Pulling into my designated parking space, I cut the engine and mutter a curse. This has been one long-ass day. And since my life is a series of long-ass days, I’m not sure why today of all days I’m feeling particularly disheartened with everything and everyone. I’ve got it good. I know that better than anyone. I’ve got a great job that pays well, a gorgeous new truck I purchased a few months ago, and I’m lucky enough to work with and for my brothers. Sure, there are days when having an older brother as your boss can be a major pain in the ass, especially since he insists on berating me about my choice of clothing. Glancing down at my tattered jeans and mud-encrusted boots, I suppose he does have a point. This company, our family business, is worth millions. Hell, it’s probably worth billions but since I’m not the money man, I have no fucking idea. At first glance I look nothing like a man with wealth and fortune at my fingertips. I look exactly like the construction worker I am.
Shoving the latest building revisions and notes into my tattered leathered bag, I step onto concrete and attempt to stomp gunk from my boots. Cruz will have enough of a shit when he sees how unkempt I am today (his words, not mine). I remind him, repeatedly and often, that I work out in the field. I don’t have the luxury of sitting in a corner office like he does, or even Marco for that matter, wearing two thousand dollar suits and shiny, expensive loafers. I actually know what it’s like to get my hands and my clothes dirty.
Darvel, the security officer who patrols the parking garage, offers me a two-finger salute as he moves past, eyeing my gorgeous black truck and giving it the once-over, grinning as he moves away. Yeah, my truck is bad ass, and I paid a damn fortune for all the bells, whistles, and whatnot to get it to look that way. It’s probably not the most practical mode of transportation, especially since it shows every single speck of dust, but I can afford to have it washed and waxed every week. I revel in the looks Darvel gives me; it’s a mixture of envy and simple male pride. And it feels good.
When the boots are as clean as they’re gonna get, I stroll to the elevator and push the up arrow. It’s close to seven at night, and the majority of the employees have left for the day. Sometimes I long for the days of coming in around nine, leaving at five, and taking months off at a time when the weather is just too lousy to work in. Being a construction grunt does have its perks, but I suppose being the boss does too. I come and go as I please, never punching a time clock but never really putting in anything less than a twelve-hour day either. I’m so used to it by now it is second nature, and I suppose it’s also something that comes naturally, simply because of who I am and where I come from. We’re all that way—my brothers and two younger sisters—purpose-driven and hard workers, just like my papa used to be before he retired and sold the company to Cruz. Mama’s never held an actual paying job, but she’s the hardest worker I’ve ever met, raising the five of us practically on her own while Papa lived and breathed the family business. Now that we’re all grown and out of the house, she still somehow manages to outdo us most of the time and on occasion has been known to even help at the office when needed.
The elevator door slides open slowly, and I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating for a breath. There she is, head dipped down as she types furiously on her phone, silky blond hair shielding her face from view. I know that face by heart, every soft line, every sweeping curve. She’s beautifully regal, understated, and I’d bank on the fact that she has no idea how she can knock a man off his feet with one look. She’s wearing a simple black skirt, a soft pink blouse, and low-heeled black shoes—similar to all the other outfits I’ve seen her wear to the office. And like always, she’s perfectly professional and completely unaware of me.
She starts to step out of the elevator, lifts her head, and gazes up at me with hesitant blue eyes as she gives me a wide berth. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Her gorgeous face is a mask of non-expression, eyes slightly narrowed in irritation. Now that my heart is beating again, I have to ponder if it’s me she dislikes or just men in general.
“No worries,” I reply, taking her place inside the elevator. “Have a nice evening, Ms. Morris.”
She doesn’t bother turning to face me, just moves with a purpose toward her car, calling, “Thanks. You too, Mr. Moran.”
“Fuck,” I snarl as the doors close, banging my head against the elevator wall. Yet another chance meeting that resulted in her ignoring me and me acting like a damn idiot. As usual. How ironic is it that I’m known for the way I can charm women and yet this particular woman doesn’t even acknowledge that I exist. I’m nothing but invisible to her.
