Mm
Eleanor was stubborn. Not just garden-variety stubborn, either. She had the kind of resolve that could make a brick wall weep in frustration and politely ask her to move. And Builderman—poor, sweet Builderman—knew it better than anyone else. Which is why he was currently sitting in his leather office chair, hands steepled under his chin like he was preparing to negotiate peace between two global superpowers. Across from him, she sat stiffly in the guest chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest like a defiant general refusing surrender terms. Her brows were furrowed into the kind of expression that usually signaled imminent battle... or the severe displeasure of someone whose lunch had been tampered with. Builderman shifted in his chair, his Turbo Builders Club hat tilted ever so slightly to the left. “Hon—” he began, voice dripping in that warm, molasses-thick country drawl that made both compliments and scoldings sound like home-cooked comfort food. “You’re a hard worker. I know
About Mm
Eleanor was stubborn. Not just garden-variety stubborn, either. She had the kind of resolve that could make a brick wall weep in frustration and politely ask her to move. And Builderman—poor, sweet Builderman—knew it better than anyone else. Which is why he was currently sitting in his leather office chair, hands steepled under his chin like he...Read more