was safe. Move ahead. Just one hundredth of a percentage point off, and they’d pass no matter how else the job mattered. Not even if it was a good networking move. Not even if it was an exciting project.
Unlike them, Chip saw the value in the intangible aspects of their work. He didn’t want to spend his whole life managing yet another standard three-bedroom, two-bath, gray-walled ranch. He’d rather take on the challenge of making that choppy, poorly laid-out, rusted old Victorian off Main Street sparkle. He dreamed of not just changing out brown kitchen cabinets for owl-gray, but of doing something bold, something electric.
Fact was, he had been an excellent son at McBride and Sons. An excellent employee. An excellent coworker. He just didn’t want to spend the rest of his life as a cookie cutter. Not when he knew what it was like to enjoy the freedom of owning his own company.
Chip lifted his chin. “If you’re asking me to stay out of this bid because you’re afraid I’m going to underestimate the costs of labor and supplies and come running to you for financial support when I fail, then you can quit worrying. I’ve learned a thing or two in ten years of business.”
“And I’ve learned a thing or two in the forty years of mine.”
Chip opened his mouth, then shut it again. Had his father any clue, any inkling of how well he had done up north? How much better he could’ve done if only . . .
“How about you just worry about your bid, Dad, and I’ll worry about mine.”
There was silence, and he found he was holding his breath, waiting.
“Fine. If that’s really what you want to do.”
Chip paused on the sidewalk. “It’s really what I want to do.”
“Then I wash my hands of it. Whatever comes.”
Chip pursed his lips. Nodded. “Noted.”
His heart felt heavy as he hung up, turned around, and stared up at the theatre looming above him.
Fine. He didn’t need his father to believe in him. He believed in himself, and that was all that mattered.
Still, as he turned back up the steps of the theatre, he couldn’t help feeling the void in his chest.
Chapter 15
Bree
Bree had charged offstage the second the curtains closed.
While everyone else clapped each other on the back and hugged and said sweet nothings about the special time they’d experienced together performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Bree pushed through the clusters of actors until she made it into the empty dressing room and back to her station. But she didn’t peel off her eyelashes or wipe off the thick green makeup like she usually did. She dug deep into her backpack until she found it.
Her phone.
Fifteen minutes later, she finished writing a fuming message and hit Publish.
She had known he would do something. She knew the second he saw those Christmas trees drop into her yard he was going to fight back. But her parents? Dinner? This night was going to kill her.
“And here are the dressing rooms.” Titania’s voice wafted across the room as the star herself floated in, her posture and air monarchial even after the show was over.
Bree dropped her phone onto the vanity and let it clatter, letting them know she was there.
Titania’s (or rather, Kayleigh’s) hand flew to her chest. “Oh. Bree. You startled me.”
“Sorry,” Bree said, her tone only half apologetic as she yanked out her braid.
“This is . . . my friend Selena. She’s visiting from New York.”
“Hello.” Bree dragged her brush through her tangled, overly hair-sprayed hair. “Did you come just for the play?”
“Oh, just wanted to visit Kayleigh’s slice of the world,” Selena said, her eyes roaming around the room. “See what kind of setup you have down here.”
Her voice fascinated Bree. It was as unique as her vibrantly red, heart-shaped lips and pistachio-colored heels. It was deeper than she usually heard in a woman, each word pronouncing itself slowly, appraisingly, like she had nowhere else to be. It purred.
Bree’s brushing slowed as suspicion rose. “And are you . . . an actress too?”
She laughed, but it was the unkind type that seemed to say, Like you? Oh, honey, we aren’t in the same league.
“I’m making my way,” Selena replied.
The woman delivered the humble words with her purring, northern voice while making it clear she was doing far more than simply making her way. How could someone talk in such layers?
Selena touched Kayleigh’s elbow and, as if the movement was their own private language, they swiveled on the