“Excuses are the nails used to build a house of failure.”—Don Wilder
He was in a piss-poor mood.
Brady brooded as he watched her animatedly tutor Jackson in the art of flipping a window frame into a cabinet. The new windows were propped up, ready for installation, with a nice thick layer to insulate the house. The woman had gone on a hunt for the best deal, calling in favors and negotiating like it was a used car. She finally scored a bargain basement deal because Bakers Glass Warehouse had gotten tired of dealing with her.
She was the definition of persistence.
Sitting cross-legged on a blanket, she chipped away at the layers of cheap paint, an arsenal of products lined up to help her transform something old to something new.
Personally, he didn’t think she’d be able to do it, but that’s not what bothered him. No, it was much deeper than that. The woman was beginning to affect his personal life on a grand scale, and if he didn’t get a handle on it, things were going to explode.
Marissa wanted to sleep with him. It was obvious from their last dinner together. She needed no further courting. They’d gone way past the third and fourth date in the last few weeks, and he sensed the beginning of her frustration. The good-night kiss and tame foreplay had reached an end. She was ready to take the next step, and so was he. The problem was more serious than he’d originally thought.
His dick just refused to respond.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get excited about bringing her to his bed.
Because all he could think about was Charlie.
Brady smothered a groan and concentrated on his task. The thick humidity had finally drifted away with the end of summer, and a gorgeous late September breeze blew in like a gentle lover’s kiss. Fall hovered, tempting the northeast with eye-popping colors as the leaves turned and the earth was drenched in golden light. It was his favorite time of year, and the height of the building season.
They’d been working together nonstop for the last two months and had found their rhythm. Though they still bantered and insulted, it had a softened edge. Respect had grown out of cramped quarters. And something more. Something dangerous.
It had been two weeks since their last encounter when he’d almost kissed her. That almost kiss haunted him on a daily basis. That almost kiss had caused a shift between them, igniting a sensual awareness that was with them every moment of every day. They both ignored the simmering attraction and stuck to business, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend he didn’t want her.
“Hey, Brady, Jackson said next Friday his mom has a work thing so I thought we’d throw a pizza party here. If you don’t have a date with Marissa, how about joining us?” she called out.
Jackson hooted. “Is she hot?”
He straightened his shoulders. “Of course. She’s with me, isn’t she?”
Charlie grinned and shook her head. Ash- and timber-colored strands of hair brushed her shoulders and clung to her cheek. “Egomaniac. She’s only with you for the free dinners, dude.”
Jackson thought that was hysterical, bringing a reluctant grin to Brady’s lips. Somehow, they’d created a bit of a ragtag crew of three, all with one focus: restore the house so it could live again. Before, Charlie’s chaotic work process had struck him as sloppy and disrespectful. Now, he saw how her vision of a house was so pure, she’d do anything to keep it. The work was part of her makeup and soul, striking him a bit like Dalton when he worked on a piece of wood. Brady had always respected that quality, even as he bemoaned the sometimes ragged timeline that screwed things up for him.
It was a different way of looking at things, and he was getting better at seeing the bigger picture. He’d gained a deep respect for her as a professional and a woman who’d overcome a challenging past to make herself better.
Too bad he still wanted to strip her clothes, part her thighs, and make her scream with pleasure.
“Earth to Brady. Next Friday good?”
“Sure.”
She frowned, as if noticing his response was lackluster. “Come over here.”
“Busy now. Later.” Hell, he was sporting wood on a whole new level just by the image of Charlie naked. Marissa was beautiful and sweet. Her dark hair and eyes bespoke a Latina heritage he loved. She was soft spoken and never argued with him. She wanted a family immediately. She knew his parents through the church. She also gave plenty of indication she’d be open minded in the bedroom, which was a must.
Then why hadn’t he taken her yet? Why wasn’t it her naked form he was currently visualizing in his head?
Because he couldn’t get Charlotte out of his damn head.
He slammed the window in, causing a loud shriek of protest from the shrinking wood. “Hey, be careful with my windows!” she shouted out. “Do you need help?”
He gritted his teeth. “I got it.”
“Doesn’t look like you got it.”
“I got it, okay!” He shoved. With a weak protest, the frame slid in. “See?”
“I’ll do the other one. I have a gentler approach.”
“Stop being a control freak and paint your damn window cupboard DIY project!”
Jackson winced. “Umm, Brady, do you need to smash a wall or something? Bad day?”
Charlie slapped her hand over her mouth but not before a giggle burst through. With his dick hard, his hands smarting, and his heart confused, he glared at both of them, then stormed out. “I need a break. Gonna get some air.”
He sat on the broken stoop and guzzled water, calming himself. Enough. He was going to fuck Marissa’s brains out and he was going to love it. They were already falling in love. They’d get married in church, have beautiful babies, and she’d be the perfect wife. Done.
“Do you want to take off?”
Her soft voice stroked his ears and he half closed his eyes, wishing she’d go away. “No. Just want to drink my water in peace.”
She ignored him, plopping herself beside him. Her wide, thickly lashed eyes were filled with concern. The tangy scent of citrus drifted to his nostrils. He’d discovered she had a weakness for grapefruits in the morning. He’d never imagined the scent could set off pure lust, but he was beginning to realize a whole lot of things lately. “You’ve been here every day, and it was wrong of me to begin taking you for granted. I don’t know how it happened, but I feel like we’ve built this crew and you both belong to me. Stupid, right? Especially when I was against you even being here and we couldn’t stand being in the same room together.”
