Building a Perfect Match. Arlene James

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      Chapter Three

      “It’s not about his skills, Mr. Bowen,” Petra said for perhaps the third time. “It’s just a difference in management styles.”

       That excuse for removing Dale from the construction manager’s position didn’t sound any better now than the first time she’d used it, but she had little else to offer the man sitting across the battered desk from her. Walton Bowen was the rarest of persons, a truly nice individual. Nevertheless, he showed some irritation now, bracing his heavy hands on the arms of a chair that had seen better days.

       “I’ve never met anyone who couldn’t get along with my son,” he insisted.

       “It’s not a matter of getting along, sir,” she assured him. “As I said, it’s just a—”

       “Difference in management styles,” said a wry, familiar voice from the doorway of the cluttered, dusty office.

       She hadn’t expected Dale to attend this meeting, but she wasn’t surprised that he had. He was the construction manager on the project, after all. For the moment. She braced herself, tugging on the hem of her navy blue skirt, which she wore with a matching jacket and sensible flats. Dale’s boots clumped across the wood floor, as the hydraulic arm on the heavy office door wheezed closed.

       “If Anderton thinks he can work around the BCHS by getting me out of the way, he’s wrong,” Dale said to Petra, parking one hip on the corner of his father’s desk and crossing his long legs at the ankles.

       She couldn’t deny either Dale’s implication or his conclusion, but neither could she refuse a direct order. “He, we, feel that the work will go more smoothly with someone else as construction manager.”

       Dale folded his arms, looking down on her from his perch. “And I’m telling you that no one in this company knows the BCHS better or works closer with them than I do. No one in this town, for that matter.”

       “I’m sure you’re right,” she admitted. “Nevertheless…”

       She didn’t have to say more. Anger flashed across Dale’s handsome face. Behind him, his father’s chair creaked.

       “I have a policy when it comes to disagreements, Ms. Chatam,” he informed her. “Whenever we come to loggerheads in this office, we seek guidance in prayer.”

       Shocked, Petra tugged at her skirt again. She believed in prayer, of course, and frequently resorted to it. In private. But this was business. Still, she’d prayed about this very matter before she’d entered the large, metal building that housed Bowen & Bowen’s offices and equipment.

       Walt Bowen clasped his hands together atop the blotter on his desk and bowed his head, apparently waiting. After a moment, Dale shifted onto his feet. Turning, he joined Petra on the lumpy sofa. She bowed her head almost in self-defense, painfully aware of Dale as he leaned forward, braced his elbows upon his knees and knit his fingers together.

       “Heavenly Father,” Walt began, “it’s not Your intention for Your children to be at odds, and as we sincerely seek Your will in all things, we come to You now for enlightenment and direction.”

       As he continued to speak, Petra felt her tension drain away and a hopeful optimism begin to grow. Surely, this would all work out somehow. She tried to think what she might do to soften Garth’s dislike of the man next to her, but God appeared to be way ahead of her.

       No sooner were the “Amens” spoken than Dale Bowen sighed, swept his finger down his nose and said, “All right. You want me out of the way, I’ll step aside. What we have to discuss now is who replaces me.”

       Petra slumped with relief and reached out to lay a hand on his strong arm before she could think better of the gesture. The man radiated heat like a log fire. She snatched her hand back. “Thank you.”

       He shrugged. “I still think it’s a mistake.”

       “You may be right,” she conceded. That changed nothing, however, and he obviously knew it.

       “As far as your replacement,” Walt said, spreading his big hands across the ink blotter, “that’ll have to be me.”

       “No way,” Dale objected, sitting back to cross one leg over the other. “You have enough on your plate. Jackie Hernandez can handle things.”

       “You sound like your mother,” Walt grumbled.

       “In other words, she’d agree with me,” Dale retorted before glancing at Petra. “I’ll explain things to Jackie myself.”

       “Isn’t Mr. Hernandez the supervisor on-site?” Petra asked, wondering about that exchange between father and son.

       “He is,” Dale confirmed. “He’s young, but don’t be fooled by that. Jack knows what he’s doing.”

       “My only concern is that he can handle the job,” Petra replied earnestly.

       “No worries there,” Dale stated.

       “Jack’s a good man,” Walt concurred.

       “Then we’re agreed,” Petra said, getting to her feet. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

       Both men rose. Walton Bowen reached across his desk to shake her hand, while Dale moved to hold open the door. Petra shot him a look of gratitude as she swiftly exited the room. She wasn’t surprised when he followed her, but she couldn’t help being a bit uncomfortable, even as he fell in beside her, strolling along as she walked through the cavernous building. Finally, she felt compelled to speak.

       “I—I meant what I said before. It isn’t personal.” He snorted, so she added, “Not on my part.” A slow smile spread across his face. Fascinated by the way the tip of his chin flattened and the green of his eyes intensified, she couldn’t make herself look away.

       “Good to know,” he said softly.

       She stumbled, suddenly feeling as if the ground shifted under her feet. His hand shot out, fastening around her upper arm.

       “Careful,” he said, drawing her to a halt.

       The heat from his hand radiated up her arm and throughout her chest, stealing her breath. He released her the next instant, and she searched for something intelligent and safe to say. The only thing she could come up with was, “I like your dad.”

       He grinned. “Yeah. The worst anyone can say about my father is that he works too much.”

       She relaxed somewhat, saying lightly, “Wish I could adopt his prayer policy the next time Garth goes on a tear.”

       She smiled to herself, imagining the look on Garth’s face if she suggested that they stop and pray together in the midst of one of his rants. But then the smile died as she realized that she had never before wondered about the state of Garth Anderton’s soul. She would be very surprised if Walt Bowen was not intimately СКАЧАТЬ