Brave (Contours of the Heart Book 4)

by Tammara Webber

  Like Isaac Maat had done the moment I walked in the door, if not before.

  But it was day one, and I still had hopes that the indignant, preemptory scan he’d given me when I entered the building this morning and his derisive tone since the moment we met would become irrelevant to our working relationship going forward.

  I forced a pleasant expression and waited patiently as he looked down at the papers in his hand, rolling them into a tube. His silent examination of what he held—or his pause until Joshua was out of earshot—allowed me both time and excuse to stare.

  My new boss was as easy on the eyes as he could be. His was a face of contradictions—soft and hard, curved and honed, at odds with itself. I wondered what that told me about the man inside, if anything. Because his outside was as hot as bare pavement in the middle of summer, and that was pretty damned inconvenient in a hundred and ten ways.

  That was when I realized a pop-sexy soundtrack of my perusal was issuing from my computer speaker. I fought the urge to mute it out of fear of what he thought of the spoiled white girl listening to Taylor Swift. I could feel the word predictable circling the room even though he had given no indication of his thoughts about my music choices. This is your office, my inner voice groused. You can listen to whatever you want.

  And then the end of that track blended into the beginning of the next and it didn’t take long before I realized that yes, it could actually get worse. The beat pounded as Usher promised to make the object of his affections scream.

  “I’m heading upstairs for a meeting and wanted to make sure you have everything you need before I’m inaccessible,” Isaac said, eyes back on mine.

  I searched frantically for the Mute key. It wasn’t where I thought it should be, and though I knew it was somewhere on the keyboard, I couldn’t find it. We were a captive audience as Usher progressed to picturing his would-be lover naked in the club. I felt my face catch fire. Some people ugly cry; I ugly blush. I prayed my Urban Decay foundation would conceal the inevitable blotches.

  “I think I have what I need for now!” I bellowed in my thunderous cheerleader voice.

  What the fucking hell with this damned keyboard? my mortified mind wailed. The layout was nothing like my MacBook. Did assholian designers make different models backassward out of spite, just to screw with tech-challenged people like me?

  Meanwhile, Isaac’s expression went from impassive to that face people make when they believe someone is experiencing a psychotic episode right in front of them: eyes widened, brows high, no sudden movements.

  “I’m actually about to head out to meet Mr. Jansen at his home site,” I all but roared as Usher promised an entire night of his highly proficient company.

  “Tonight?” Isaac deadpanned, with such impeccable timing I almost thought he did it on purpose.

  Finally I located the button and slammed my index finger on it, putting a blessed end to Usher’s litany of fuck skills.

  I nodded. “At five.” My voice emerged breathy with relief that had nothing to do with my impending appointment. “I know construction teams are likely to still be there. I was just about to message Kenny LaCross to give him a heads-up.”

  He scowled, a line darting between his brows, as if I’d just said something so outrageous and wrong that he didn’t know where to start in telling me so. But he pinned his lips like he was physically holding in the words and gave one curt nod. And then he turned and left.

  chapter

  Four

  Wayne Jansen pulled up in a sleek silver Jaguar. Not a fleck of oil or a smudge of dirt dared mar its polished surface. Its shiny hood ornament gleamed mid-pounce.

  I’d arrived an hour early and had been over every detail, with and without the foreman, who gave me the grand tour and then vanished, overjoyed that someone else was taking this guy on.

  For all its absurd grandiosity, the house was superbly and solidly built—glazed lava countertops from France, artisanal Amish-built cabinets, Waterworks faucets, Brazilian hardwoods, and single-pane floor-to-ceiling glass walls in the master bedroom, overlooking a walled, landscaped garden with a fifteen-foot waterfall fountain in the corner. The craftsmanship and materials were top of the line.

  There was no reason whatsoever for this client to be disappointed with a single detail, so there were only two possible explanations for his groundless rants.

