Page 12 of Match Made in Heaven (The Cricket Club #5)
“A month? An entire month?” Sinclair kept repeating like one of those colorful talking birds from the West Indies.
The businessman actually looked like one too, with the sides of his light brown hair standing on end, no doubt from all the pulling he’d done to it ever since Jack entered the office that afternoon.
Jack sat across from his business manager, resting his long legs on the desk between them, his ankles crossed in a devil-may-care fashion that belied his own gnawing vexation.
Whistles, shouts, and a wide variety of colorful curses wafted in the open window.
Located on the second floor of a newly built warehouse just off the docks, Sutton Shipping Company may have been a growing enterprise, but one would be hard-pressed to tell from the spartan office space.
Sinclar obviously wasn’t one for decorating.
The walls were empty, the floorboards bare.
Neither chair held a whiff of padding or comfort.
The only accoutrements were the piles of papers and folders littering the giant, cheap desk.
And, to Jack, there was nothing inviting about them.
The men had known each other for years, starting off as able-bodied seamen together on Louis Cannahan’s crew, running cotton and sugar on the Barbados-to-Liverpool route.
Like Jack, Jeremiah had had dreams of making a name for himself at sea—until he ultimately realized his stomach wasn’t made for the water.
Luckily for them both, his brain for numbers more than made up for that, as well as his appreciation for floors that didn’t sway when he scribbled in his ledgers.
“I said a month at most ,” Jack replied evenly, hoping his calm veneer would help settle his anxious partner. “I’m sure I can wheedle it down by a few weeks. No doubt my brother will be begging me to stop hovering once he’s… well, once he’s better.”
Jack had been about to say once he stops being sick every other hour and can keep his eyes open for longer than five minutes at a time .
He’d headed straight to the office after his conversation with his mother, but not before stopping in to check on Oliver.
His brother had been in the middle of another of his violent episodes, retching uncontrollably into a bucket beside his bed while the doctors circled him with disconcerting expressions.
They’d attempted to reassure Jack, explaining that this terrible effect was normal for head injuries and all everyone could do was wait for it to pass.
Jack put very little stock in those doctors, but he sure as hell hoped they were right this time.
“My brother is strong,” he added, almost to himself.
Sinclair slipped off his glasses, plopping them on a stack of papers.
He rubbed at his eyes until Jack winced.
“What will we do about the Siren ? She’ll be full and ready to go by then.
” Sinclair replaced his glasses and answered his own question.
“I suppose Darby can run it. He’s the only one with the experience that I trust.”
Everything in Jack’s body screamed at him to revolt at Sinclair’s suggestion. The Siren was his ship—his very first one—and nobody captained it except him.
That had been the hardest thing about owning Sutton Shipping. Thinking like a captain had always come naturally to Jack. Leading men was second nature. But his current situation was forcing him to act like a businessman. Which was tedious, to say the least.
And Sinclair was right. Every day the Siren sat moored was a missed opportunity. It needed to get out into the water. Where it belonged. Where Jack belonged.
“Fine, tell Darby,” he said, moderating his tone. “He’ll do well. Just make sure he knows that it’s just this once.”
“Of course,” Sinclair conceded as he began scratching his pencil on the paper in front of him. Needless to say, the strength of those two basic words did little to curb Jack’s uneasy feeling. The feeling that, yet again, everything was changing, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
“You know,” the manager said, peeking up from under his glasses while his hand kept moving, “this might be a blessing in disguise. The contract for Caddell Tinplate Works is up for bid. We’ve been waiting for this for a long time. With you home… especially with your connections…” He shrugged.
Jack yanked his legs off the desk. He leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees. “Contracts are your job.”
Sinclair lifted his hands before letting them fall back to the desktop with an audible plunk .
“Can you not see I’m drowning here? I’ve got paperwork coming out of my ears.
I barely have enough time to sleep as it is, and you want me to spend my nights hobnobbing for contracts.
If we want to stay competitive, we’re going to have to fight. ”
Fight. At balls. At musicals. At bloody lazy clubs.
“But you like hobnobbing,” Jack replied, at a complete loss.
Sinclair scoffed, his huge eyes narrowing.
“No, I don’t. I just don’t hate it as much as you do.
Besides, I’ve heard Caddell is a bit of a snob.
Looking to elevate his choice of friends.
Who do you think he’d rather talk to”—he shoved his thumb into his chest—“the son of a lowly grocer, or the hoity-toity son of a duke?”
Jack glowered. He fisted his hands, afraid that if he stretched them out, fire might start sparking from his fingertips. “I hate that kind of shite.”
Sinclair’s smile only added to Jack’s annoyance. “That’s the price you pay for being cheap. You refuse to allow me to hire an assistant. I need a clerk. Hell, I need two. So this is your penance.”
Fuck! Jack shook his head. “I’d rather be in the middle of a squall or dodging icebergs.”
Sinclair tsked , showing not one shred of sympathy. “Well, Captain Sutton can do that when he’s on the water. On land, he’s needed for more dangerous assignments. Like mingling.”