“You need a plan to build a house. To build a life, it is even more important to have a plan or goal.”—Zig Ziglar
Brady Heart crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at the woman seated in his office. Already, prickles of heat sizzled on his skin like a heat rash. Good thing he knew it wasn’t an allergy. He’d dealt with this before and knew the official term for his outbreak.
Irritation.
This seemed to be the normal reaction when he was in the vicinity of one single female.
Charlotte Grayson.
His penetrating look usually did the trick in quelling any type of opposition. He knew the art of silence and used it accordingly. Most women her age would be squirming in their seat and trying desperately to come up with clever quips to soothe his temper.
Not her. Even worse, she didn’t even look like she was trying to challenge him back. She just looked…bored. Which pissed him off to no end.
Because when he was around her, he was everything but bored.
He clamped down the urge to scratch his skin, which was suddenly stretched too tight over his body. Especially in certain areas of his anatomy that seemed to gleefully rise to the occasion whenever Ms. Grayson was around.
“I told you before when I drafted the plans, I’m not going to change them again. Maybe you need to learn how to make up your mind so your renovations don’t become a mismatched puzzle. I prefer organization and planning when I work closely with someone.” His tone was mild, with a touch of disapproval—the perfect balance when dealing with stubborn coworkers who carried around a cloud of chaos like Pig Pen carried a cloud of dust.
Except she didn’t look impressed. Dressed in another ridiculous outfit that made her look like a high schooler, she faced him with a mulish expression. For God’s sake, hadn’t anyone taught her to dress professionally? Her leggings were a wild mix of painted pinks, yellows, and blues, shades that startled an onlooker with all those bright colors hitting at once. Her T-shirt was basic, except for the way it pulled tight across her impressive chest and scrolled ANGEL in pink script. It was the type of outfit that emphasized the ripe curves held in a petite frame. Her sneakers were a metallic shade of silver that looked like a disco ball when she walked.
It wasn’t just her clothes, either. Her hair was pin straight, with shaggy bangs. The strands weren’t just blonde but a combination of cedar, honeycomb, and timber, all shaded together. Her hazel eyes were big—too big for her heart-shaped face—and framed by thick lashes. Her nose was pert, and her lips were perfectly formed. She rarely wore makeup, but liked to apply a glossy balm so her mouth resembled a juicy, shiny apple. Not Red Delicious. More like McIntosh, that held a nice pink color.
WTF?
Why the hell was he thinking of fruit and her mouth? She drove him nuts and was everything he wasn’t attracted to in a woman. Including her sassy attitude. Like now.
“I think it’s a shame you haven’t been taught to be flexible,” she retorted. Her purple nails flashed in the air. “Sometimes, creativity is more important than coloring within the lines. The house warrants our very best. I apologize if you need to redraft the plans again, but isn’t that your job?”
Oh, she liked to push him. He got along with everyone else at Pierce Brothers, but as soon as they hired Charlie, he knew she’d be a challenge. What surprised him the most was her confidence. She seemed to have the ability to make him feel judged, even after years of experience in being an architect. The worst part?
He sensed she found him lacking.
“And I thought your job was to settle on a plan for renovation after carefully sifting through each option. Not to play with experimentation on my time.” He kept his voice cool and impersonal, though temper heated his blood. How many times had he imagined shutting her up with his mouth over hers? He chalked it up to being sexually frustrated along with primitive emotions enclosed in a tiny workspace. Emotions that included anger and irritation logically extended to sexual attraction. He’d learned early on that being impulsive only led to disaster. He might be physically attracted to her for some strange reason, but they’d be a complete wreck after a few hours together. There was one thing he avoided at all costs in his personal relationships.
Mess.
“I did. But you kept pushing me to your timetable and now I need to redesign it.” She raised one brow in pure challenge. “Would you rather our work be good? Or great?”
“My work is great,” he fired back. “But you need to stop acting like Picasso with these renovations so we don’t get backed up. Did you secure permission from Tristan to change the plans again?”
“Yes. He agreed.” She paused. Her voice came out grudgingly. “But he said the final decision was yours.”
A smug grin curved his lips. Oh, she hated having to ask him for things. He knew she considered him an uptight control freak. Maybe he was. But she needed to hone her creative outbursts and passion for ripping up houses on impulse without a solid architectural plan first.
“Hmm, funny, I didn’t hear you ask me anything. Seemed more like a demand to me.”
