Читать книгу A Regular Joe: A Regular Joe / Mr. Right Under Her Nose - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 15

SITTING IN THE DILAPIDATED recliner, Joe stared at the large mural of pines, a crystal-clear lake and towering mountains. A sense of peace stole over him—as long as he concentrated on the lifelike scenery. He still wasn’t sure why the painting hanging over Mattie’s bed had shaken him so badly. He hadn’t spent much time dwelling on what lay in his future, or regretting his past, just worked to build the company until it exploded into a multimillion-dollar business. But that painting represented a circle of family he’d never had as a kid and probably wouldn’t have as an adult. He’d programmed himself to be satisfied with the life he led—until he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“God, listen to you,” Joe muttered at himself. “There are people all over the planet who would like to be in your shoes.”

On impulse, Joe bounded up to retrieve his cell phone, then punched in his grandfather’s number. The phone rang three times before J. D. Grayson picked up.

“Hello?”

“Gramps, it’s me.”

“D.J., where the hell are you? I’ve tried to reach your cell phone, but all I get is voice mail,” J.D. said. “Your junior executives have been calling and leaving messages all week, wondering where to reach you so you can tell them what to do.”

“That’s why I skipped town,” Joe replied. “It was time to force the whole lot of them to earn their salaries and stop depending on me to make every decision.”

J.D. obviously noted the undertone of bitterness and frustration in Joe’s voice, because he chuckled. “Told you that you’d spoon-fed them too long. They definitely need weaning, but it’s not like you to just take off to parts unknown without leaving a forwarding address. So where the devil are you, D.J.?”

“First you have to promise you won’t disclose my whereabouts,” Joe requested.

“Me? Shoot, no. I won’t tell those candy-ass executives where you are if you don’t want me to.”

“I’m in Fox Hollow, working incognito as hired assistant at the local Hobby Hut.”

“What the blazes are you doing that for?” Gramps crowed.

How to explain without sounding like the irresponsible, self-serving father who had bailed out to follow his own rainbows. It was a touchy subject with Gramps. “Because I needed to get back in touch with the reason you and I started designing and constructing crafts and knickknacks in our garage workshop,” he said finally.

Dead silence.

“Gramps?” Joe prompted.

“Tell me you’re not turning into your father or your social butterfly of a mother,” J.D. said, then scowled.

Joe was afraid Gramps would get the wrong impression. Sure enough. “No, I’m not my father, Gramps. I just needed to take the off-ramp from the fast lane of life and wander the backroads to recapture the enthusiasm the business held for me when it was just the two of us pitching our woodcraft creations to other companies.”