Foundation

by Lainey Davis

  “Are you wearing the new bras?”

  I smile at this. “As a matter of fact I am.” We hang up and I change for work, sliding into a navy blue lacy bra that lifts my boobs so high and cinches them in so tight in front that I look like the prow of a ship. I swear, my clothes fit differently when I wear this thing.

  Even without the run, I feel much more centered as I head for the office in my killer outfit. I decide stressing about the yard trench must be as much of a workout as actually running. Or maybe having a good friend to lean on builds as many endorphins as a workout. Either way, I feel great.

  At work, I stop in the kitchen to get my breakfast from Alice in person.

  She smiles at me and wolf whistles. “I see you met with Judy,” she says.

  “Is it that obvious?” I grab a muffin, skeptically.

  Alice nods. “Oh yeah. You’re walking differently today. You look amazing.”

  “Well I will accept the compliment, Mrs. Stag. Thank you.” I grin. She waves and gives me a thumbs up as I head out.

  By the time I sit down at my desk, I actually ask Mark for help in a nice voice, which leads him to burst into my office and place the back of his hand on my forehead.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I crumple a muffin wrapper and throw it at him.

  “Oh thank god,” he says, brushing crumbs off his shoulder. “When you used the word ‘please’ I worried you were dying.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, whenever you get a chance, I need to call one of those engineer bobbies.”

  “Oh, please, god, let his name be Bobby. In tight jeans…maybe a hard hat.”

  “Mark, we have a ton to do for the foundation meeting.” I tap my pen on the edge of my desk, trying not to let my thoughts drift to Isaac Brady in a hard hat and faded jeans. I am absolutely not picturing him in a tool belt. Nope. My running coach is nowhere near my thoughts at all as I busy myself to launch a new arm of the company.

  I cross and uncross my legs, eventually deciding I need the treadmill desk. I pace out my nervous energy until Mark sends a text confirming an appointment with a geotechnical engineer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Zack

  “HAVE A SEAT, son,” my father gestures toward the mismatched “furniture” in his office. I’ve got my pick between an Argentinian saddle and a low stool from Ethiopia. He always brings this stuff back from his travels, which is fine I guess, but then he expects his clients to sit on it. And he’s still got a Rolodex full of Fortune-ranked contacts.

  I opt for the saddle, wishing I could ride my ass on out of here instead. He starts slurping his mate and for the thousandth time offers me a sip of the foul green brew.

  “I don’t want any MATE, Dad.” I pronounce it wrong because I’m irritated with him.

  “Zack, you know it’s mah-tay,” he chides, shaking his head.

  “Dad, I was going to present about the sink hole to Uncle Kellen…can we speed this up?”

  “You and your brothers are always in such a damn hurry,” he says, setting down his gourd cup.

  “Yeah, because you always force us to go running and be efficient.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. We’re building rapport here. But don’t think for a second I won’t smoke your ass on the running trail.”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. Dad can still blaze. I do hope I inherited his longevity. He takes a sip of his drink and tells me, “You know, this mate is from Paraguay. I went there about a year ago. Met with their Presidente, even.”

  Dad tells these stories that journey around and around the subject at hand. He’s not an engineer--just wanted to work with his brother and thought he could help Kellen sell engineering services in an era when nobody else was doing that, but industrial facilities were starting to wear out. Dad ropes in the clients, telling them stories about hair dye mishaps or broken shoes or, apparently, gourds and tea. Uncle Kellen swoops in and points out the rust spots on their bridges and the cracks in their dams.

  Dad tells me how he sat down for tea with the president of Paraguay after they ran into one another at a shop near the airport.

  Dad asked El Presidente for advice and has been chugging Yerba every day since. “The Presidente told me they’ve been having unusually wet weather, and I’ve been keeping my eye on the news.” Dad continues, telling me how there have been floods in Peru, mudslides in Ecuador, and widespread landslides in Paraguay. “Those mountains are the home of that Yerba plant,” he says, chugging the last of his bitter tea.