He gave her credit. She still didn’t crack, but her eyes gleamed with a spark of temper that intrigued him. Why was it so much fun to rile her up? Because she seemed to dismiss him so easily in the office? Was it his ego or something more?
“I’m asking you to redo the plans because it’s the right thing to do.” Her tone was patient, as if trying to explain to a toddler. “It took me longer than I expected to get the right vision. I apologize if my request is causing a problem in your extremely busy schedule.”
Only this woman could make an apology sound like a backhanded insult. He leaned back in the chair and studied her for a few moments in silence. As usual, she was comfortable enough in her skin to sit still and wait him out. He clicked on his keyboard and brought up his calendar to check the rest of his afternoon.
“Fine. I’ll come out and see the property with you.”
Her hazel eyes widened slightly. “Oh, no need. I have the photos in the office.”
She seemed a bit too hasty to keep her distance. Another wave of irritation hit. She didn’t act like this with the other men. Hell, he’d seen her laughing and joking with Dalton, Tristan, and Cal. It was only when he was around that she stiffened up and tried to avoid him. “I work more effectively when I can walk the site,” he said. “We can head out now. I’ll drive.” Without another word, he stood up and straightened his tie. “Unless you don’t have time in your busy schedule?”
She tightened her lips and rose. The word ANGEL sparkled with tiny pink sequins, emphasizing the lush curves of her breasts. The ultimate contradiction. Did she expect to retain the crew’s respect when she worked at a site dressed in such an outfit? Not that he’d seen her in action. Only flitting in and out of the office, driving him mad with changing her design and treating him like an afterthought rather than the man who made it all happen for her. If she believed life was about impulse, fun, and following her muse, she should never have gotten into the design business. Without structure and a solid foundation—the actual plans that building and renovation revolved around—there was chaos.
Brady despised chaos.
Her tone was sugary sweet when she spoke. “I’m always up for a fun road trip. Lead the way.”
He did.
* * * *
Charlie tried not to fidget in the expensive leather seat of his Mercedes-Benz. How much had this car cost him? It looked like a pilot’s cockpit, with buttons, gadgets, and a big, shiny computer screen. He probably could’ve gotten a better deal with an American carmaker. On a holiday weekend. With a leftover model instead of the must-have newest one. Such a waste of money.
She bet he didn’t care. The architect didn’t seem to mind paying for luxuries if it made his life easier and more manageable. She’d pegged him the first moment they met, when his nose wrinkled and his gaze swept over her clothes, finding her lacking. The man wore a classic suit, like he was running for Congress rather than dealing with architectural plans. Always polished, groomed, with manicured fingers and a smoky, gravelly voice. It was funny because Tristan Pierce dressed like Bond himself, but never seemed to judge her wardrobe, occasional bawdy jokes, or tendency to work in disorganized chaos. He’d welcomed her to Pierce Brothers with an open mind, and when he saw her work on the first few jobs, he quickly doubled her workload. He also didn’t hover or second-guess her instincts. He allowed her to lead on some jobs and told her he was impressed. He didn’t care how she did her job as long as she was successful.
Not Brady.
He liked surface image. Polished women, with graceful manners. Word spread quickly around the office he only dated women who were soft spoken, well mannered, and let him lead in every way. The thought made Charlie shiver with loathing. She couldn’t imagine giving her freedom over to a man just for his ego. Guess the man had no self-confidence. That would be the only reason he’d want to date a doormat or robotic Stepford Barbie.
Not that she cared.
She’d dealt with all types in the renovation business and usually could handle herself well. Too bad his lousy personality was hidden behind his looks. There was one thing she was forced to admit.
The man was hot.
Super hot. Sexy hot. Though his name was pure English, he looked all Latino, with gorgeous brown skin, sooty dark eyes, and inky, glossy, thick hair holding subtle shades of blue. One rebellious wave always fell loose over his forehead, giving just a touch of the disheveled look. His nose was a sharp blade that dominated his face. His lips were full and defined, with a slight curl to the bottom like he held a perpetual smirk. His body was hard and tight, and though he was average height, he used every one of those muscles to emanate a lean power that popped from his aura.
When he shook her hand for the first time, her skin had literally prickled with awareness. He was…intense. Thank God he wasn’t her type, and she had little use for a chauvinistic male with an inflated ego.
No, thanks.
She remembered the exact moment she realized he wouldn’t be the warm and fuzzy type. His judgy gaze traveled over her figure with dismissal; his mouth firmed into a thin line of disapproval, and he’d actually questioned Tristan if they really needed another employee to handle renovations.
