Page 37 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
It’s deeply painful—something I can’t process right now without breaking something. Maybe I should ask them if I can use the sledgehammer to bring the walls down—or whatever they need me to break.
I stand in what was once the hallway leading to Exam Room Two, hands on my hips, trying to remember what calm feels like while Mike updates me with the world’s worst news imaginable.
“Bad news,” he announces cheerfully, as if he enjoys my suffering. “Your pipes are completely shot. Whoever worked on this place last did a garbage job—almost criminal. I’d almost be impressed if I weren’t so disgusted.”
My eye twitches. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Mike says, wiping his hands on his jeans like we’re discussing literally anything other than my professional ruin, “we’ll need to re-pipe the entire place. We’ll also have to open up the floors in a few areas to fix the connections.”
I exhale through my nose. “Define ‘a few areas.’”
Mike scratches his head and waves a hand vaguely at everything. “Oh, you know. Just here . . . and there . . . and definitely outside.”
I stare at him, then at the mess. Then at the giant fucking hole in the wall that I swear wasn’t there five minutes ago.
“Right,” I say, nodding as if I understand. Which I don’t. “And let me guess—the mold situation is just as bad? You’ll need more than five weeks.”
Mike grins. He actually grins. “Oh, it’s way worse. I should be assessing it closely, but it’s all good, lady. As I told your man, this place will be as good as new and up to code in no time.”
I freeze.
Then slowly, carefully, I rub my temples, choosing not to clarify that Lucian is not my man. He’s the man I might kill because of this disaster.
But mine?
Absolutely fucking not.
Instead, I focus on the bigger issue.
“So, when do you think you’ll obtain those permits?”
Mike shrugs as if this is all very casual and not actively ruining my life. “If I can talk to your guy . . . maybe we can expedite them. You know, the luxury box at the stadium type of pull? That always moves things along faster.”
I squint at him.
“My guy?”
“Yeah, Crawford. Dude’s the best player on the Knights. He always hooks his friends up with great seats.”
Of course, they need his tickets.
I don’t know why I let Lucian insert himself into my renovation without asking, but this . . . this is exactly why I should have known better.
I inhale deeply.
Because the next time I’m face-to-face with Lucian Crawford, I am definitely choosing violence.
Probably with the fucking sledgehammer.
And just like that—since the universe loves testing me—I sense him before I see him.
It feels as if my body has developed a biological alarm system specifically for Lucian Crawford.
Flight or fight alert. Mostly fight.
Blood pressure? Elevated.
Sanity? Depleting.
