Chapter 1
Charlie
The alarm of my pickup truck beeps twice, assuring me that it’s locked up as I drag my feet through the heavy steel door of Hartley Construction. I’ve got my toolbox in one hand, my hardhat in the other and both feet clad in my grimy steel-toed boots.
It’s been a hard day on the worksite but I can’t call it quits just yet. I’ve got to deal with a shit ton of phone calls and paperwork before the end of this hot as hell Friday afternoon.
I hate this side of the business—all the bureaucratic shit. I enjoy being on-site, getting my hands dirty, working with my crew, swinging a damn hammer. It’s the reason I started in this line of work when I came back from that tour of duty that nearly cost me my life.
I need the camaraderie of my men surrounding me. I need the physical exertion of lifting heavy things. After the things I’ve been through, I need a valid excuse to rip walls apart with my bare hands.
But the paperwork is a necessary evil, I guess. It’s required if I wanna get paid. And getting paid is what keeps the lights on. It’s what keeps my workers and their families fed.
With a fleeting glance in my secretary’s direction, I give her a lackluster greeting as I pass her desk. “Hey Sharon.” But I immediately find myself taking a second glance her way.
Well damn, she looks good. Her tanned cleavage peeks over the top of her low-cut green blouse like double suns rising through the center of a lush valley. It’s hard not to appreciate the scenery.
I know it’s not polite to stare, especially when I’m the boss and the object of my ogling is on the payroll. But sometimes a man can’t help himself.
I quickly avert my eyes as she looks up from the neatly stacked pile of papers sitting in front of her. She pounds a fist hard to her chest, belches like a truck driver and then turns up her nose at the putrid smell. “Oh god, I knew that cream of broccoli soup I had for lunch would come back to haunt me.”
That’s all it takes to shake me out of my momentary daze.
Sharon and I are definitely not at risk of bumping uglies at any point in the future. We immediately got that mess out of our systems when she started working for me three years ago. We were upfront with each other about our mutual attraction and handled it like adults—with a vigorous doggie-style session bent over the fax machine.
Once that was over and done with, we were able to develop a perfectly mature and platonic working relationship. Every now and then, I relapse when those swollen mammaries smile up at me from the neckline of her maternity outfits but I always recover quickly. Usually as soon as she opens her mouth and lets her crass inner musings and/or her acid reflux spew free.
Oh, and she’s pregnant. I did mention that, didn’t I?
Anyway, Sharon is my office foreman. She takes care of the deskwork while I’m in the field swinging that hammer. She makes sure that my suppliers are paid on time, that my clients receive their invoices, that our construction permits arrive before we break ground. I couldn’t run this business without her.
“How’s that morning sickness treating you?” I produce a can of ginger ale from the pocket of my fleece overshirt and drop it on her desk as I walk in the direction of my office.
“Ah, thank you, dah-ling!” she coos dramatically and I hear the fizzy pop of the can breaking open almost immediately. “I don’t know why they call that thing morning sickness. It’s a very misleading moniker. It assaults you all hours of the day and night. I think I’m gonna start a petition to have it renamed around-the-fucking-clock sickness.”
I shrug out of my overshirt and drop down into my tattered office chair as I laugh. “Well, that’s what you get for going and getting yourself knocked up.”
I throw my feet up on the desk, nearly kicking over the vase of fresh petunias sitting on the edge. Sharon must have put them there this morning. She likes to add a feminine touch to our grubby little office on the edge of Copper Heights’ industrial row. I don’t know why she bothers. This is the grimiest part of town.
Grabbing the mail on my table, I flip through it. Electricity bill. Internet bill. Invitation to some pretentious trade conference in New York next month. Optometrist coupon. Post card from Archie, my military buddy. I keep the bills and the postcard, then toss the rest into the trash.