  Less likely: he could no longer afford the house and was trying to weasel out of the contract and take his big fat pile of earnest money with him. After perusing the file, I’d called Cynthia, and she’d shared that during the recent economic recession, especially at the onset of it, they’d had a few clients press for that escape and leave JMCH holding the bag on a half-completed custom home—customized for them. But I’d checked Wayne Jansen’s financing, and he was good to go. If reneging on his contract without paying out the nose was his motive, he was going to fail.

  The reason for the incessant confrontations, then, probably had nothing to do with JMCH or price and everything to do with Wayne Jansen’s personality: his self-worth, his self-image, his colossal but fragile ego.

  I had less than five minutes to figure out which version fit the bill with this jerk—the overreaching, in-debt-to-his-eyeballs asshole or the dude with a tiny penis and a big, swinging dose of arrogance to make up for it.

  My money was on tiny penis.

  Pulling the heavy front door closed behind me, I raised my chin, displayed my premium, competition-winning smile—wide eyes, just the right amount of teeth—and strode down the hand-placed-slate path to greet him. Time to unravel this guy’s issues—sufficient to get him to sign off on the ostentatious monstrosity my father had built for him, anyway.

  He exited the car and sauntered forward while I dissected the superficial clues. Expensive haircut and color. Likely Rogaine addict. Mirrored aviator Ray-Bans. Neon-green Hugo Boss golf shirt. Pressed khaki slacks. Two-tone loafers—handcrafted by the look of them—that hopefully had the fairway spikes taken out. If he meant to score that imported wood floor on purpose, I would shove those fancy shoes—spikes attached—where the sun had never shone.

  “Mr. Jansen—thanks so much for coming.” Smile intact, I stuck my hand out as he stepped up onto the curb and stared down at me from behind those reflective lenses, his lips a thin, flat line. He enclosed my hand in a grasp meant to fracture digits, but I had forearms of steel and a grip to match from years of cheer drills and strength training. Nice try, mister. I fake-winced to salvage his ego—no sense antagonizing it further—and glanced down at the left hand balled at his side. No wedding band, so no Mrs. Asshole to pity.

  “Lovely to meet you,” I lied, gushing as if he were the legendary golf pro his outfit implied instead of the all-too-common rich bully he was.

  He grunted in response. Grunted.

  Daddy loathed guys like Wayne Jansen, and I was pretty sure Hank was shielding him from this shitshow while hoping Isaac could get the project back on track without my father ever knowing the details. “Defective” and “substandard”—them was fightin’ words. My father had anger-management issues and was liable to meet the guy rage for rage like a couple of Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. At home, he was all bluster, though he did tend to yell and bang on things and send poor Jack struggling to wedge himself behind the nearest sofa, where he had a doggie panic attack, whining and shaking, until Mom pulled him out by his butt and fed him treats. In public though, Daddy had been known to throw a punch or two back in the day.

  I wasn’t supposed to know about those, so I pretended I didn’t.

  “I’m Erin McIntyre, and your satisfaction is my number one priority at the moment! I know you’re more than ready to get into this gorgeous house and start entertaining. Your friends are all going to be green with envy.” I touched a finger to the sleeve of his bright lime-green shirt and smiled, turning to lead the way up the path before my inner blech took control of my face.

  When we reached the front door, I pushed it open and stood back s
o he could enter ahead of me and get an unencumbered view of the two-story-high ceiling of the huge foyer, which boasted tons of natural light somewhat spoiled by a spectacularly garish chandelier—five feet wide, gold-plated, dripping in crystals, with more bulbs than I could estimate from twenty-five feet below. He’d selected it, of course. I was surprised he hadn’t papered the halls in C-notes.

  He removed the sunglasses and walked through the door, his fists on his hips, sneering as if he were a conquering warrior-king who was none too pleased with all he surveyed. For all the vicious emails and voicemails, let alone our phone conversation not two hours ago, I was kind of shocked that he wasn’t already off on a vocal enumeration of JMCH’s offenses. He hadn’t said a word.

  “I’ve made a mental note of each of your worries,” I began, “but why don’t you show me the things you’re unable to sign off on, and we’ll see what we can do to make you happy?” And then I waited for him to launch into his exhaustive list of grievances and accusations. It wasn’t a long wait.

