Stay with Me Forever

by Farrah Rochon

  Sawyer held his hands up. “I didn’t say anything, Queen Tardy.”

  “Queen of the Tardy Slip,” Carmen said with a laugh. “I remember that!”

  Paxton rolled her eyes at them both. Who knew it would be so much fun to tease her?

  Carmen returned a minute later with a small platter of sandwiches on croissants, a pint of potato salad, two bags of chips and a half-gallon jug of tea, along with paper plates, forks and plastic cups. She set it all in the center of the still-empty conference table and backed out of the room.

  Paxton took a seat at the table. “Do you mind this being a working lunch?” she asked him. “Jeffery Melber, the lead engineer on the project, just sent me an updated material’s list. We can go over it while we eat.”

  “That’s fine,” Sawyer said. “I’d made some changes of my own to the old one. Let me print you out a copy, and we can get to work.”

  Ten minutes later, Sawyer was positive that she was going to demand a new engineer be put on this job.

  “You cannot be serious about this line item,” Paxton said, pointing to the titanium valves he’d added to the list, replacing the fortified aluminum valves that had been suggested by Bolt-Myer.

  “The titanium valves are of much better quality.”

  “They’re thirty thousand dollars each,” she said. Her arched eyebrows formed perfect peaks over her wide eyes. “That’s four times as much as we budgeted.”

  “But they’ll last much longer than the aluminum valves. It may be more money up front, but we can make the case to get the better valves because of what it will save in the long run. You’ll have to replace all of those aluminum valves in thirty years. The titanium can last for twice as long with proper maintenance.”

  “It’s not going to happen, Sawyer. The fortified aluminum has been through rigorous testing. They exceed the state regulations.”

  “These are better.” He stabbed the materials list with his finger. He refused to budge on this. “Look, Paxton, I’ve seen what happens when corners are cut to save a few dollars here and there. It turns out costing more in the long run. Why not just build it with the best now and avoid headaches down the road? Not just headaches, but it could prevent something catastrophic from happening.”

  “Now you’re just fearmongering,” she said. “The budget does not have room to spend over a million dollars just on valves.” She dusted the flaky crumbs of her croissant from her fingers and pressed a napkin to the sides of her mouth. “I understand that someone like you isn’t used to worrying about pesky little things like staying within budget, but for those of us in the real world it is a necessity.”

  That was a cheap shot, and it hit its mark.

  Sawyer tossed the pen on the table and sat back in his seat. He folded his hands over his chest and studied her. “So you’re going to go there? Really?”

  “The truth isn’t always comfortable to hear, but it doesn’t make it any less true.” Paxton said. She straightened her slim shoulders, lifting her chin slightly as she stared him down. “There is no blank check for this project. I was given a specific budget, and I intend to adhere to it, which means you will have to work within it, too, as hard as that may be for someone like you.”

  Sawyer had not imagined the sneer in her voice when she said “someone like you.”

  It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to uncover the true meaning behind her words or the tone in which she’d spoken. Paxton Jones resented that he had been a rich kid; she always had. As if it was his fault that his father owned the lumber mill that employed a good number of the laborers in town.

  The fact that she grew up in Landreaux, one of the poorest areas of Gauthier, did not help the situation. Differences in status or class had never been a huge issue in this town, mainly because other than his family and the Gauthiers themselves, most of its residents were hardworking, lower-middle-class folks. There were those who fell below the poverty line, but instead of deriding them, the people here quietly did what they could to help.

  Paxton, however, had never accepted help easily. Neither had her mother, even though Belinda Jones had swallowed her pride a time or two when things had become too much for her to handle. Sawyer was positive that Ms. Jones had never told her daughter about the instances when she had availed herself of the financial assistance the Cheryl Ann Robertson Foundation, which his father had set up in his mother’s memory years ago, supplied to needy families in Gauthier. Belinda Jones was too proud.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  As far as Sawyer was concerned, when it came to this project, Paxton could choke on her resentment. Her hang-ups about his money didn’t make a lick of difference to him. Making sure this flood protection system was the very best it could be was more important than worrying about the chip on her shoulder.

  “I’ve worked in this field for a long time,” Sawyer said, trying like hell to keep the resentment out of his voice. “I understand budgets. I also understand what happens when people allow budgets to compromise good design.”

  “Forget the titanium valves,” Paxton said, slicing the tip of her red pen through the line item. “I’ll give you these,” she said, pointing to the alternative barrier reinforcement he’d suggested. “But keep in mind if we choose to stick with this design, we’re going to have to cut corners somewhere else.”

  “Stop taking such a hard line,” Sawyer said. “Budgets get blown all the time. The last three projects I worked on for the state all were over budget by at least 30 percent. The extra money is already figured into the state’s budget, because they know the projects will go over.”

  “Not on my projects,” she said. “I don’t know how you state boys operate, but one of the things that makes me a good project manager with Bolt-Myer is my accuracy for hitting my budgets and my completion date targets. This project in Gauthier will be no different.”