Sharon waddles into my doorframe and sighs. “It’s all a part of growing up Charlie. You meet a nice person. Someone who makes you laugh. You fall in love. You get married. You have babies. And if you’re lucky, that person keeps you laughing ‘til you die.” She smiles wryly. “It’s not such a bad deal. You should try it out.”
I hock in my throat as I riffle through the client folders on my desk to avoid making eye contact.
Sharon blows out a frustrated breath. “You’re such a good guy deep down. So thoughtful.” She lifts her ginger ale as an illustration of her point. “And you just cancel out all your good qualities by running around like a dog in heat. It makes me a little sad.”
Is she tearing up? Those pregnancy hormones are doing a number on that woman!
She and I have had this conversation. The whole white picket fence dream may work for some, but not for people like me. I’ve seen the other side of happily ever after. That nightmare shows up all too often in my sleep. Love can be more hazardous to a man than pure hatred. Experience has taught me that.
But since I’m not in the habit of snatching people’s delusions and stomping on them with my steel-toed boots, I decide to keep my opinion to myself.
Attention still focused on the papers in front of me, I change the subject. “Shar, did we get the demolition permit we need for the Silverberry project?”
She’s not at all pleased with my deflection, but thankfully, she decides to let it go. She folds her arms over her enormous baby bump and splutters out a bitter laugh. “Nope. Still waiting.”
An unsettling feeling hits my stomach as I observe her amused expression. “What was that snort all about?”
Her judgmental stare is unblinking. “If I had to guess, I’d say that Ursula’s got her tentacles all up in a bunch again and she’s holding up the paperwork.”
Ack! My blood crawls at the mere mention of that woman.
Ursula. That’s what Sharon calls Helena from the county’s permits office. Ursula, as in, the wicked octopus queen from the Little Mermaid.
The woman has got curves for days and oral skills that could resuscitate a dead man. But she’s clingy in a dangerous way and it was only a matter of time before the things she demanded in bed got me handcuffed in the back of a police car.
The chick is downright crazy. I had to cut her off. Call it self-preservation.
“I know you don’t want to deal with her,” Sharon says sagely, “But she’ll continue to withhold those permits as long as you continue to withhold your cock.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I try to feign ignorance…I fail.
“You know all too well what I mean. I told you not to fuck that woman. She may be pretty but she’s got Fatal Attraction eyes.”
Unfortunately, I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s a hawkish gaze that moves down your body, clawing at your skin like talons, leaving you feeling raw and violated. It can have a grown man shivering and wishing for his momma’s soothing touch.
I cringe just thinking about it.
Sharon’s right but I can’t tell her that because her oversized ego is eating for two.
“Anyway,” I say in a deliberate tone, “would you call the permits office and follow up?”
“Already did, Boss.”
“And…?”
“I was politely informed that you would have to go down there to sort it out in person.”
“Okay,” I sigh and scrub a calloused hand down my face. “Put it in your schedule to go over there first thing on Monday morning.”
She smirks. “No, hun. You’re not understanding. You have to go down there on Monday morning. They were very specific with me over the phone.”
What garbage! Helena’s just intent on being difficult. Power tripping.
Well, at least on the bright side, we’ll be at her place of work. She surely won’t cause a scene…Right?
Sharon tosses the empty soda can into the garbage and starts dancing in place as she grips her belly like her bladder is about to fall out.
“Go on.” I shoo her away with my hand.
She smiles and starts humming the theme song for the Little Mermaid as she turns toward the washrooms.
She’s trying to be cute. She’s not. She’s a pain in the ass.
“Sharon!” I growl in warning.
“What?” She tosses me an innocent look over her shoulder. “Got the song stuck in my head.”
I bury my face in my hands, not at all thrilled that I have to deal with Ursula on Monday morning.
Sharon glances at me from right outside the toilet door. “I always told you that your philandering ways would come back to haunt you one day. Well, I’ll pencil it into your calendar because it looks like Monday might be the day.” She cackles, thoroughly entertained, as she slams the door shut.
Ugh—the weekend needs to start. Right now.