  “The kitchen cabinets.” His tone was drenched in predictable disdain. “There are protruding knots in the wood. The whole mess is unfinished and dark. They look like the side of a decrepit, termite-ridden barn, not cabinets that belong in a luxury home.” He spit luxury as if it was the farthest thing from this structure.

  As I turned toward the hallway leading to the kitchen, I took a breath, imagining how my father would respond to this. Not. Well. “Okay. Let’s go have a look.” I heard the scrape of toolboxes and scuff of work boots in the distance, laborers scurrying out one end of the giant room as we entered the other. This guy had the whole team freaked out.

  The cabinets were indeed rustic, but they weren’t crawling with termites by any stretch. They were durable and distinctive. My mother would kill for them. She’d had her kitchen redone right after I left for college four years ago. She’d gone all ornate cherry woodwork and quartz countertops, right before high-end turned to varnished concrete and butcher-block counters and one-of-a-kind, custom made, artisanal cabinets—like the ones in Wayne Jansen’s kitchen.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, sullen. Apparently his knowledge of what constituted sophisticated luxury ended with golf clothes.

  I took out my iPad and pulled up several saved interior design sites, each of which proved that this kitchen was all that and a bag of money. Swiping through Pinterest posts I’d earmarked ahead of time, I pointed out the current stampede for cabinets like his. Consumers couldn’t get enough of them.

  “Now, I agree that they’re a bit dark.” I didn’t, but that was a subjective point and it was his house, not mine. I stroked my fingers over one of the detested knots. I loved them. “What about a bit of sanding and a low-level varnish for polish and light reflection? That should give you what you want without sacrificing this fabulous pastoral look that everyone is dying to have.” I made these suggestions sound spontaneous.

  “What about the hideous paint?” he asked.

  I wasn’t sure if that meant we had just reached an agreement on the kitchen cabinets, but I wasn’t about to ask. “Again, Mr. Jansen—you chose the absolute perfect shade of cream—”

  “It looks green.”

  The walls did look a bit minty, but it wasn’t revolting. “As the light moves through the house during the day, the color will actually change,” I said. “The kitchen is on the east side, so this is its darker tone. Let me show you the difference between this and a room in full sun, as the kitchen will be in the mornings.” Please, God, let me not be full of shit, I prayed, hoping God wouldn’t respond with And you are?

  We crossed through the entry toward the other side of the house and entered one of the guest bedrooms, which was flooded with light. And hot damn if the green cast wasn’t completely undetectable. Yessss. “See? Bright and creamy. No green.” I high-fived myself in my head. “Your guests will never want to leave. I guess it’s up to you whether that’s good or bad, eh?”

  “Humph,” he said.

  All righty then.

  I started to leave the room, his bathroom faucets and their wide streams the next item on the list, but he cleared his throat. Linking my fingers in front of me, the picture of benign fortitude, I tried to prepare for a brand-new complaint. Cynthia Pike would choke the life out of me with her bare hands if this venture resulted in yet another objection.

  “Did you say your name was Erin McIntyre?” he asked. “As in—”

  “Yes, sir. Jeffrey McIntyre is my father.” Where the hell is this going?

  “You get along with him then? You work for him, so I assume you don’t have a contentious relationship.”

  What the? “Um, no—not at all. Our relationship is excellent.”

  He turned slightly and glanced around the room. “My daughter is going to be visiting for a month. At the end of the summer. I was thinking this room would be hers.”

  “That’s awesome!” Tone it down, Erin. Get him talking. “How old is she?”

  “She’s eighteen. About to head off to college. She lives with her mother.” He was staring out the window, which was still a bit construction-grimy. “We haven’t spoken in almost four years,” he added.

  Whoa. I’d been mad-searching for the thorn in the lion’s paw, but I didn’t think I’d find it this easily. My brain whirred and I chewed my lip, glancing around the fifteen-by-fifteen-foot room, the vaulted ceiling, a closet the literal size of my office, and its own bathroom. Plush for a secondary bedroom, but it was located at the mouth of the main hallway.