  He leans back in his chair and stares out the window at the city coming to life. “I got a call from a friend today. Someone from Stag Law needs a geotechnical engineer at her house. I’d like you to handle this for me.”

  “You want me to handle a residential project??” I’m so fucking insulted I can barely spit the words out. It barely registers that he’s talking about Stag Law, the competition in the damn corporate marathon relay. I can’t get past the idea that I would ever go consult on a residential project.

  I’ve been clawing my way up toward major industrial projects for years. I’m not about to go talk about swimming pools or some shit with some golf buddy of my dad’s. “I thought you only pursue repeat business. What the hell is the point of a residential one-off?”

  “Tim Stag is a valuable person to know,” Dad says. “He and I sit on the board of the hospital together and his clients have very, very deep pockets if they can manage not to blow it all on hookers and booze. When his executive assistant calls me personally, I tell her I will have my own son investigate the situation, because Beltane Engineering values our relationship with Stag Law.”

  I swallow. My dad always makes me feel like an asshole. He could have just led off by telling me someone important needed something done. He could have offered some fucking context about why he’s sending me out on a landscaping project. I don’t even know Tim Stag apart from seeing him at runs. I’m the guy with his hands in the dirt, not some schmoozer. I sigh. “Tell me what I need to know.”

  I’m in my office gathering up my field supplies when my brothers stick their head in the door. Liam folds his arms and leans against the door frame. “Heard Texas Ted talking about sink hole detail.”

  “I’m sure you did,” I grunt, shoving my hard hat in my bag. I still have no real idea what to expect on this job site. “Dad’s sending me out to inspect a mysterious trench because he wants to make nice with Tim Stag.”

  Cal perks up at this. “Tim Stag? Like Tyrion Stag’s brother?” I shrug.

  “Zack. Come on, dude, the hockey player? His brother’s firm represents like, every pro athlete in PA. You’re going to get bowl game tickets out of this.”

  Liam strokes his chin. “That chick from the running group works at Stag Law. Isn’t that what she said?”

  I grunt again and hoist up my bag. “I’ll be in Lawrenceville,” I tell them. “Uncertain if I’ll be back after.”

  Cal nods. “We can all go for ramen after work. You know, if you make it back alive.”

  “Very funny, Callum. You’re buying.”

  Dad gives me an address to a remodeled townhouse in a gentrified area of Lawrenceville. Of course, the hot shot client lives here. These houses are flipped with no character. Faux marble counters. All the internal walls are ripped out and it’s all meant to look like old factory floors. I shudder, thinking about going inside--I should have my brother Liam look up the plans to make sure nothing load bearing has been dismantled before I sit whoever it is down to discuss whatever the fuck is going on with her back yard.

  I circle the block looking for parking, imagining this homeowner as a prissy, high maintenance sorority girl. I finally find a spot down the road and parallel park my truck, muttering under my breath with annoyance that this woman I haven’t met is ruining basically everything about my month.

  Of course, I know that rationally, I’m actually angry about the assignment I didn’t get. I’m angry that Ted’s presentation was chosen for the sink holes. I’m a
ngry that I don’t even know if my uncle showed my ideas to the team. I imagine them all talking about me while I wasn’t in there.

  Poor old Zack. Sent off on a grunt project for his dad.

  I sigh. I need to nip these thoughts, get them under control. I crunch through the frozen turf around back of her house, and then I whistle through my teeth.

  This is not good.

  What I see before me is the beginning of the end of a major landslide. The two townhouses unfortunate enough to be on the property look like they’re the last bastions of the old neighborhood before the house flippers and condo developers moved in.

  There’s a tidy back yard with two patios and the one that matches the address Dad gave me has a killer sun room, with views of the river. I inhale, telling myself this is at least a tastefully renovated property. The mystery owner has built back a small amount of credibility, despite having a yard that’s about the crumble into the Allegheny River. I take some time carefully navigating the fissure, testing the ground to see if the landslide will hold my weight before I crouch to take measurements. I’m not sure how long I spend studying the situation when I hear a voice say, “Are you the fracking guy?”

