“He’ll be thrilled.”
“I bet.”
“No, he actually will. Lucky might look like a frat boy on steroids from the 80s, but he’s one of the best designers and carpenters on my payroll.”
“Well, that’s promising. I was just hoping I would have a decent area to frame out to put my brother in there. Maybe a few electronics to keep him occupied.”
Gideon reached for a folder, then pulled out his keyboard and started typing. “What’s your budget?”
“I don’t have one.”
He glanced up, one eyebrow spiking. “As in you expect him to do it for free?”
I laughed. “No, I mean no limits. I have money to throw at the project to get things moving faster. Over the last three months, I’ve started proceedings on permits and all that.”
“Huh.” He scribbled something on the folder, then went back to his keyboard. “Well, that makes things easier. Shoot me what you have, and I’ll take care of whatever else is needed to get the ball rolling. Permits are a pain in the ass.”
“I did some custom work for Earl Jennings over at City Hall. Should make permits a little easier.”
“Impressive. Maybe I should have Macy create a special blend for him so I could get my permits easier too.”
“Would help if Earl drank coffee. A Lipton tea bag dunked in hot water for about ten seconds is more his style.”
He curled his lip. “Fitting,” he muttered.
I pressed my lips together against a smile. “But he loves his cherry Oldsmobile Cutlass. The engine could take a cop car after what I did to it.” I folded my arms on the counter. “Just don’t tell the sheriff.”
Gideon shook his head. “The things you learn.” He tapped a few more keys and pushed a form in front of me. “This covers the start to the project. I’ll put Lucky down as project manager. He’s over at the Olsen’s house on Elm Street doing a fence install.” He slapped down a sticky note with an address. “If you want to take a ride out and talk to him, you can.”
A twinge of something like worry niggled between my shoulder blades. “Give out details on your employees so easily all the time?”
Gideon crossed his arms. “Word of mouth is king in a small town, but this is mostly a little payback. Lucky losing a bet makes me giddy. Especially since he still owes me forty bucks from our last poker game.”
“Sucks at poker, huh?” Good to know.
“He’s actually usually cleaning us out, but Joe, one of my guys, may have doctored his drinks with double shots.”
I laughed. “Sounds like my brothers.” I scrawled my signature on the contract. “Thanks, Gideon.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Overtime gets expensive.”
“Worth it.” I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the contract, then tucked my copy into my inside jacket pocket. Another thing I’d learned long ago—keep paperwork organized. Especially the kind with signatures. I grabbed my helmet. “Talk soon.”
Gideon gave me a salute, and I rushed out the door. It was only a little after ten in the morning, but I’d been on the phone all day already trying to pull this insanity together. And okay, maybe I’d put off talking Lucky for last, but it was time to face that blond-streaked, large, brutish fire.
So brutish wasn’t the best word for him. He was just a big, affable steamroller. But I was ready to do some rolling over of my own.
That had sounded better in my head.
I fastened my helmet and kicked Queenie’s engine to life. The throttle was off and maybe the timing belt. Nothing that would be earth-shattering for a quick ride out to the suburbs of Crescent Cove. I flicked up my kickstand and eased into the moderate traffic on Main Street. Colorful awnings used throughout the summer for some shade were in various stages of breakdown. Bright pots of mums and pumpkins and the occasional cheerful scarecrow framed out the doorways.
Drinking stations for the dog-friendly shops shone with fresh water and shop owners waved customers in off the street. School was back in session, leaving the daytime pedestrian traffic a little lighter as well. Sugar Rush had a tower of cupcakes in the window with a huge selection of carved pumpkins surrounding them like a freakish crowd at a concert where the main attraction got eaten. A new store, Vintage December, had quietly opened up with repurposed clothing. Mannequins were decked out in concert T-shirts from the late 80s and ripped jeans had been patched with colorful matching bandanas.
I was tempted to pull off and and have a look. I had a soft spot for faded jeans that were already broken in the right way, not in manufactured evenly spaced rips and frays.
A delivery truck blocked the road, giving me a few more minutes to take a closer look. Nope, those were the kind that had been carefully frayed with a razor during times of boredom or creativity, depending on the day.
Alas, new denim wasn’t on the agenda today.