  “Let’s take a look at the other bedrooms.” I led the way out the door. “Just to make sure we’ve got her in the best one for a young, adult woman. The room’s placement and furnishings should convey the fact that she’s not merely a guest. That this is her home, the room belongs to her, and she’s welcome to return, anytime.”

  • • • • • • • • • •

  I drafted an email around midnight, feeling so self-congratulatory I could have spread my smugness on a piece of toast. First thing the next morning, I did a quick reread, added Uncle Hank to the CC, and pushed Send before I could chicken out.

  From: McIntyre, Erin

  To: Maat, Isaac

  Cc: Pike, Cynthia; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny

  Subject: Wayne Jansen

  Mr. Maat,

  Mr. Jansen is willing to sign off on the house and close as soon as it’s completed so long as the following changes are agreed to and implemented:

  1) Gently sand and lightly varnish kitchen cabinets

  2) Move custom guest closet to bedroom four (at end of the hall)

  3) Add built-in window seat to bedroom four

  4) Make bathroom three privately accessible only through bedroom four (remove hallway door; add door into bedroom)

  He is withdrawing all other change requests/complaints and is willing to pay the reasonable cost of these changes. Preliminary addendum attached. Please let me know if this is acceptable, and also the date he may plan to take possession of the house. I have also referred him to an interior designer who will need access for measurements ASAP, especially to bedroom four.

  E. McIntyre

  Less than two minutes passed before I received a reply, but it wasn’t from Isaac Maat.

  From: Pike, Cynthia

  To: McIntyre, Erin

  Cc: Maat, Isaac; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny

  Subject: Re: Wayne Jansen

  Erin—How the hell did you do this?!?! Never mind. I don’t care how you did it. I might not want to know, HAHA. I’ll get this addendum to the contract executed as soon as I have financial approval. (Hank?) Ted and Kenny—if I were you I’d get busy on a cost list pronto and let’s get this fucker out the door. Pardon my French.

  CPike

  And then another. Also not from Isaac Maat.

  From: Sager, Ted

  To: McIntyre, Erin

  Cc: Pike, Cynthia; Maat, Isaac; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny
/>   Subject: Re: Wayne Jansen

  Agreed! On it!

  TS

  Finally my supervisor replied.

  From: Maat, Isaac

  To: McIntyre, Erin

  Cc: Pike, Cynthia; Sager, Ted; Greene, Hank; LaCross, Kenny

  Subject: Re: Wayne Jansen

  Good work.

  IJM

  chapter

  Five

  I’d no sooner read those two pithy, barely congratulatory words when my desk phone—a corded piece of antiquity left over from some previous decade, which I was sure I’d seldom use and had relegated to a far corner of my desk—emitted a shrill peal like a horcrux being stabbed dead.

  “Je-SUS!” I gasped, flinching so hard my chair nearly rolled out from under me. As I stared, heart racing, it shrilled again. I snatched up the receiver and ended the obnoxious ringing. “Hello?” I wheezed as though I’d been doing calisthenics.

  “Ms. McIntyre. It’s… Isaac Maat. I’d like to speak with you in my office when you have a minute.”

  I wondered whether he would ever give me permission to use his first name or if we were going to Ms. McIntyre and Mr. Maat each other forever. He was my boss, but what was the proper way to address one’s boss when one was on a first-name basis with the CFO and the owner was Daddy? I filed this riddle away for later consideration.

  “Okay. Sure. Right after I figure out how to turn the volume down on this thing. I swear that ring took a year off my life.”

  “On the bottom.”

  “What?”

  “The volume control. It’s on the underside of the phone base.”

  “Oh, ha, gotcha. I’ve never used a phone like this. You know, with a cord and everything. I thought these had all been relegated to government offices and maybe phone museums. I guess they still make them though. Who knew?”

  Everyone but you? He hadn’t spoken the words, but I heard them just the same. I was torn between irrational anger and feeling like an idiot.