  “You’re determined to make this difficult, aren’t you? Are you doing this just to spite me?”

  She turned her chair toward him, her face full of haughty indignation. “How much weight does that giant ego add when you step on your bathroom scale in the mornings?”

  Sawyer ran both hands down his face. It was a conceited thing to say. It was also unfair. Within the first hour of working with her Sawyer had already determined that she was, above all else, a professional.

  He held his hands out to her. “I just don’t want everything to turn into a fight, Paxton. I want you to be open to hearing my side of things.”

  “I am open to hearing your side. This isn’t a dictatorship,” she said. “As long as you understand that when it comes down to the final decision, it’s my ass that’s on the line. You get to return to your safe government job, but my job security is tied to my performance.

  “I have more riding on this project than you can possibly know, Sawyer, and I will not allow anything to interfere with it. Are we clear on that?”

  The intensity in her stare matched the seriousness in her voice. He wanted to refute her words, but they were true. He didn’t have as much at stake when it came to his job. He would be fine no matter what.

  But this wasn’t his typical project. His concern superseded his personal well-being. This was about Gauthier.

  “We’re clear,” Sawyer answered. “This isn’t just a job to you. I get that. But it isn’t just a job to me, either. I don’t go into work every day just to collect a paycheck. As I’m sure you know, I don’t need to,” he said before she had the chance to throw it in his face. “However, when it comes to this particular project, I am just as invested as you are. The people of Gauthier deserve the best flood protection system we can provide, and as long as I’m the engineer on this project they’re going to get it. You need to keep that in mind when you think about your budgets. Now, are you clear about that?”

  She held her jaw so rigid Sawyer w
as certain it would shatter. Several long, intense moments passed between them, sending the tension in the small conference room into the stratosphere.

  Paxton was the first to break. If she’d waited two seconds longer, he would have beaten her to it.

  Dammit. He could not take an entire month of these showdowns. He would go crazy.

  “I’m willing to compromise on some issues,” she said. “If you can prove that they will make a significant difference to the overall effectiveness of the system. You don’t get to just throw something out there because it’s this cool new technology that you’ve been dying to use.”

  It irritated the hell out of him that she would assume that he could be so frivolous, but Sawyer wasn’t up for yet another face-off so soon. He was still catching his breath from the last one.

  “Fine,” he said. “So, are we going with the titanium valves?”

  She popped a potato chip in her mouth, dusted off her fingers and said, “No. Next item.”

  Chapter 3

  Paxton pulled into a slanted parking slot two spaces down from the entrance to the Gauthier Law Firm. She grabbed her briefcase from the passenger seat and exited the car. As she rounded her front bumper, she looked up and down Main Street, and stopped short. The cashmere-silver BMW 750i that she secretly coveted—yeah, she’d looked up the base price; it was way out of her budget even before she’d bought Belinda the bar—was not it its usual parking spot.

  Had she actually made it here before Sawyer?

  Yes!

  She was going to switch those desks. She was getting her window seat today, dammit.

  Paxton raced into the law office, waving a quick hello to Carmen before heading down the hallway. She opened the conference room door and halted.

  Sawyer, who sat at his desk sipping from a paper cup with the Jazzy Bean’s logo, was scribbling on a notepad. He looked up at her.

  “What are you doing here?” Paxton asked, her shoulders falling in defeat as she shuffled over to her desk with much less enthusiasm.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he said with a chuckle. “Why are you out of breath? Have you been running?”

  “Only from my car to here,” she answered. She set her briefcase on her desk, then walked over to his.

  He had on his reading glasses, the bronze wire-rimmed ones that looked so good on him it made her want to scream.

  “You’re early,” he said.

  It was ten minutes after eight, which meant she was technically late, but since she’d spent the past week coming in after eight-thirty, she was early today.

  “Where’s your car?” Paxton asked.

  He handed her a cup of coffee. “The mechanic’s shop.”

  She hadn’t noticed the second coffee cup on his desk. Her heart performed a ridiculous flip-flop at his sweet gesture.

  “Thank you. And good morning,” she added. She took a sip of the slightly cooled coffee. It had just the right amount of cream and sugar, which meant Shayla Kirkland, the owner of the Jazzy Bean, had likely made it herself. Her best friend knew how Paxton preferred her coffee.

  “Did you walk here?” she asked him. Paxton made a habit of not listening to gossip—hard to do in this small town, which fed off gossip the way mosquitoes fed off blood—but she’d heard that Sawyer had bought a house on Willow Street, which was less than ten minutes away on foot.

  “I could have, but as muggy as it is this morning I was afraid I’d need a shower after I got here. I’m driving my dad’s old Buick for the next few days.” He grimaced.

  “The burgundy one?” She couldn’t stop the sharp laugh that escaped. “I don’t know how I missed seeing it parked out there.”