This is not an ego thing. My ego is just fine, thank you very much. I have no shortage of women in my life but this … this nothingness that I get from her each and every time we speak is just baffling.
Face it, man, this is a lost cause. Always has been, always will be.
The elevator doors slide open on the thirtieth floor, and I make my way down the hall toward Mia’s desk. Mia is Cruz’s wife, but she’s also his assistant, which is how they met. Kinky, I know. She’s a great gal, sweet as the day is long and always ready and willing to greet me with a smile, which is exactly what she does when I step up to her desk.
“Hey, Roman. How was your day?”
“Good. Long. And yours?”
She shrugs. “Busy, like usual.” She tips her head toward the closed office door. “Go on in. He’s just wrapping things up for the night.”
Stepping into the enormous office, I see Cruz seated in his usual spot behind his desk, eyes narrowing as he peruses me up and down. “Christ, you’re a mess.”
“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” I pour three fingers of whatever amber booze he keeps on hand into a crystal tumbler then settle in the chair across from him and toss him my Romeo smile, just because I can.
“Help yourself,” he drawls.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Extracting the revisions from my bag, I toss them on his desk. “Lou wanted you to see these.” Lou is our head architect, a guy much smarter than myself who single-handedly runs an entire department with both hands tied. Not really, but the guy is a damn genius, and he has a way of making everything look effortless.
Cruz glances at the papers and sets them aside. “I’ll get to them in the morning. Anything else?”
“Two of the workers quit. I’ll need to get them replaced.” I share this information with him not because I have to but simply because I have nothing else to say, though it’s hard to hide the fact that I can almost predict what his response will be. I’m motivated merely by the hope that he’ll send me in the direction I’m dying to go.
Cruz nods. “Take it up with Sabrina. She’ll handle it.”
My heart stops beating again and this time I swear it takes a full two breaths for it to start. I resist patting myself on the back and casually reply, “Yeah, okay.” Tossing back the drink, I welcome the burn. I welcome anything that will tamp down my need for the blond, blue-eyed, and very illusive Ms. Sabrina Morris.
Mia strolls in, drops a stack of papers on Cruz’s desk, and perches her tight little ass on the chair next to me. Thank God Cruz can’t hear my thoughts or he’d have my head for even thinking about her ass. “You want to come out to the house and have dinner with us one night this week?”
I know she means well, but I don’t want to spend the evening watching the two of them bask in their love. Blech … it’s enough to make you gag. And it’s more than the reminder I need that I’ll probably never have a fraction of what they have. Who knows, maybe that’s for the best? Maybe I am meant to spend my life being Romeo.
“Nah, thanks anyway.”
Mia frowns and shoots a concerned look at her husband before leaning toward me and saying, “Hey, what’s going on with you? You never turn down a free meal.”
Well, that’s true, but I’m so out of sorts about my life in general food doesn’t even appeal to me. “Can I take a raincheck?”
She pats my arm. “Of course. If you change your mind, just let either one of us know. Okay?”
Damn, my brother is one lucky son of a bitch. “Yeah, I will.” Rising, I shove my weathered bag under my arm and move toward the door. “See ya.”
Instead of the elevator, I take the stairs up two flights, headed toward my office. Unlike the posh offices and glistening wood of the thirtieth floor, this floor is all about the nuts and bolts of the company … literally. The space is mostly wide open, sectioned off into areas with large cabinets and desks to give it a cubicle feel without the cubicles. There are a half dozen actual offices, some boasting views of downtown Miami, others directly facing the large main floor. Those are rarely occupied because the foremen are always out on the job site.
My office is the last on the left, the largest by far. Unlike Cruz’s with all his expensive furnishings and plush area rugs, I’ve got a metal desk and a tattered high-back chair that’s seen better days. Filing cabinets line one wall and the opposite wall is completely covered in cork which allows me to hang plans for the buildings we’re working on. A large drafting table is tucked into one corner, but I only use it when Lou or one of the other architects comes to see me. My office is not a welcoming space by any stretch of the imagination, but I suppose that’s a good thing since I spend very little time here.
