Dr. Stud

“Well, get your butt in the truck,” Dad smiles. “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter 7

Joe

Happily, I get the hat shop door unlocked on the first try. Unfortunately, it’s slightly worse than I remember.

My dad lumbers in behind me, grumbling to himself and tapping something into his phone every few seconds. I take in the place all over again, trying to see it like my dad is right now.

Nine days? Am I insane? We might have better luck demolishing it and starting from scratch. Pop-up galleries have a certain amount of appeal these days. I could string a bunch of fairy lights between the two buildings on either side. Maybe some picnic tables among the rubble. Maybe a traveling circus has a tent I could borrow?

Okay, that’s it. I have officially lost my mind.

“You really got yourself into a pickle,” my dad calls out as he leans into the office area. “I think you got squirrels. Maybe badgers.”

My eyebrows go up. “Badgers?” I repeat numbly.

He waves his hand in the air. “No, I was kidding about the badgers,” he immediately admits. “I can see we’re not going to really have a sense of humor about this right away, are we?”

“We can joke all you want after the opening, okay?” I promise.

“Fair enough,” he announces as he pushes open a bathroom door, swollen and sticking from the ever-present Florida humidity.

I stand there helplessly, watching his body shuffle between the small rooms, simultaneously happy to know that he’s doing his thing, and dreading what he’s going to tell me. When he finally begins to walk back toward me, I realize he’s got a piece of paper in his hand.

“Just give me the bad news first,” I groan. “Just rip off the Band-Aid. I can take it. Go ahead.”

He squints and smirks, pausing in a dusty shaft of light just ahead of me. For a second, I wonder if he’s the reason I never found anybody really special in New York. This is what I think a man is: talented, confident, strong, kind. You gotta look good in plaid, I’ll just say that right now. And even with the facial hair trend in Manhattan leaning toward lumberjack, I haven’t run into too many men just like this.

“Honestly, it’s not that bad,” he shrugs, holding out the piece of paper to me. “I wouldn’t have minded an extra couple of weeks, but your timing is good. I’ve got a whole crew that just finished a beach house, waiting for the next job.”

“So you can do it? Seriously?”

“‘Course I can,” he grins.

I reach out with a trembling hand to take the paper. “What’s this?”

“That’s your construction permit,” he sniffs. “Looks like Didi got the ball rolling, at least. Why don’t you take a nap or something? Freshen up? Take my truck.”

My mind reels. All this panic I’ve been holding behind a floodgate starts to boil, and I’m wondering where it’s supposed to go. “Wait, we can really do it? Just like that? This is happening?”

My dad picks up my suitcase and heads back for the front door, jerking his chin to indicate I should follow him. I stumble out into the late afternoon light, totally confused.

“The plans somebody drew up for the permit are in the office, and I already have a crew on the way,” Dad explains in a voice that is simultaneously gentle and boss-like. “Unless you plan on swinging a hammer, you’re probably better off finding something else to do.”

“I can swing a hammer,” I announce, fisting my hands on my hips defensively. “I built my very own treehouse, you know. I’m a perfectly qualified construction dude.”

He tips his head slightly, sucking the inside of his cheek. “Not in those heels, you’re not,” he smirks. “But if you go home and get a pair of work boots and some eye protection, I will consider it.”

I don’t move, but I do remember that I probably look pretty much like a 1950s housewife right now. He’s got a good point.

“I’m not going to nap,” I mumble, holding out my hand for the keys.

His smile creases his weathered, tanned cheeks. “You could clean out the closets at the cabin,” he suggests gamely as he drops the keys into my open palm.

“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna do that either,” I huff as I pull open the heavy truck door and gather my skirt in my hand. I practically have to high jump to get into the driver’s seat, but at this point I would feel silly asking for help. Luckily, I get it on the first try.