or Bitch Camp, Healthy Lady,” Madden chuckles as he walks up to me.
I can’t help but smile. Belle has nicknamed me. “That kid takes her love of cupcakes seriously.”
“She does.”
“Let’s get to work and get you that reward cupcake very soon then. I don’t want to be on her bad side.” I wink. “Do you think you’re ready to weigh-in yet? We’re a few weeks into your training, and you haven’t stepped on the scale since your intake.”
He shakes his head, serious. “Not yet. Let’s give it a few more weeks, okay?”
“Sure, Madden. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Sometimes seeing the numbers drop will give you more motivation. But the choice is yours.”
I walk him toward the cardio room as I explain that today, we are going to switch it up and do some stair stepping, and then we will focus on his upper body. As I’m setting the intervals on the step machine, Bryn comes into the room, bag on her shoulder.
She smiles at Madden then looks at me. “Excuse me, Jordan. I’m heading out for the night. Just shoot me a text tomorrow and let me know what time I should meet you guys, or if you’ll be picking me up.”
Looking up, I smile and nod at her. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Laney will have a group text going by sometime tonight to firm up all our plans.”
“Woooohooo! I love girls’ night,” she cheers, heading to the door.
Looking back at Madden, I blush. “Sorry about that.” I smile up at him, but the look on his face isn’t as relaxed.
“Girls’ night, huh?”
“Yep,” I reply. “Laney, Bryn, and Erin, my sister, didn’t give me much choice, so tomorrow night it is.”
Madden mutters something that sounds a lot like, “Laney needs to mind her own fuckin’ business,” but I can’t be sure.
“What was that?” I ask him.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “Nothing.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MADDEN
“Man, I’m tellin’ you now. This workin’ on Saturdays is bullshit! I had tickets to the Sailors game today!” Carter complains over the sound of the saw.
“If you jackoffs wouldn’t dick around so much, we wouldn’t be behind schedule. Keep it up, and we’ll be working Sundays too,” I retort, tossing a two-by-four to Maverick.
“Each time you taint suckers cause me to miss a Bama kickoff, I’m dockin’ your pay an hour. Each and every one of ya,” Carter shouts at his crew.
“You can’t do that shit, and you know it.” He throws his head back and laughs. “Besides, my Bulldogs are gonna steamroll The Tide this season, so your ass better be ready to put some hard cash down on that game.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Mav cuts in from across the room.
Carter’s crew are all steadily at work putting the finishing touches on the Peterson project. They’ve been onsite for three weeks now, ten days over the expected completion time. But Mrs. Peterson has been our typical elitist client. Difficult to please. Renovating the kitchen of their vacation home on the island, she presented us with her vision which could have easily been achieved with supplies readily available to us locally.
But no. She insisted on custom barnwood flooring that the guys had to travel to Kentucky to pick up. Then they had to hand cut, install, and stain the wood. She wasn’t happy with the cabinet selections we offered, so she asked that those be custom built, with a matching island center of the space that she only decided she wanted to add to the reno this past week. She needed more storage space, and thought having additional seating in the kitchen would add comfort to the layout.
The only simplicity this project has offered is the soft gray walls with white crown molding, which is the common trend on renos along the coast. And that was after the crew painted the walls aqua, buttercream, and white—all of which were colors she chose from the paint swatch but hated once the walls were finished. Mrs. Peterson has been the client from hell.
Mr. Peterson has been understanding of the delays, obviously realizing that his wife is often difficult to please. He didn’t care if the project was over budget by $15,000; he simply wanted his wife to be happy with their new beachfront home. If all goes well, the couple will be able to enjoy the most of summer here on Tybee Island, and the sooner we can complete this project, the quicker we can move on to the next. I came out today to help move productivity along.
“We wouldn’t be behind schedule if that woman wouldn’t have changed her damn mind so many times,” Maverick jokes. “I told you fuckers to let me manage this project, and I’d have persuaded her to accept our first design proposal.” He grabs his junk and smirks.
Mav is our playboy. A highly decorated ex-Marine, he’s always got his dick willing and ready for some unsuspecting woman to fall onto it. Literally. He loves ’em and leaves ’em; only a one-night stand for this fucker.
“And that, my friend, is the very reason why the big boys manage and the playboys do the heavy lifting. Can’t have you swinging your dick around in client meetings.”