  I look up over my shoulder and see a woman silhouetted by the sun. She is short and curvy and not dressed appropriately to be walking around a landslide in the freezing cold. “Get back,” I shout, gruffly.

  I stand up and approach her, and then halt in my tracks because fuck me sideways. It’s Nicole. Standing in the crisp air, cheeks pink, this woman is as beautiful as she is angry.

  “Excuse me?” she puts her hands on her hips and plants her heel-clad feet. “Nobody tells me what to do on my own property.”

  I stalk up close to her, closer than I intend, but I’m shaken by my response to her pale skin and seemingly endless supply of hair, that blows around in the frigid breeze off the river. “You’ve got a rotational landslide here, and this entire area is unsafe. Especially dressed like that.”

  She huffs and a piece of chestnut brown hair sticks to her cheek. I have to fight off every urge to reach out and brush it aside so I can see her green eyes flash at me. “Listen, Isaac, I’m about to pay you thousands of dollars to fix whatever’s going on back here. This shit was a lump in the grass yesterday. Are you going to fix it or should I call someone who knows what they’re doing?”

  “Let’s make one thing very clear here,” I tell her, urging her back toward solid ground. “There is nobody--NOBODY--in this city or any other in the tri-state area who knows this soil better than I do. So when I tell you to get back, that means haul your fancy shoes and your pretty skirt back to the curb where it’s safe.” My nostrils flare. She had to go and suggest I am an inferior engineer on the same day as this bullshit with my dad at work.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she says. “This is basically a sink hole. We get those around here all the time because the sewer system is collapsing, or some such nonsense.”

  Sink hole. I shake my head and gesture along the line in her yard. “You see this--what did you call it? A trench? Tomorrow this is going to shift six feet further down toward the river. The day after that, you’ll be able to repel here, it’ll be so far gone. I’m probably going to have to have the city condemn your house.”

  She gasps. That got her attention I guess. I wasn’t totally serious about that, but if the fault line moves like I predict it will, it’s going to be a close call as to whether she can stay here. Plus she pissed me off.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” I shove my calculator into my back pocket and start walking around front of her property. “Look, I’m freezing my balls off out here and I’m sick of arguing with you while your hair’s blowing in my mouth. I’ll have my office send you the information at your office.”

  She snorts. “Are you being huffy because of our lack of rapport as running partners?”

  I glare at her. “I’m being ‘huffy’ because I’m supposed to be addressing an impactful industrial project, not a domestic landscaping issue.”

  “So it’s not that big a deal then?” Her voice cracks a little and I ease up. I did just tell her she might lose her home.

  When I look up at her, I see her pink tongue running along those red fucking lips and I have to grit my teeth to stop a moan escaping my mouth. Client, I mutter. She’s a client. Dad sent you here. Think of Dad. Think of Dad.

  “I’ll run some numbers, ok? I’ll get you the information.” I spin on my heel and start walking down the street back toward my truck, hoping I can catch my breath out of sight of her piercing green eyes. I reach my truck and climb inside, not turning around to look as she starts to shout something down the street after me. Her people know how to reach my people.

  Shit. I didn’t want this fucking job when I thought it was about mulch and landscaping. Now it’s a fucking landslide inside city limits with a high-maintenance, high-heeled, she-devil for a client.

  All the work of a major industrial project, ten times the bureaucratic hassle, and I still won’t get the promotion I’ve fucking earned over the past five years. And I have to fucking teach her how to go running on Sunday.

  I need to think. My head is swimming with how rapidly my day changed from a nice run with my brothers before work…into a hellscape. A literal landslide of silt is pouring into my career right now. I storm back into my office and slam the door. Our offices are tiny—the ancient building has long hallways with door after door. Dad renovated a bit to make a space for cubicles, but at nearly 30, I had at least managed to work my way up to my own office.