It had taken all of her discipline not to give him the tongue lashing he deserved. He was a jerk and just plain rude. Sure, her clothes weren’t conservative or polished. Yes, she looked super young and inexperienced. She might not talk like a Harvard graduate, but he didn’t know her and yet he leapt to conclusions. Another trait she despised. She’d stood there, feeling a bit awkward, and Tristan had laughed and smoothly launched into a positive spiel about how much she’d help them out and how talented she was. Instead of apologizing or softening, Brady had just nodded, given her a clipped “Welcome to the team”, and marched away like she wasn’t worth another word.
After that, Charlie had declared a silent war on the architect. She went out of her way to make his life miserable. Oh, she wasn’t proud of stooping to the level of petty vengeance, but she craved getting some kind of reaction from him. Since he’d rarely shown anger, interest, or respect, she figured she’d stick to the one she seemed to master.
Irritation.
The Mercedes purred low and sleek, like a graceful cougar. She tried to hold her tongue, but as usual, lost the battle. “How much did this car cost?”
He shot her a look, arching his brow. “A lot. Don’t you think your question is a bit impolite?”
She gave a snort. Even his words were all proper. “Why is everyone so uptight about talking money?”
“It’s a sensitive subject. Like politics. And sex.”
Was that a deliberate pause or her imagination? The word fell from his lips like a crudely uttered curse. He seemed a bit shocked he’d uttered such a statement. Seems Brady didn’t like to say the word aloud. Amusement flickered. She bet he’d be way too polite in the bedroom. Probably asked nicely for everything from start to finish, like a business dinner instead of a dirty roll in the hay. She liked a man who took what he wanted in private and seduced her into saying yes to everything. Politically incorrect, but she couldn’t help what turned her on. She reached for her water bottle to take a sip and concentrated on the conversation. “If people were more honest, less miscommunication would occur.”
“My car cost me $70,000.”
The liquid slid down the wrong pipe and she fell into a coughing fit. He handed her a napkin, that faint disapproval flickering in his sooty eyes. He was probably terrified she’d drool on the leather. “Are you nuts?” she asked. Her voice sounded a tad shrill as she dabbed at the tears. “My truck cost ten thousand and it runs like a workhorse.” It was a washed-out red with a kick-ass engine, and she loved it with a passion.
His nose wrinkled. “I’ve seen your truck. It’s loud and obnoxious. Also ugly.”
“But I got it for a steal,” she retorted. “I could buy two houses with what you spent to drive around in luxury. Does sitting on a cushy car seat mean that much to you?”
“Actually, it does, especially when they’re heated with an option for massage. And that is exactly why people don’t talk about money.”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. “Sorry. Guess I’m a bit frugal.”
“Some would say cheap.” He flicked her a glance laced with suspicion. “Are you the one who spearheaded the movement to stop the pastries at morning meetings?”
She puffed up with pride. “Yes, I told Sydney by switching to bagels instead of those tiny overpriced sweets, you’d save money.”
He groaned. “I loved those damn pastries. I looked forward to them.”
She shrugged. “I just increased your bottom line.”
“Fine. I’ll pay for them out of my own pocket. Satisfied?”
She smothered a laugh. Questions whirled in her brain regarding how he fit in with the Pierce brothers. He was the only one who wasn’t technically family. How did he get to be a partner? She’d watched him among the brothers, and he was treated like one of them—not an outsider. Pushing the impulse to blurt out a bunch of questions he’d refuse to answer anyway, she stuck to neutral topics. “Have you always wanted to be an architect?”
“Yes.”
That was it? Someone needed to give him a class on how to carry on a conversation. “Cool beans.” Forget it. She sure as hell wasn’t going to search for safe topics to have a boring one-way conversation. She turned to the window and began to play her favorite game. Pick a house, imagine who lived there, and renovate to an imaginary world that perfectly fit her imaginary family. She’d spent hours driving around neighborhoods with her mother, peeking into windows at night, spinning tales of the families who lived behind the walls. If she had been a decent writer, maybe she could’ve been an author, but writing a business letter was enough for her. She liked anything that involved hands-on work that built something.
He made a grunt beside her. His next question was a bit reluctant, but she gave him credit for trying. “How did you get into home renovation?”
“I hate waste.”
He lifted a brow. “Care to expound?”
“Like you?”
