Page 21 of Between the Lines

“Brooks & Sons is my father’s construction business . . .” I steel myself, the familiar discomfort creeping in anytime I have to talk about the family business. “They do a bit of everything. And as much as it kills me to say it, they are the best in all of coastal Carolina.”

“That tracks.”

I know what she means, because I’m used to it.

They see my last name, and they think they know everything. The rich boy with daddy’s money. Parents who accumulated a lot of wealth and like to show it. It’s not me, I’m not them, but I’ve grown tired of trying to convince people otherwise.

“Alright, clearly I made a bad judgement call. I’ll go tell them to leave, jobs off,” I reply and turn on my heel. I make it halfway to the front door before Fia rushes after me, breathless.

I turn around, brows lifted as she reaches towards me, like she wants to grab hold of me, but she pulls back at the last second.

“No—wait.” She huffs and grimaces, fist against her forehead. “Okay. As a loan, which I will pay back, I accept it.”

I walk to the door and release a heavy sigh. “Good choice, Hanson.”

I’d just cracked open a cold beer and finished mounting an additional rack in the garage for my new surfboard when my phone rings. Groaning, I reach for it. After this morning, I was looking forward to spending the day at home, alone, unboxing my board, and avoiding everyone.

When I see it’s Eddie though, I pick up.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” I ask, leaning over my workbench, putting my tools away.

I gave him clear instructions to call me first with the assessment of the house. My only goal is to save Fia from any additional stress. I haven’t even told her about being named in Wilmington’s top ten—or how I need her to handle the interview.

One thing at a time.

“You’re lucky you got deep pockets, kid.” He lets out a gruff laugh, and I stop fidgeting with my tools.

“Fuck. Lay it on me.” I cross the concrete garage, taking a swig of beer. Probably gonna need another after this phone call.

“We found all the original leak spots,” Eddie says, then the pause. “We’re gonna have to gut the attic. That’s the easy part.”

I shut my eyes. I was not expecting a gut job.

“The bad news—there’s a lot of black mold on the second-floor ceiling. Looks new though, and it’s not everywhere, but it’s enough that no one can live in the house while we clear it out. We sealed it up temporarily, but she’s going to need to move in a couple days so we can bring in a mold remediation team.”

I drop my head into my fist. Well, fuck me.

“Okay, so how long are we talking for the whole job?”

He’s quiet for too long. I don’t like it.

“Probably six weeks,” he says.

I lean my head back against the wall.

“They’ll have to remove insulation,” Eddie continues with a heavy sigh, “re-drywall, probably treat vents, then we can build the new roof. It’s a big job. We’re looking at doubling the initial cost.”

“Alright, I’ll make the calls to the remediation team.” There goes my free afternoon.

Minutes later, I’m hunched over my kitchen island, with my laptop open and another beer in hand. I make more calls and send a few emails. I started this mess, so I’ve got to see it through.

One thing’s clear—I’m not telling Fia about the cost doubling. The money’s not a worry for me, it’s a way to secure my business. A necessary cost. But she doesn’t need to know nor stress about it. As far as she’s concerned, no matter what happens, she only needs to repay twelve thousand dollars.

I can’t imagine Fia’s going to react well to the mold or to learning she has to move out for six weeks . . . but I need her more than I care to admit. Though she has family in the area, I’m not sure she can go stay with them.

Dropping my head in my hands I stare at my phone screen, my stomach tight.

I had to bulldoze, didn’t I?