You both belong to me…
His inner caveman roared to life, wondering what it would be like to belong to Charlotte Grayson. He’d feast on her for hours, learning what every moan and whimper meant. He’d tear off those ridiculous clothes and taste and touch every inch of her beautiful body. He’d take her to places she’d dreamed about, and then take her there again and again. He’d fuck her, please her, claim her. A shudder wracked his body as a sudden primal need overtook him. He clenched his fists and breathed slow and deep, harnessing the arousal she didn’t even seem to notice.
“But you have a life you’ve been putting on hold. Why don’t you work with me every other day? Jackson has been great. There’s no trouble here. Even some neighbors have come over to introduce themselves and say how happy they are to get a nice house to add to the neighborhood.”
Damn her. First, she never wanted to even acknowledge the almost kiss. Then she insisted on treating him like some distant work buddy. And now she wanted to completely dismiss him? “We made a deal. I’m sticking to it, and you better do the same.”
Her brows snapped together. Much better. He could deal with her when she was annoyed with him and he with her. Things were clearer that way. “I’m trying to be nice,” she explained. “I just don’t think I need you anymore.”
Hurt lashed at him. Caught off guard, he fired back. “Glad to know I’m so dispensable. But even if you insist on making cupboards out of windows, and pizza art boxes, and ridiculous wall murals in the kitchen like a craft show gone bad, I made a promise to stay until the last damn nail is in. Got it?”
“Just because you’re so narrow minded and scared to get outside the box, don’t put your crap on me. I never needed you in the first place. You’re the liability here! I’m practically carrying you along, so do us both a favor and we’ll both tell Cal we’re good to part ways.”
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He practically snarled the words in irritation. “Here’s a hint. Going outside the box is sometimes not a good thing.”
“What do you know? Have you ever been pushed to create something from nothing? I bet your own house is technically beautiful, with all the latest gadgets and a sleek, modern feel. But guess what? I bet it’s all empty inside. No surprises. No creativity. And no soul.” She spit out her last words in a staccato rhythm that made a smear of red blur his vision.
“Here we go again with the tortured, poor artist you like to bring out when challenged. Coloring inside the lines is not all bad, Charlotte.” He sneered her full name with sarcastic intent. Her widened eyes told him it struck home. She’d gotten used to hearing her formal name from him and usually didn’t snap back. Maybe she sensed the intention not to mock, but an underlying intimacy they both sensed and accepted.
But this time, his intention was to completely piss her off.
Choppy pants broke from her gumball lips. Hazel eyes blazed with scorching heat. Her body trembled and his responded instantly, unfurling with a crazed need to yank her against him and kiss her the way she should be kissed, by a man and not the boys he bet she dated. He reached out slowly, his logic long gone under the sting of her words and her attitude and her damn delectable mouth, and then—
“It may not be bad, Bolivar,” she drawled, “but it’s boring as hell.”
He froze, staring at her with a growing horror, hoping he heard wrong. The smug arrogance glowing from her features told him he’d gotten it right the first time.
She knew his birth name.
Someone was going to die.
“What did you call me?” he asked softly, a clear warning vibrating from his chest.
She didn’t even blink. “Bolivar. Your real name. Kind of cute, actually. All formal and regal. Full of male posturing pride. Not sure why you’re so embarrassed by it.”
This was not happening. His ears actually got hot, and he prayed they didn’t look red. “You will never call me by that again. Do you understand? Who told you?”
She broke into a delighted grin. Why was she never afraid of him? Or even cautious? “No one. I just did my research. Now, you can decide to lose your attitude and come back inside to help or knock off for the rest of the day. I don’t really care, Bolivar.”
He gnashed his teeth together and his hands fisted. He was going to choke her. He was actually going to murder a poor defenseless female, except she was anything but. “I swear to you, Charlotte, if you push me on this you will regret it.”
“Okay.” She jumped up from the step, dusted off her jeans, which actually boasted pink flowers on the sides, and grinned wider. “Bolivar, Bolivar, Bolivar,” she sang in an off-key song.
He got up and reached for her, ready to spank her sweet ass, but she broke into giggles and danced away, his name still falling from her lips.
The door slammed behind her.
Brady closed his eyes and groaned. This was a nightmare. He fucking hated that name. He’d been tortured in school until he declared to the family he’d no longer answer to Bolivar and changed it to Brady. It had taken his parents a while, but he was so crazed and insistent, they finally listened. Even his sisters were afraid to use it.
But not her.
Like the damn fairytale, he had a feeling the secret of his real name would be his downfall. She’d torture him endlessly because she acted like a child. A woman child. Who could possibly handle her on a full-time basis?
No one. Including him.
Tempted to walk away, he forced himself to drag in a breath and stand. Best to get back in there and not mention anything. Concentrate on finishing the window work, and he’d cut out early. He’d squeeze in an impromptu date with Marissa and get his life back on track where it belonged.
He refused to allow Charlotte Grayson to kidnap his heart.
He guzzled the rest of his water and walked back inside.