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Authors: Megan Erickson
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glad he didn’t have to work tomorrow, because he was fucking beat.
He didn’t want to deal with people tomorrow. No fucking people. They were complicated.
Cal hated complicated.
T HE SHRILL RING of his cell phone woke him up. Cal blinked and glanced at the clock. It was eight in the morning on a Sunday, so Cal knew perfectly well it was Brent. He didn’t bother glancing at the caller ID. “What.”
“Wakey, eggs and bakey!”
Cal almost hung up on him. Almost. He didn’t bother responding.
“Hello?” Brent asked.
“What do you want?”
There was a crashing sound in the background. “Hey, Gabe!” Brent’s voice wasn’t even muffled. He didn’t bother covering the receiver. “Watch where you’re walking. There’s tools and shit, and I don’t want you dropping my doughnuts you’re carrying.” There was a shout, probably Gabe answering him. “That’s precious cargo!” Brent yelled and then said, “Okay, I’m back.”
Cal massaged his temple. “You shouted in my ear.”
“Really? Sorry about that.” Brent didn’t sound sorry. “So what can you tell me here about a seven-year-old Honda Civic that needs a new tire and is registered to a Jenna MacMillan?”
“I left a note.”
“Yeah, I see your note, but there isn’t a section for questions and/or comments, and that’s no good because I have a lot of both.”
Sometimes Cal wondered how it was possible for one person to be so fucking irritating. “I’m not taking questions or comments.”
“But—”
“Put a damn tire on the car, and call her to come get it, Brent. There’s nothing to fucking discuss!” He hung up the phone. Like a grownup. And when his cell rang again, he continued on the mature path he’d set that morning and ignored it.
And then he rolled over, tempted to break his one rule of “no fucking smoking in the house.” Because it wasn’t even nine in the morning on what was supposed to be his day off, and his nerves were already shot.
Fucking brothers.
Fucking high school girlfriends.
Fucking feelings.
Chapter Seven
I T’D BEEN ONE week, and Jenna was only starting to scrape the surface of how much work she was going to have to do at MacMillan Investments.
For starters, the morale was down. Even though Dylan had been cleared of any discrimination, the seed had been planted, and the three-hundred-plus employees—MacMillan was the biggest employer within a good seventy-five miles—were wary.
And wary employees who weren’t secure in their jobs were not good employees, in Jenna’s opinion. Her father thought a little fear for their jobs was healthy, that it would spur them to work harder to keep their positions. And he could think that, but Jenna vehemently disagreed.
Step one was to make the employees happier. Step two was then to work on the firm’s image. Her father, Christopher MacMillan III, had groused about her plan, but she’d reminded him that he had hired her. If he didn’t like the way she did her job, he could find another publicity director.
She stepped out into the parking lot, rolling her neck on her shoulders. It was a Friday, and she was leaving work a little later than she wanted to. She still had to meet her brother, father, and mother for drinks at Bellini, an Italian restaurant that was the nicest dining establishment in Tory. She considered trying to get out of it, but then they’d just reschedule, and she wanted to get it over with.
The door to the building banged open behind her as she walked to her car in the almost empty parking lot. “Jenna!” said a male voice.
She turned on her heel. Pete Connelly, a friend of her brother’s, walked toward her, a large smile cracking through his short ginger beard.
She’d only met Pete a couple of times over the years, since he and Dylan had become friends, but he was always friendly toward her. She wondered what the hell he and Dylan had in common. They’d met at the office after Pete was hired.
She smiled at him. “Hey
He didn’t want to deal with people tomorrow. No fucking people. They were complicated.
Cal hated complicated.
T HE SHRILL RING of his cell phone woke him up. Cal blinked and glanced at the clock. It was eight in the morning on a Sunday, so Cal knew perfectly well it was Brent. He didn’t bother glancing at the caller ID. “What.”
“Wakey, eggs and bakey!”
Cal almost hung up on him. Almost. He didn’t bother responding.
“Hello?” Brent asked.
“What do you want?”
There was a crashing sound in the background. “Hey, Gabe!” Brent’s voice wasn’t even muffled. He didn’t bother covering the receiver. “Watch where you’re walking. There’s tools and shit, and I don’t want you dropping my doughnuts you’re carrying.” There was a shout, probably Gabe answering him. “That’s precious cargo!” Brent yelled and then said, “Okay, I’m back.”
Cal massaged his temple. “You shouted in my ear.”
“Really? Sorry about that.” Brent didn’t sound sorry. “So what can you tell me here about a seven-year-old Honda Civic that needs a new tire and is registered to a Jenna MacMillan?”
“I left a note.”
“Yeah, I see your note, but there isn’t a section for questions and/or comments, and that’s no good because I have a lot of both.”
Sometimes Cal wondered how it was possible for one person to be so fucking irritating. “I’m not taking questions or comments.”
“But—”
“Put a damn tire on the car, and call her to come get it, Brent. There’s nothing to fucking discuss!” He hung up the phone. Like a grownup. And when his cell rang again, he continued on the mature path he’d set that morning and ignored it.
And then he rolled over, tempted to break his one rule of “no fucking smoking in the house.” Because it wasn’t even nine in the morning on what was supposed to be his day off, and his nerves were already shot.
Fucking brothers.
Fucking high school girlfriends.
Fucking feelings.
Chapter Seven
I T’D BEEN ONE week, and Jenna was only starting to scrape the surface of how much work she was going to have to do at MacMillan Investments.
For starters, the morale was down. Even though Dylan had been cleared of any discrimination, the seed had been planted, and the three-hundred-plus employees—MacMillan was the biggest employer within a good seventy-five miles—were wary.
And wary employees who weren’t secure in their jobs were not good employees, in Jenna’s opinion. Her father thought a little fear for their jobs was healthy, that it would spur them to work harder to keep their positions. And he could think that, but Jenna vehemently disagreed.
Step one was to make the employees happier. Step two was then to work on the firm’s image. Her father, Christopher MacMillan III, had groused about her plan, but she’d reminded him that he had hired her. If he didn’t like the way she did her job, he could find another publicity director.
She stepped out into the parking lot, rolling her neck on her shoulders. It was a Friday, and she was leaving work a little later than she wanted to. She still had to meet her brother, father, and mother for drinks at Bellini, an Italian restaurant that was the nicest dining establishment in Tory. She considered trying to get out of it, but then they’d just reschedule, and she wanted to get it over with.
The door to the building banged open behind her as she walked to her car in the almost empty parking lot. “Jenna!” said a male voice.
She turned on her heel. Pete Connelly, a friend of her brother’s, walked toward her, a large smile cracking through his short ginger beard.
She’d only met Pete a couple of times over the years, since he and Dylan had become friends, but he was always friendly toward her. She wondered what the hell he and Dylan had in common. They’d met at the office after Pete was hired.
She smiled at him. “Hey
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