Page 60 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

“Nice view,” Boone says again.

“Enough with the views,” I mutter, noting that the dining room is somewhat less finished. Another thirty hours.

“What?” Boone mutters back accusingly. “I’m trying to have a good attitude okay? Fuck you.”

“Fuck you right back,” I reply automatically.

“Fuck you both!” Ambrose calls out from the adjoining room.

I walk in the direction of his voice and find him in what looks like a kitchen area. This is the most completed room so far. Cabinets are on the walls. The granite island is already installed.

Ambrose smirks and draws a finger through the dust. I can see the mark where the metal glows underneath.

“See? This isn’t so bad!” he declares.

“Yeah, it’s the fucking Taj Mahal,” Boone sniffs, turning around so Ambrose can’t see him from across the room.

“I don’t know, maybe he has a point,” I shrug as I look around the family room that adjoins the kitchen.

The fireplace is only a firebox right now, but the limestone blocks are stacked on a pallet in the corner. A three-foot-high stack of drywall is neatly situated next to that, and at the other end, a truckload of timber.

“Least the timber is probably dry,” I observe.

“They left the plans, too,” Ambrose announces triumphantly, waving a roll of white paper over his head.

With a satisfied smirk, he comes strolling back out of the kitchen, nodding as he walks the edge of the family room. He toes a limestone block with his boot.

“So can we agree? Not as bad as it looks?”

“We’ve only seen half of it,” I remind him.

He shoots me a warning look, and I close my mouth.

“Yeah, okay, I can see it,” Boone adds, eager to be teacher’s pet.

“The conservatory glass is all intact too,” Ambrose adds, gesturing toward the lighted area off the side of the kitchen.

The three of us walk over, squinting at individual panes of glass. It’s basically a greenhouse, right off the sheltered side of the kitchen. A very nice idea for someone who likes to cook a lot.

“Ah, looks like they left us more presents,” Ambrose smirks.

The greenhouse is stacked with more materials: crates of kitchen appliances, by the looks of it. Bathroom fixtures. Stacks of copper pipe that gleam under a thick layer of dust. Spools of wire.

“I’d say we are just about set on materials, wouldn’t you?” Ambrose asks.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. His superior attitude is like nails on a chalkboard.

“Would you, though?” I challenge him.

“Pretty much,” he shrugs. “I mean, there are always overages here and there… But the basics seem to be here. I bet we are even gonna find flooring in one of these other rooms. Why don’t we take a look?”

He begins to walk away. I edge in front of him.

“I am serious, Ambrose. This all seems okay to you?”

He narrows his eyes at me dangerously. “I thought we already talked about this.”

“No,youtalked about this,” I remind him.

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