Oliver
“That’s never going to work.” I rub my forehead and listen to Greg, our construction manager, deliver his spiel over the phone. “Look, I don’t mean to cut you off here, but that’s simply not going to work.”
My leather chair squeaks as I lean back and gaze out of my office windows. The sun is shining brightly just above the buildings to the East. I love watching it rise—slowly inching its way into the sky like a lazy yawn. Some people meditate. Some go to church. I watch the sun rise.
But not today.
Today, I missed it. It’s evident in my mood.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, taking advantage of Greg’s pause, “email me a bullet point list of everything you just said and I’ll go over it with Holt today. I don’t think it’s going to work, but we’ll see what he thinks.”
“Will do. I know it’s more than we bargained for, but I don’t see another solution.”
“There’s always another solution, Greg.”
“I can’t find it for the life of me.”
That’s why I’m the boss. “Then we make one.”
“Okay, Mr. Mason.”
Greg’s voice is defeated, which wasn’t my intention. I want our guys in the field to feel confident. Confident people do better work. But I don’t have the time, nor the energy, to coddle anyone today.
“Email me,” I tell him. “I need to go.”
“You got it. Goodbye, sir.”
I end the call and sit up, my chair screaming again. The sound grates on my nerves. I unlock my computer screen to send an email to my assistant to buy me a new one when I realize I don’t have one. Or, rather, I do but she’s overwhelmed.
Irritation sweeps through me like a wildfire.
I punch a couple of buttons on my desk phone.
“Yes, Mr. Mason?” Toni, the head of human resources, asks.
“Good morning, Toni. I need an update on the administrative issue in my office, please.”
“Yes, sir. Not a problem.” Papers shuffle in the background. “We are in the process of hiring you an executive assistant. We’ll leave Kelly to oversee the office as a whole and we’ll move Miriam over to assist Holt. Also, I’m on the lookout for an EA for Boone, too. Someone tough is what Holt suggested.”
The plan soothes my displeasure enough to stop the start of a migraine behind my left eye.
“I have a few candidates coming in this morning,” she says. “Here’s hoping they are as good in real life as they are on paper.”
They never are. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Toni. Please keep me in the loop.”
“I will, sir.”
I lift the handset and then sit it back down.
My chair squeaks again as I lean back and try to center myself. The morning has been a shit show with problems from job sites that Greg can’t handle, issues with contracts from the legal department, and the disarray in the front office.
And I missed the sunrise.
I sigh.
My gaze falls to the stack of papers—contracts, purchase orders, invoices—that need my signature. It’s not as easy as it used to be. Just as harried, but not as simple. When our former secretary retired, everything fell apart. Suddenly, no one knew anything despite all the training in the world. The day she left felt like the first day of work for everyone else.
We’ve never recovered.
Miriam and Kelly do a decent job, but they aren’t equipped to handle three Masons in one office now that Boone has decided to actually work. Miriam and Holt get along well, so he’ll use her exclusively. Kelly is great but we don’t really vibe on a level that will work out on that kind of EA level.
The light on my desk phone flickers and a buzz resonates through the room. Holt’s extension flashes on the screen.
I press the speakerphone button. “Yeah?”
“Did Greg call you?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“You sound optimistic.”
“It’s not gonna work, Holt. There’s no fucking way. By the time you factor in—”
“I know.” He chuckles. “How much coffee have you had today?”
I glance at the three mugs on my desk. “Enough.”
His chuckle grows louder.
“This version of you is annoying,” I tell him, plucking the top file off the stack at the corner of my desk.
“What version?”
“The …” I grimace, even though he can’t see me. “The happy one.”
The bastard laughs even louder.
“Call me back when you’re a prick,” I tell him. “It makes me feel better about myself when I’m the nice one.”
“Just go see Wade. That’ll fix it.”
My lips turn upward. “At least you’re still logical.”
“I’m a happy logic. That’s what a good woman will do for you.”
Just like that, I grimace again.
There’s so much to be vexed about in that sentence—some of which I might’ve worked out in sunrise therapy this morning.
I tug at my collar. Happiness. A good woman. The concept that my life is lacking in any way—it’s all annoying and it’s been annoying well before Holt called me this morning.
A bubble sitting in my stomach kept me from finding any peace all night.
I snacked. I worked out. I snacked again.
A shot of whiskey never hurt anyone and it didn’t hurt, nor help, me last night. The hot tub wasn’t the answer. My sheets were nestled at the foot of my bed in a giant ball when I woke up this morning.
Throughout all of this, one voice filtered through my brain.
“Goodbye, Oliver.”
Out of everything Shaye said to me yesterday, this was the one sentence that ricocheted through my brain. It was almost a taunt, a challenge—even though I don’t think she meant for it to be.
I think she genuinely was concluding our interaction as if we will never see each other again.
And why would we? We’re two strangers that met in a freak sneeze accident that may be the first of its kind.
But, then again, maybe that was some kind of universe interference? Maybe we were supposed to meet. It certainly feels like it.
I scowl at myself for unearthing this line of thinking. It’s stupid. It’s pointless. It’s a waste of damn time.
My fingers strum against my desktop.
“Are you?” Holt asks, shaking me out of my reverie.
I shift my weight and refocus. “Am I what?”
“Never mind. Obviously, you’re not.”
“Okay. I’m not.”
He laughs, which amplifies my irritation again.
“I heard you had a car wreck yesterday,” he says, a smile buried in the words.
I roll my eyes. “Word travels fast.”
“What can I say? Boone is quick.”
I roll my eyes.
“Naturally, I also know that the woman refused to give you her number,” he goads.
“She was married.”
Even though I don’t know that to be true, it seems like the fastest way to shut him down.
It also makes me feel better.
That one little possibility—that I have no reason to believe due to no mention of a husband and no ring on her finger—is my saving grace. And not just for my ego.