds. “Proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and he hangs up. Then I see a text come through from him.

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