Page 6 of The Other Side

“Aren’t residential projects all you do?” Jesse asks, an accusation lodged in his voice.

“We also pick up commercial projects. I’ve worked on those too, but residential designs are more intimate for me. I can get hands-on with a lot of responsibilities.”

“Oh, okay.” A mocking snicker hums through the phone speaker. “You confused me for a second with the personal background and speech, but that makes sense.”

My eyes seal shut as my fingers pinch the bridge of my nose.

Fuck me.

“Sorry about that.” I reluctantly admit fault to appease his ego. “Should I send the email to the one you contacted Jared with?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” he responds. “I hope you’re flexible because I’m a bit busy today, so don’t expect a response right after this call. You’ll probably hear from me later tonight or over the weekend.”

I don’t get paid to answer emails or calls on the weekend, but sure.

“That’s not a problem. I’ll be around to speak with you.”

“I’d hope so if your company is looking for big business. But listen, I have to get going. I’ll be in touch either way.”

“It was great to talk to you, Mr. Miller. I hope to meet with you next week.”

“Same,” he answers. “Thanks for the call.”

When I click the handset in the base, I’m slumping back in my seat. I cross one arm over my chest, and my opposite elbow rests on it before my thumb absently traces my lip.

I almost hope this guy doesn’t like my portfolio. I’ve dealt with crabby and pretentious clients before, so this is nothing new. The difference is that they gradually descend to those adjectives over a period of time.

Jesse Miller, on the other hand? He’s starting off with a fucking bang. I can only imagine what’s in store for me now that he’s already pulled the trigger on his ostentatious attitude.

“By the look on your face, I can tell your new client’s an absolute gem.” Matt’s voice creeps around my right ear, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“He’s a different breed, that’s for sure.”

Chapter 2

Brant

“Fuck, Marry, Kill: breakfast, lunch, dinner. Go!”

Julia’s strawberry-blonde hair spills over her bare shoulders when she leans in. Her elbow parks on the wooden tabletop, manicured fingers fiddling with the nozzle of her beer.

Her pursed smirk kickstarts a light chuckle from me. Then I’m scooting forward, my forearms tangling on the table. I appreciate the way her amber eyes sparkle under the string of Edison lights.

“One hundred percent, I’m slaughtering lunch,” I start.

“Obviously,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

My chest vibrates through another laugh. “Why is that obvious?”

She lifts her beer bottle to her mouth. “Everyone kills lunch.”

“How many people have you asked this question to?” I ask, my brows knitting.

Her throat works through a sip, eyes directed toward the exposed beams of the ceiling of the brewery. “I don’t know. Five, maybe.”

I smile, lifting my backward snapback to scrub a hand under. “I’d have to fuck breakfast. Marry dinner.”

“Oh, a good pancake gets you going? Is that it?”