He stiffened, seeming a bit awkward, and she took pity on him. “I like the idea of using what’s there already to make it better. People are obsessed with new. New clothes, cars, jewelry, houses. I look at the constant upgrades this world is obsessed with and it makes me sad. They’re missing the potential of transforming ordinary into the extraordinary by making a few changes in what they have already. We’ve become a throw-away society and it pisses me off. So, yeah, to answer your question, when my friend told me she wanted the new Barbie dream house ’cause hers was old, I took it apart, renovated it, and she loved it all over again. Made me feel good. Here’s the turnoff.”
The car took the turn with competent ease. He shot her a strange look, as if she’d managed to surprise him, but he didn’t respond and she shrugged the whole thing off. The rich scent of his cologne, a delicious mix of clove and musk, drifted to her nostrils. Probably cost a fortune. She’d always been an Old Spice type of girl.
He pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. The latest project for Pierce Brothers was aTudor build that looked graceful from the front, but when they got inside, it was as if a puzzle had been mismatched and held together by old glue. The rooms had no flow and were individually contained in tight spaces rather than the open floor plan most customers coveted. She headed into the living room and pointed to the staircase that had been stuck in the back corner of a room solely meant for comfort and entertaining.
“Either the builder or the architect should have been jailed for this atrocity,” Brady stated, his gaze registering the fireplace squooshed next to the stairs and a built-in cabinet in dull oak that had no function other than to visually assault. She laughed, already itching to transform the room into a cozy haven meant for a future family she’d never meet.
“Since we can’t take them to court, let’s fix it,” she said.
“I already did. I gave you perfect plans already. Why do you want to change them?”
One thing she’d never fault him for was his work. His designs and outlook of a building were an art. She knew from working with other architects who were only able to see the technical aspects rather than the creative design that it limited options. Brady wasn’t afraid to stretch out of his comfort zone. But he was still stubborn as hell about changing what was initially drafted. “There was nothing wrong with them. I’ve just come up with a better plan. If you can make it work.”
“I can make anything work.” His clean-shaven jaw clenched with the verbal challenge. “You have to convince me if it’s worth it.”
She rocked back on her silver sneakers and pointed to the ridiculous staircase. “Our first plan kept the staircase, removed the built-in, and destroyed the fireplace. Yes, it works functionally and visually, but I’d rather block off the staircase here, and extend it to the back of the room by the front door.” She walked backward, her arm extended as she made sweeps in the open air. “We keep the built-in and have Dalton finish it in a rich mahogany. We keep the fireplace, restore the natural brick, and gain all this excess space that can be used as a full living room.”
He tapped his finger against those carved lips, his dark brows drawn in concentration. He took a while to study the layout, examining the staircase with an intensity that intrigued her. Could he possibly have a sliver of passion buried beneath all those stringent rules and barriers?
“It’s doable. But extra work with no solid purpose. It can work just as well if we keep the staircase as is.”
“There’s purpose. I’ll have this open area where the stairs were to break through this wall and combine the dining room so we have one giant space. Come with me.” She led him back to the front door and regarded the layout. “It makes no sense to have a back entrance to the upstairs and leave all this extra space open with no function. It also changes the appearance when you first walk through the door. There’s no structure.”
“Why now instead of when we met for the original design?” he challenged. “Sometimes if you make a mistake, you need to commit.”
“Why?”
He stared at her. “What do you mean? To learn a lesson. To build discipline. To respect your coworkers. You can’t go through life with a long line of unfinished products or half-assed work just because you can.”
Oh, he was so uptight she wondered if he’d ever gone commando or skinny dipped or eaten ice cream in bed just for fun. “Actually, you can,” she shot back. “Life isn’t about putting your head down like a good little soldier and following the rules. It’s about changing your mind, and making a mess, and surrendering to the moment when creativity strikes. I didn’t see it before. Now, I do. The real question is do you walk away knowing it could have been better but you just didn’t want to admit you were wrong the first time? Haven’t you ever been wrong, Brady?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Of course. Everyone makes mistakes.”
She tilted her head and studied him. “I know. But does everyone forgive themselves for making mistakes? I do. I want to fix it. Do you?”
His gaze met hers, and an odd heat simmered between them. “How old are you?” he demanded.
She stuck her chin in the air. “Twenty-five.”
His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “I’m thirty-five. I’ve built my reputation on quality work and consistence. You want me to fix the house to suit your new vision? Fine. I can do that. But don’t think making excuses to rationalize an error makes you some free-spirited, impulsive artist who knows more about life than I do.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He spun on his polished heel and walked to the door. “By the way, I forgive you.”
