He’d been Marcus’s mentor back when Marcus was a young foreman trying to prove he belonged on a job site.
And there wasn’t a building code in the city Jimmy couldn’t recite from memory.
Jimmy stepped out, took one look at the half-demolished pool, and whistled.
“Jesus, Marcus,” he said. “You really went medieval on this thing.”
Marcus handed him a cup of coffee, steam rising in the cool air.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Marcus admitted. “Elena finalized the custody schedule. I just… snapped.”
Jimmy nodded once. No judgment. Just understanding—the quiet kind that comes from surviving your own messy divorce and remembering what it does to a man.
“So,” Jimmy said, sipping coffee, eyes scanning the yard, “what’s the plan with the neighbor?”
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