Page 25 of Our Long Days
Their marriage is the blueprint, and long ago, before my plans derailed, it was the future I envisioned for myself.
Someone to share a bed with, to love when we’re old and gray. Kids to chase around the yard and build bunk beds for. A life filled with memories.
Once the destination, now a mirage.
“Have you decided what day you’re getting in for the wedding?”
My mom scoffs at my poor attempt at changing the subject. “We should be in town for the rehearsal dinner. Your father’s looking at hotels as we speak.”
Shoot. If I hire an assistant, the A-frame I built for their visits will be occupied. “You can stay in the main house.”
“You don’t want us cramping your bachelor lifestyle. Either way, we can’t wait to see Patrick and Johanna get married.”
“About time, huh?”
Jo and Pat settled on a date in July, and last week, my oldest friend asked me to be his best man. Shit got emotional, and, obviously, we blamed it on allergies.
We chat some more, my mom telling me about a cruise they’ve booked for after the wedding, and then we say goodbye.
Fighting the exhaustion, I make my way toward my workshop. Built adjacent to the main cabin, the corrugated steel building is where I keep my bespoke pieces, ranging from dining tables to staircases. It’s a nice change of pace from the bigger projects, more of a hobby.
It’s also home to a small office with boring beige walls, a place where I rarely spend any time. A mountain of paperwork and invoices balances precariously on the desk, and more papers spill out of the filing cabinets.
Call me old school, but reading on paper is easier. I open the folder, send the resumes to the printer, then settle into my chair, pen at the ready.
“Fuck’s sake.” They’ve forgotten to redact the applicant details. My hand reaches for my phone, ready to call the agency, when a name catches my eye.
I blink, certain it’s a figment of my imagination. There, in bold, black lettering, is a name I’ve tried my hardest not to think about. A name etched into my brain.
Florence Sadler.
The universe is fucking with me. That, or I’m dreaming, and I’ll wake up any second, drooling over my keyboard. Reading any more feels like a huge invasion of privacy, but like anything with Florence, I’m powerless.
The corner of my mouth hitches. She talks about how beingthe youngest of four has built character and resilience. I imagine her saying that aloud, her hands fisted on her slender hips. There are a lot of great skills on here, and yes, her employment history is short, but I also know how passionate, hardworking, and determined she is.
Red flashes in my vision.
Warning: do not cross.
Too fucking late for that.
My mind is made up, despite my conscience banging against the inside of my skull.Nothing good will come from this, it screams.
A lot of good will come from this.
Your spark hasn’t gone yet, Trouble.
We all need a break, someone to take a chance. She wouldn’t have applied had she known who was behind the ad, and she’s going to fight me on this, tooth and nail. Unless…
I’m already typing out an email to Kelsey at the recruitment agency, ignoring my remaining ounce of common sense.
CHAPTER TWELVE
florence
Something has been buggingme all afternoon like a little wasp, zipping back and forth in my skull, distracting me. When this happens, I run through the alphabet. Sometimes, it works, helping me remember a tiny, forgotten detail.
No luck today, and as the hours ticked by, a swarm infested my skull. The cure? A day at the beach, reading smut and napping.