  The heavy door bounces back open again a minute later and my cousin Orla bursts into the room.

  She pulls the door shut and leans against it, raising her eyebrows at me, waiting for me to speak.

  Orla and my Uncle Kellen lived with us after her mother died. Where my father cycled through women like laundry, Uncle Kel was deeply devoted to my departed aunt. I’m not sure he’ll ever get over losing her. Since Dad was between wives when Aunt Helen died, Kellen and Orla just moved in to the big house for the few years left until Orla left for college.

  Uncle Kellen has, for a long time, been the keeper of the feelings in our big Brady family. He’s always the one who can tell when something’s wrong, and he’s the one to come and figure out how to make things right again.

  I’m sure he told Orla, hence her visit here now.

  I sigh. “Dad sent me on a pet project.”

  “So I heard. And?”

  I explain about the landslide. “Honestly? I’m not even sure how we go about fixing that in city limits. Right on the bank of the river like that. It’s going to be a god damned disaster. And for what? Because Dad wants to make nice with this broad’s boss? I don’t get it.”

  Orla strides across the room and looks at my desk, where I’ve still got the sticky note from my dad with Nicole Kennedy’s address scribbled on it. She pulls out her phone and taps around for awhile. She whistles. “She’s not too bad to look at,” Orla says. “Even if she can’t run for shit.” I snort. “Says she’s the strategy director for Stag Law. They specialize in representing athletes, but she specializes in optimizing staff performance and…” she pauses to read. “Fostering relationships with stakeholders, developing solutions, et cetera, et cetera. Sounds like exactly the kind of shit your dad does here.”

  I scowl at her. “What’s your point?”

  “You think Uncle Mick’s trying to poach her? I mean why else would he give a fuck about a residential project.”

  “This is why I don’t like you, Orla. Because you say shit like that and it makes total fucking sense, and now I’m panicking about the big picture instead of just being angry that I lost a project to Texas Ted.”

  She punches me in the shoulder. “Come,” she says. “Let’s have an off-site meeting and I’ll buy you a drink.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nicole

  I’M SEETHING WHEN I sto
mp back into the Stag Law offices. I can’t tell if I’m more annoyed that Valerie was right or that I have to deal with my running coach and his hot, broody face. That I saw looming above me when I passed the fuck out on my first run.

  I cannot have him coming to my house. I just cannot.

  “Donna,” I let myself into her office and rap my fingers on the door frame. She looks up at me, questioningly. “I hear you’re the one who found me the geotechnical engineer to fix the trench?”

  She blushes. What the hell? “Did Mick Brady come to look at your yard personally? Don’t be insulted by him, dear. He’s just like that.”

  “No.” This reaction is so unexpected I slump against her door frame. “He sent his son Isaac.” I think back to the lanky guy in the tight-but-worn jeans, hard hat, tool belt. I make a mental note to focus on that image later. Alone in my shower. The fucking tool belt ought to be enough to break through the strike my clit has been on lately.

  Donna smiles. “Mick has three nice young sons. Just like our Mr. Stag is one of three boys! I only had the one son—“

  “Donna, I’m sorry. I’m freaking out here. He says I have a rotational landslide, and I looked that shit up on the drive back here and it’s going to cost a quarter million dollars to repair my fucking back yard.”

  She pales. “Oh, I’m sure the Bradys won’t charge you the regular rate! Goodness. Nobody could afford that.”

  No shit, I think. Her phone rings, and her face lights up again. “This is Beltane Engineering,” she says to me. “Should I just transfer to you directly?”

  “Is it Isaac??” Oh, god, I cannot be just talking to him on the phone right now. I need to work out a strategy for coming back from passing out.

  Donna shakes her head. She mouths “admin.”

  I nod and walk back toward my office. As promised, Isaac had “his people” call with information. Some teenager on the phone is prattling on about something called a “headscarp” and confirms my worst fears: a conservative estimate for the repair is a quarter million dollars for the concrete, soil and heavy machinery. Not even including the labor.