The Construction of Cheer - Liz Isaacson Page 0,11
up here and talk about your contract. Or you know, your schedule. Or your pretty eyes.” He grinned, thinking himself so clever. “Whatever.”
“Dinner?” she asked. “Will Arizona be there?”
“Nah,” Bishop said, thinking of True Blue and the kitchen he’d built there. “I know a place we can go for privacy.”
“You know, you’re just digging yourself deeper and deeper with everything you say,” she said.
Bishop watched a deer walk in front of his truck. “I am?”
“First, your pick-up line about my eyes? Pathetic,” she said, though she distinctly had a teasing quality in her voice. “Second, you know a place we can go for privacy? That sounds like you’re a total creeper.”
“I just meant, I know somewhere we can get away from Zona.”
“That’s the only good thing you said.”
“She really is nice once you get to know her.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Montana sighed, and Bishop could hear the frustration inside her. “Am I bringing this dinner up to you?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll cook.”
“You cook?” she asked. “Of course he does. Of course he cooks.”
Bishop grinned, wondering if she knew she was talking out loud. “Just tell me any allergies and what time you can come. I know it’s a bit of a drive, but I really am swamped—and I really do need you.”
“No allergies,” she said. “Can I text you for the time? I haven’t even gotten back to my office yet.”
“Oh, all right,” he said, laughing lightly afterward. “Text me when you know.”
She said she would, and the call ended. Bishop got out of the truck, still whistling, and went to make his final assessment on these cabins. Their men had stayed here during the main cabin remodel, and they’d turned in quite a long list of items that needed to be fixed.
Bishop took a ton of pictures and notes, prepping for the family ranch meetings he sometimes attended with Ranger and Bear. Sometimes Ward and Cactus were there too. No matter what, Bishop would have to have details about the damage and repairs needed for these cabins if he wanted the projects approved.
They usually put their construction projects on a rotation. That way, all the cabins and houses on the ranch got updated periodically. The load across his shoulders and the rest of the Glovers was minimal, and he didn’t find himself with more construction than he could handle. The past few months had just been insane because of the barn project, and he’d voluntarily agreed to that.
He opened the back door to the first cabin, the scent of mold nearly knocking him down the short flight of steps he’d taken. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “Is everything going to go wrong this week?”
Putting on his brave face, he entered the cabin. He wasn’t sure they could repair this place. It might need to be replaced, which went against their core family motto. Heck, the Ranch House might need to be rebuilt from the foundation up, and there wasn’t any recycling, reusing, or repairing that could save a house from a massive termite infestation.
He’d do the work here, snapping pictures and taking notes. Then he’d return to the Ranch House to do the same for the roof. Then he’d know what he was dealing with. Plain and simple. Easy as pie.
As he worked, all he could do was keep a prayer in his heart that he’d hear from Montana about dinner before too much of the day slipped away from him.
Maybe his line about her eyes was a little pathetic. Maybe he did get every blonde’s number he could. Maybe he’d have to do something different with this woman if he wanted a different result.
But what? he asked himself. After all, Bishop was just Bishop, and he didn’t know how to be anyone else.
As he left the first, moldy cabin, his phone chimed, and Montana’s name sat there. A smile filled his chest and radiated from his face, especially when he saw her text.
Dinner at seven okay?
Dinner at seven is perfect, he typed and sent, his smile almost clownish. See you then.
Chapter Four
Montana pulled up to her aunt’s house just as her daughter started up the front steps. She scrambled to get out of a truck that had seen better days. It had been the vehicle she could afford, and it had served her well here in Three Rivers.
“Aurora,” she called just as her daughter started to dig in the pocket of her backpack for her key. Montana hated that with every fiber of her being, and if