Midnight Valentine

13

He holds up a hand, shaking his big blond head. “Hold on, I didn’t say that at all—”

“Why would he not want to meet a potential client?” I ignore his denial, jerking my thumb toward the house. “This is a huge job. What’s the problem?”

Coop inhales a long breath, searching for words, but my patience expires before he can find them.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. You text Theo right now—or however it is you communicate with him—and tell him I’m coming over. Or he can come here, whatever’s more convenient. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to do business with someone who won’t even give me the courtesy of a meeting.”

I fold my arms over my chest and stare at Coop, my gaze unblinking.

His cheeks puff out as he slowly exhales. Then he digs his cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans, muttering, “Well, hell.”

It takes a geological epoch for Coop to send a text message, because he uses one finger, squinting and pecking at the keyboard on his iPhone until I want to tear my hair out. When he finally presses Send, he glances up at me with a hesitant smile.

Apparently, Theo is much quicker on the draw, because the chime from an answering text comes through within seconds. Coop reads the message, but is silent.

“What did he say?”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Um.”

“Give me the phone.”

Coop’s blue eyes grow wide.

“Coop,” I insist, holding out my hand. “Give me. The phone.”

He hands it over with an expression like a puppy who’s been scolded. I look at the screen.

DO NOT BRING THAT WOMAN HERE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

The message is all in caps and bolded, like Theo’s shouting from the other side of the screen.

I waver for a moment between feeling insulted or wanting to laugh. This is so odd and unexpected, I can’t decide how to feel about it. Logic tells me there’s nothing I could have possibly done to earn this stranger’s dislike, but he clearly has a strong aversion to my presence. He’s like a bear with a thorn in its paw—only the thorn is me.

“That woman,” he wrote. Like I’m a carrier of the plague.

I look up at Coop with my brows drawn together. “Have you known Theo a long time?”

“Sure. We both grew up in Seaside. We were on the football team together in high school. He was one of the groomsmen at my wedding.”

Gathering my thoughts, I hand him his phone. “Okay. I won’t put you in an awkward position by trying to force you to tell me why your friend doesn’t like me, but I’d appreciate it if you could tell Theo that I said…ouch.”

Coop lifts his brows. “Ouch?”

“Yeah. Ouch. Just tell him that. And that if I see him again, I’ll cross the street first so he doesn’t have to. Thanks for coming out.”

I hand him the manila envelope with the quote in it and close the door.

5

I call Craig, the contractor who gave me the astronomical quote, and spend twenty minutes with him on the phone, haggling over the price. When I tell him the other quotes I got were half the price his was, he tells me with a shrug in his voice that if budget is my main concern, I should go with someone else.

I hate to admit I like his chutzpah. A man with unflappable self-confidence is incredibly appealing.

We settle on a ten percent discount if I pay him cash. He laughs when I tell him he shouldn’t charge me sales tax either. “That’s not how it works,” he says.

“Don’t patronize me, Craig, I know exactly how it works. You’re not going to put the job on the books if it’s paid in cash, so you won’t have to pay sales tax, so you should pass that savings along to me. Considering you padded your quote with enough pork to make a politician proud, you’re still way ahead of the game.”

After a short silence, Craig says, “I meant I can’t take off the sales tax because there is no sales tax. Oregon doesn’t have it.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot.”

“But I’ll tell you what. The state just passed a construction excise tax to raise funds for affordable housing. It’s based on a percentage of your building permit valuation. I’ll take care of that for you.”

He tells me how much it will amount to. I think for a moment before saying, “Double it, and you’ve got a deal.”

Into his disgruntled pause, I remind him, “Cash is king, Craig. Even if you don’t have to pay state sales tax, you’ll be paying the Feds on anything you deposit into your bank account, am I right?”

“Have mercy on a poor guy, Megan!”

He suggests another number, then I suggest another, then we agree to split the difference. He tells me he’ll send over the contract for my review on Monday, and we say goodbye and hang up.

Pleased with myself, I look around the front parlor with my hands on my hips. I’m excited for the first time in years.

It’s really going to happen. I’m going to make our dream come true, babe.

The phone rings. I pick it up, expecting it to be Craig wanting to go over some forgotten detail, or perhaps Suzanne, but it’s Coop, sounding bashful.

“Hi, there, Megan, this is Coop.”

“Hi, Coop. What’s up?”

Long, awkward pause. “Uh…I’m still standin’ outside your house.”

I walk to the windows, and there he is, out on the sidewalk near his truck.

“Are you having car problems?”