Dropping my bag next to the desk, I slump into the chair and fire up the computer. While I wait for the company email program to load, I rid my desk of old coffee remnants and other crap that has steadily accumulated over the past few weeks. I make quick work of the few emails I didn’t manage to get to out in the field and then pull up the company directory, finding her name almost immediately.
My heart begins to pound a nervous staccato as I begin to type.
Ms. Morris …
Dear Ms. Morris …
Hello Sabrina …
Ah fuck … How the hell am I supposed to draft an email to her when I can’t even get past the greeting? Christ, man, pull your shit together!
With a deep breath, I give it another try. My index fingers peck out the email:
Ms. Morris,
I need …
Damn! I need lots of things where she’s concerned, none of which are work related or appropriate at all. Well, definitely not appropriate since we don’t even know each other, and I lack the wherewithal to actually have a conversation with her.
Fuck … wherewithal … Really, Moran?
Deleting the email, I log out and rub my temples with my thumbs. Since I can’t manage to compose a simple email, I’m going to be forced to actually go to her office tomorrow morning and speak with her in person. Forced, my ass. Sure, I could probably give it to one of the other gals in that department, but since Cruz basically told me to go directly to her, that’s what I have to do.
Ha! Who the hell are you fooling, man? You don’t take orders from your brother.
My phone rings loudly. The moment I extract it from my pocket I wish I’d ignored it. I’m too tired to put on the Romeo show, too unsettled by the brief run-in at the elevator to give one shit about what another woman has to say to me tonight. Sure, I could do what I do best: throw out a few charming words, meet up for dinner or drinks, then go to her place or mine and work off some of this frustration. How sad is it that the idea of meaningless sex with a more than adventurous woman gives me pause? What the ever-loving hell is happening to me?
Before the call rolls to voicemail, I swipe my finger across the screen and drawl, “Well hey there, beautiful. I was just thinking about you.” Yeah, I’m full of crap, but right now I couldn’t care less. Right now I need something to get my mind off of all this shit rolling around in my head and to get my thoughts far, far away from Sabrina. I’m not sure what it’s going to take to convince myself that she’s way, way, way out of my league. Hell, you’d think all the brush-offs and businesslike attitude over the past few years would be reason enough to let it all go. It’s not.
Chances are Ms. Morris will go down as the one who got away. I wish I could explain why just the idea of that unnerves me; most likely this is nothing more than a damn crush, just like the one Missy Evers had on me that entire summer a long, long time ago. Hell, if I’m truthful with myself my fixation with her could be nothing more than a challenge. Once (okay, if) that need is quenched, the idea of her and me might drift away like all my other relationships have, never to be thought of again.
So I suppose it comes back to me, what I want and what I’m hoping to accomplish with all this unnecessary romancing. If the real prize is Sabrina, why the hell am I wasting time on all the others? Sure, I’m learning a lot about women in general, but am I doing anything to benefit my situation should she ever decide to take a look at me? Is romancing all these women doing anything to help me get with her? Hell to the no. Am I doing all this just to get laid? Hardly. These days there are no shortages of easy women looking for unemotional one-night stands. It worked for Marco for a very long time, so why not me? Why isn’t noncommittal sex working for me anymore when it has for years and years?
If this is a crush, it’s been a long-standing one. And the more time goes by, the less enamored I am by my conquests and the more obsessed I seem to be with Sabrina. What happens next? I ask myself as the woman on the phone chatters nonstop about nothing. Do I continue as I have been, bringing strangers home to meet my family, knowing full well no one will pass? Or do I suck it up and make a solid, good effort to get to know the only person who unnerves me with one simple look?
The answer is on the tip of my tongue just as I end the call. Even though I’ve made plans to meet up with another woman later, I know without a doubt this will be the last. Just the thought, makes me smile.
Fuck Romeo. Fuck all the sweet talk and charm. This Montague is done.