waste of our time for something he’ll probably end up giving to his cat nanny or some other oddball he meets on the street. And anyway, even if we did get the job, he’d have us hopping on one foot the whole time working out change orders.”
“Yes, but a profit margin on a project like that . . . ,” Will replied.
His father shook his head and started to stand. “Let some other shmuck in this town be his lap dog.”
“For his multimillion-dollar project,” Will added.
His father paused.
“At least two,” Will said.
Slowly, he straightened. “Two million? But the building can’t be more than fifteen thousand square feet. And it already looks sharp as a tack.”
Will shrugged as if to say plenty of upscale clients spent massive amounts of money remodeling kitchens already covered in luxury granite.
His father swung his chin toward the kitchen, plates in hand. “Walk with me, Willy. What have you pulled together?”
Will jumped up and followed him into the kitchen. “Well, the way I see it, we’re looking at being able to charge $150 a square foot at the very least. The demo alone should be upwards . . .”
Two million. Chip set his fork down. There wasn’t a bank this side of the Mississippi that would offer him that kind of a credit line.
Conversation rose around him, but he was pulled into his own thoughts as he stood with his plate and moved toward the kitchen. He didn’t have a shot in the world. And really, why on earth should he?
Redpoint had been licensed and insured a total of thirty-one days. To some extent his brother had been right; he would need to work up the ladder—whether in his dad’s company or his own. He didn’t have a right to be disappointed. The Barter job was just a dream.
Ashleigh put her hand on Chip’s shoulder, and he turned. “Don’t you think that would be nice, Chip? Tuesday the ninth?”
“Hmm?” His mother and Ashleigh were both smiling as though they’d hatched the best plan. “What for the ninth?”
“The Plein Air event with the William King Museum. You know, the one she’s on the board for.”
“Sorry, Ash,” Chip said, a distracted eye lingering on the swinging kitchen door. “You’ll have to be more specific. My mother is on the board for everything in this town.”
Ashleigh gave a conceding tinkle of a laugh, as though she aspired to the same lot in life. “The Plein Air event is the art event. It’s a fundraiser for the Barter renovation. She says a slew of artists will be painting along the Creeper Trail, and people can walk through and see all the fine art before it’s displayed at the King Museum. Sounds like every art enthusiast in town will be there. It might be fun, don’t you think?” She slid her arm around his. “Bundled up together, strolling along the Creeper, watching the artists create all those one-of-a-kind works.” Her voice gained an even silkier tone. “I think it sounds romantic.”
A lightbulb in his head went off.
Fine art.
Artists were going to be perched along the Creeper Trail, next Tuesday, and the art enthusiasts in town were going to watch them work . . . for a fundraiser . . . for the Barter.
In the snap of a finger, a plan started forming.
He was not going to lie to his girlfriend.
He also was not going to lie to his girlfriend in front of his mother.
Just . . . avoid certain facts.
“That does sound riveting,” Chip began, putting his hand over hers. “But I’m afraid I have a project going on for that Tuesday and will need to work late.”
Technically true.
“But I hear the Tavern has a new menu coming out. We could go as soon as I’m finished and see about that stroll afterward . . .”
Bingo.
Ashleigh’s eyes lit up at the new idea. A bit shamefully, he worked to avoid looking at her eyes, or his mother’s.
An art event.
Tuesday the ninth.
Now all he had to do was find an easel.
Chapter 9
Bree
Bree had a perfectly legitimate reason for sitting on her porch steps, and it had nothing to do with him. Still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to make use of the time by shooting daggers from her eyes while he walked back and forth from the house to his truck, hauling bits of Sheetrock.
The real reason she was sitting on the porch steps, clutching a coffee mug between her knees and a cell phone to her ear, was because she