  “Yeah, the burgundy one,” Sawyer said. “I hate that car.”

  “I can’t believe it’s still running. It has to be over twenty years old.”

  Paxton could remember Sawyer driving his dad’s car during their senior year of high school, which was twenty years ago this year. She’d missed the reunion this past summer, purposely filling in for a coworker on a job in Memphis so she’d have an excuse. If given the choice to revisit her high school years or frolic through a minefield, she would choose the minefield.

  “It’s twenty-two years old,” Sawyer said. “My dad loved that damn thing. He went through four cars after it, but he refused to get rid of the Buick.”

  “You didn’t have a problem with it back in high school,” Paxton pointed out.

  “I didn’t have much of a choice,” he said with a laugh.

  Sawyer had driven the Buick up until the week following the big state championship game, when his father had surprised him with a brand-new pickup truck as a reward for leading the Lions to victory and being named MVP for the season.

  The shiny black truck had been parked in front of the school with a big red bow on the hood. They had all later learned that the truck also counted as Sawyer’s birthday, Christmas and graduation presents that year, but it was still a huge deal. There were not many families in Gauthier who could afford to buy their teens brand-new cars. The lucky ones got their parents’ hand-me-downs, and were more than grateful for it.

  Paxton could still feel the envy flowing through her veins as she boarded the school bus while at least a dozen of her classmates piled into the cab and truck bed of Sawyer’s gleaming new ride. She wasn’t jealous of his truck. Belinda didn’t have a car of her own at the time; Paxton knew there was no way on earth she would get a car while still in high school.

  No, it was witnessing the camaraderie between the group of friends who had joined Sawyer to celebrate his new truck that got to her that day. She was so envious of the bond they all shared, including Shayla, who, even though she had been Paxton’s best friend, had also been part of the popular crowd.

  Until this day Paxton truly believed her greatest feat was convincing everyone that it had not bothered her in the least that she wasn’t included in their number. She’d perfected the unaffected loner facade, the girl who was above the hype of belonging to high school cliques or attending dances or being noticed by the most popular boy in school.

  She’d pretended she didn’t care, but if anyone had bothered to look just a little closer, Paxton knew they would have spotted the longing in her eyes.

  She shook off those thoughts. She was no longer that girl, the one who pined for Sawyer to notice her. She’d proven three years ago that she’d grown into the kind of woman who could hold his attention for hours on end, until he collapsed in a heap of pleasure-filled exhaustion.

  Paxton breathed her way through the full-body shudder that coursed through her, silently cursing herself for even allowing her mind to go there.

  She went back to her desk to start on today’s work, welcoming the distraction of pouring over the field inspection notes collected during the Bolt-Myer team’s previous visit to the proposed construction site. She soon settled into what had become a familiar routine over the past week.

  She’d been both surprised and relieved at how easily she and Sawyer had fallen into their own little bubbles while working together. He’d spent most of the past week catching up on the project, while she’d focused on the hundreds—literally hundreds—of line items on her master to-do list.

  The most important bullet on her list was the preparation for the stakeholders’ information session. Paxton had taken to calling it a town hall meeting when discussing it with residents, hoping that the less formal title would encourage more people to attend. As with every major project, Bolt-Myer was required to inform the members of the community what would take place over the eight months while the first stage of the three-stage flood protection system was being constructed and to answer any questions residents may have.

  Paxton had facilitated a number of meetings like this in the past, but she knew this one would be different. It wasn’t as
if she had anything to prove to the people in Gauthier, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to show them just what the girl who had been raised by a single mother from the wrong side of the creek had made of herself.

  She put in her headphones and turned the volume up on the classical music she preferred to listen to while she worked. She’d become so immersed in reviewing the request for proposals from local subcontractors vying for the various jobs that would have to be filled once construction was under way that she nearly jumped out of her seat when Sawyer tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Goodness!” she yelped, clutching a hand to her chest. Paxton jerked the headphones off. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I tried calling out to you, but you have that music so loud that I can hear it even with the speakers over your ears.”

  “You should have said something sooner if it was bothering you,” Paxton said.

  “It isn’t. That’s not what I wanted to speak to you about.”

  Her brow rose.

  “I need you to come over to the table,” Sawyer said. “I want to show you something.”

  She didn’t like the forbidding she heard in his voice or the frown lines creasing the corners of his mouth. Trepidation skirted along her spine as she rose from her chair and followed him to the other side of the conference room, closer to his desk.

  Over the past week the conference table had slowly acquired more and more items. It was now covered with stacks of papers, file folders and blueprints. Several topography maps of the east side of Gauthier, not too far from the elementary and middle school, were stretched across the table, their ends held down with a stapler, the polished rock that usually sat on Sawyer’s desk and two empty coffee mugs.

  Sawyer pointed to an area not too far from Mount Zion Baptist Church.

  “I hope I’m wrong about this,” he said. “But if I’m right, it can stop this entire project dead in its tracks.”