“Forgive me?” she managed to squeak out. Her vision blurred to a pale red. She’d always wondered if that cliché was true. “For what?”
“Making a mistake. I have to get back to the office. I’ll have your new plans drawn up by end of day.”
He disappeared through the door before she could launch herself after him and… Well, she wasn’t sure what, but shaking that arrogant, cool exterior off his gorgeous face would be her first priority.
After a few moments of simmering, she stomped out, got in the car, and refused to talk to him for the rest of the drive back.
He was such an asshole.
* * * *
He was such an asshole.
Brady snuck a glance at her profile. Weak rays of sun streamed over her face, highlighting the smooth, soft skin of her cheek. An aura of steam hung over her head like a storm cloud brewing. Her gaze was trained out the window, arms clasped tight around her body, stretching the soft cotton over the lush curve of her breasts. Immediately his dick stirred to life. If he stopped the car, yanked her into his arms, and kissed her, would he finally figure out what made him so attracted to her?
He’d been hot for women before. He rarely leapt when a well-laid plan for seduction always worked better. He actually liked the foreplay and tension that flickered to a brilliant, white-hot flame. Enjoyed the play of banter and dialogue, of knowing what was to unfold between them, of the endless possibilities.
Unfortunately, he’d been wrong too many times before and he’d turned a tad cynical. Sure, he’d had some long-term relationships he’d hoped would become permanent, and many women had actually shared his same goals. Settle down to raise a family. Let him be the breadwinner and shoulder the financial responsibilities. He’d watched his father take care of his family, and now his two sisters had settled into domestic bliss. He refused to apologize for knowing who he was and what he wanted out of life. Yet each time he thought of making a permanent commitment, his soul balked. There was a restlessness inside him that never seemed to calm, and damned if he’d marry without being all in.
He knew all of his requirements, his fantasies, his needs, and his wants. When the one burst into his life, his heart and gut would sense his partner and everything would click into place.
Right now, he only knew one thing.
His soul mate was not Charlotte Grayson.
But he wanted her.
He cut her another glance, brooding over his assholery back in the house. Why did she always ignite his temper? The way she passionately pleaded a case, painting herself as a figure who raced through life grabbing every opportunity and following every impulse, while she mocked him for the very thing that brought him success.
Order. Knowledge. Control.
Probably the ten-year difference. She was a baby. She’d probably lived a pampered life, secure in her parents’ house with her parents’ money. She’d graduated from a proper college and decided to have some fun with rehab. Oh, she was good at her job, but this wasn’t permanent for her. She had an itch to scratch, and he felt he needed to protect Pierce Brothers if she decided to go out on her own and steal any of their clients.
She couldn’t do anything now, but he suspected once she found the next yellow brick road to follow, she’d be off to discover a brand new Oz. The last thing he needed in his life was a flighty woman.
But he wanted her.
He shifted in his seat, cursing under his breath. So stupid. He just needed to get over it because he sure as hell wasn’t making a move. She’d probably spit in his face and sue him.
Charlotte Grayson would be shocked at some of the things he wanted to do to her. She called herself a free spirit, but he bet she’d be the type of lover to fight him on every move, questioning, pushing, until the entire episode became too complicated to be any fun.
No thanks.
He’d stick with the plan that had been working well between them. Keep his distance and limit his interaction with her. It gave him a better opportunity to be less of a dick. She didn’t deserve to be insulted.
He pulled up to Pierce Brothers and cut the engine. “Charlotte, I apologize. I—”
“Don’t call me that. I hate it.”
“Fine. Let me explain—”
“No need to explain. I get it.” She turned to him and those stunning hazel eyes regarded him with a spark of temper. “You haven’t liked me from day one. Let’s just agree to be polite at work and not pretend we’ll ever be more than what we are—coworkers forced to share the same space.”
A sting of shame hit him. “Listen, I—”
“I’ll make sure from now on I get the plans right the first time so we have no further issues. Thanks for the cushy ride.”
She jumped out of the car and didn’t look back as she entered the office. Brady smothered a groan, rubbing his temples. Dammit, he hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. She churned him up inside and he couldn’t figure out why.
Maybe it was better this way. He only worked with her on a limited basis, and it shouldn’t be hard to keep his distance. He’d deliver her plans when she asked and schedule walk-throughs with Tristan so they didn’t have to be alone again.
It was for the best.