Hell on Heels(19)

I nodded.

The sponsorship from the campaign of mayoral candidate Beau Callaway had included a contract to sponsor the 2017 Gala, and a subsequent follow up donation of an impressive sum was made.

Needless to say, my team was eagerly willing to put that money to good use.

“Have we done anything on the Weizmann fundraiser today?” I asked, and immediately their eyes moved to anywhere but mine. “The Weizmann fundraiser is in four weeks!”

“But—” Tina pouted.

“No buts.” I shook my head and laughed. “Leave this all with me. Kevin and I will run costing and see what we come up with, but I’m serious. Get to work on the Weizmann contract.”

There was a collective growl of frustration before they filed out one after another, a few curse words in slew.

Obsessively passionate, each and every one of them, it’s why I hired them.

Picking up my cellphone from my desk, I pulled open the text messages thread and typed an iMessage out to Beau.

Me: You have made my team a bunch of botanical event hungry monsters.

Delivered.

I moved the concept boards and flower arrangement until I was once again able to see the surface of my desk, just as my office phone rang twice, signaling an interoffice call.

Hitting the button to answer, I leaned back in my chair as Kevin’s voice came through the speaker. “There’s a Dave Johnston on line three for you.”

“Thank you.”

I closed the line and picked up three. “Hi, Dave.”

The elderly voice of my apartment building manager came through the receiver. “Hi, Charleston. Sorry to bother you at work.”

Dave was a nice man, and his wife Susan baked the tenants, including myself, cookies during the holidays every year I’d lived there. They were good people.

“It’s no problem at all, Dave. What can I do for you?”

“Well”—he hesitated and my stomach dropped—“one of the owners on four had a pipe burst. We had the water pressure turned off, but with everyone being at work and all on a Tuesday, it took awhile for someone to find it. We don’t know how many units were effected, but the water damage on four is bad.”

Shit.

“Okay.” I waited for him to continue.

“We need to get into all units on the third floor, so workers can assess the damage. The crew onsite seems to think some of the water has leaked into the units on your floor, as well as possibly even the second.”

“Am I the unit directly under the burst pipe?” I asked, just as Kevin appeared in my doorway.

He mouthed, “Your 11:00 is here,” and I held up a finger, indicating I needed a minute.

I waited until I made sure he nodded before listening again.

“No,” Dave said. “You’re the unit directly across, but with the configuration of the old structure, they think the water has carried. I need your permission to enter your unit, so the workers can assess the damage.”

This was definitely not something I planned on dealing with today.

“Listen, I’m swamped here. Do you need me to be there while you assess?”

“I can let the workers in with the master key, but the foreman onsite will likely need to speak with you at some point today so they can show you what they’ve found.” Dave was sympathetic. He knew I worked late most days.

Looking at the open calendar on my desktop, I scanned through the day’s appointments, mentally doing an inventory of what could be cancelled or moved to tomorrow. “I’m swamped, but I can be out of here by four. Will that work?”

“I’ll let him know. I’m real sorry about this, Charleston,” Dave apologized.

Scribbling a note down on a sticky, I positioned it at the edge of my screen.

LEAVE BY FOUR.

“Things happen, Dave.” And they did. It wasn’t his fault the building was old. “Thank you for letting them in, and give my love to Susan.”

“Will do,” he said before hanging up.

Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and pinched the bridge of my nose. I prayed my unit hadn’t been damaged that much.

My cellphone buzzed on the desk and I got the pick-me-up I needed.

Beau: I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Looking forward to seeing you next week. Campaign food sucks.

“Everything good?” Kevin asked, resting a hip against my doorjamb.

I looked back down at the text message from Beau, still engaged in the mini high.

“Pipe burst in my building.”

He whistled low. “Yikes.”

The screen on my phone went black. “Can you reschedule my afternoon appointments to make sure I’m out of here by four?”

“Sure thing, boss. Want me to bring her back?”

“Please.”

Kevin left and returned a minute later with Caroline Clarke, the newest Housewife of Vancouver, and also my eleven o’clock.




I was early.

Somehow the heavens had aligned and I was climbing the stairwell of my apartment building at three fifteen in the afternoon on a weekday.

This was almost as much of an accomplishment as the contract I’d just signed to host Caroline Clarke’s private party for the viewing of her first episode on The Real Housewives of Vancouver. Truthfully, I’d never seen the show, nor did I care to, but I did care that her budget was big and she was giving Smith & Co Productions carte blanche over the entire event.