She knew Anthony was a bit of an egotist when it came to his work. Another reason he loved Pierce—they weren’t the type of builders who threw up cheap houses for cost. “I don’t know.”
“Then let me convince you.”
She spent the next half hour going over design plans, costs, and benefits. Slowly he began nodding his head, beginning to grasp the bigger vision she’d been desperate to communicate.
Then she went for her close.
“Let me be honest. Adam is going to begin building in Harrington whether we want him to or not. He’d rather bring in crappy chain distributors and put up cookie-cutter houses that will eventually insult both of our businesses. This is a way to stop him without a feud. On our terms. You have the ability to make something spectacular happen. But I’m afraid if you don’t bend on this final condition, we’ll not only be cut out but cut up.”
Anthony tapped his finger against the papers, then slurped his coffee. “Bastards,” he grumbled.
“I know. So let’s do this our way.”
A reluctant smile curved his lips. “Ah, hell, why not?”
“Do you think you can get Brenda and Sam on board?” The other two granite, textile, and wood suppliers usually followed Anthony’s lead on projects.
“Yeah, I’ll call them today. But you’ll have to pay them a visit.”
“I will. Monday. I promise.”
“Good.”
She managed to peek at her watch. She was running a bit late, but nothing some deft driving and organization couldn’t handle. Saying her good-byes to Anthony, she headed to her car. She wished My Place weren’t on the edge of Harrington. Easing on the accelerator, she whizzed out of town, until a loud pop exploded in the air.
“What the hell?” Her car pulled to the left, and she angled into the spin. Thank God the road was basically clear, since she spun once, then landed on the side of the road. With shaking hands, she climbed out of the car and walked to the back.
Flat tire.
Completely. There was no saving this one. She must’ve run over something, maybe a busted glass bottle. Good thing she knew how to change a tire, thanks to Christian, who had always wanted her prepared to be safe on the road.
She opened the trunk, pulled off the cover, and stared into the empty space.
No spare.
Holy shit.
With horror, she remembered she’d taken the spare in to get it patched, but she’d never picked it up and put it back in the car. Which meant she was officially stranded on the side of the road with no spare and her daughter’s recital in an hour.
Okay, don’t freak. She had Triple A. She’d call them, and they’d give her a tow, or fix it, and get her home. Not in time for the recital, but maybe Brady or Charlie could take Becca and she’d meet them there. Morgan and Cal were gone for the weekend, so they couldn’t help. Raven always had a fully packed restaurant on a Saturday night, and Dalton wasn’t available. She began dialing numbers and kept getting voice mail.
When she finally reached Brady and Charlie, she discovered they were at a family dinner and over an hour away. Her regular sitter was off for the night. There was no one left to call.
Groaning, she frantically searched for anyone else in her contacts list who’d be able to get Becca to that recital. She’d been practicing so hard, and it would devastate her to miss it. She didn’t have Becca’s friends in her cell phone, or she’d be able to hunt down another mom who’d sympathize with her predicament. Maybe—
Tristan.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t. It was a terrible idea. It could lead to disaster.
God, she’d hated the distant way he’d treated Becca last night. His bumbling excuse of being busy during her recital was a total lie—his left brow always quirked upward—and Becca had sensed his untruth. Not that Sydney wanted them to be buddies, but hurting her daughter’s feelings stirred up her protective instincts. His asking Dalton to drive them home was a secondary punch. It was obvious he wanted nothing more to do with either of them last night, and the rejection stung.
More than she anticipated.
Fine with her. She should feel relief she’d shut down his advances in the park. Sticking them together could be a monumental mistake.
But her daughter’s face haunted her.
She had to ask. She had to try. Then at least she could tell Becca she’d exhausted all possibilities.
With shaking fingers and a pounding heart, she made the call.
A fucking ballet recital.
Tristan didn’t experience fear very often, but right now, his heart was slamming against his chest. He was going to be trapped with Becca, and he had no idea how to behave. When Sydney called him, he’d been ready to say no immediately but then stopped at the hint of desperation in her voice. His entire family was busy. It seemed this recital was a big thing to her daughter, and there was no way she’d be able to get home in time. If he drove across town to get her, then went back to pick up Becca, she’d end up missing the recital. He’d already been close to My Place and had no big plans tonight he’d have to break. His lie from last night mocked him. But how could he say no?
His fingers gripped the steering wheel. Thank goodness Raven always kept an extra booster seat at the restaurant. Becca sat in the booster seat in the back, obviously upset her mother was going to be late. He cleared his throat. What could he say?
“Umm, don’t worry. Your mom will get there in time.”
“Do you know what to do?”
No. “Yes, no problem. I’ve handled recitals before.” He waited for the lie to strike him dead, but nothing happened. “Piece of cake.”
“You have kids?” she asked in amazement.
He coughed. “No. I mean, I’ve gone to recitals when I used to live in New York.” He decided not to tell her those were at Lincoln Center with professional ballerinas in The Nutcracker.
“Oh. But you said you were too busy to come.”
He’d go to confession later. Right now, he needed to save face. “My appointment got canceled.”
“My hair has to be in a tight bun. My teacher said it’s important to look the part because then you feel the character and can tap into your ability to dance the character.”
Huh. She was smart. Big words. Still, his palms sweated at the idea of doing her hair. He’d never get through this. “I’m good at hair. No problem.”
“Did you ever take ballet when you were little?” she asked. “Mama said boys and girls can do anything. Boys dance ballet, and girls build houses.”
“Yep, they do, but I was never a good dancer. I was better at basketball.”
He pulled up to Sydney’s house. He’d gotten the code to the alarm, so he quickly escorted Becca in, punched in the correct numbers, and shut the door behind him. Okay, he’d just need to focus. He was sure she already knew what to do.
He turned around, and she stood in front of him, staring.
He stared back. “Umm, so I guess you should get dressed.”
She nodded like she understood. “I have my leotard and my tights upstairs.”
He almost sank to his knees in gratitude. This whole thing would be easy. He knew mothers complained all the time about taking care of kids, but honestly? They only needed structure and discipline. Raising kids wasn’t brain surgery. Tristan began to relax. “Great. You get dressed, I’ll do your hair, and then we’ll drive to the recital. Sound good?”
“Yes!” She bounded upstairs, and he let out a breath. Flexed his fingers. He grabbed his cell and quickly texted Sydney that everything was okay, adding a smiley face. No need for her to worry. He had it under control.
“Tristan!”
He jumped. “Yeah?”
Her voice seemed tearful. “I got a run in my tights! I need help!”
“Oh, okay. Coming,” he called out. He eyed the staircase with pure trepidation but decided he had no choice. When he hit the top of the stairs, she showed him a small hole in her upper thigh. He frowned. “Won’t the lacy thing cover it?”
She shook her head. “No, the hole will end up running, and I’ll be onstage and look awful.”