by Geri Krotow
It didn’t matter now.
“I’ve already agreed to do the numbers for you, Jena.”
He walked into the kitchen and put his half-eaten pie in the sink. Jena didn’t follow him. It was what he wanted—for her to forget about him, because it helped him forget that he’d been such a freaking fool.
* * * *
Jena sat in the cushioned stainless steel chair closest to the veranda’s door, allowing her a full view of the Boudreaux brunch while providing a close escape hatch. She’d survived her share of dangerous assignments, and she knew that her need for control over her circumstances was heightened because of Paraguay. It wouldn’t last forever, but until it was gone she found comfort in being close to the door. And farther from Jeb.
He was sitting next to Brandon, and she could overhear snippets of their conversation. Enough to know that Brandon wanted Jeb to think about working with him again, even if he wasn’t coming out and saying so. Jeb’s expression hadn’t changed from the careful neutral mask he’d worn since Paraguay. He’d only lifted it for a few brief seconds in his apartment, when she knew he was warring with his lust for her. She’d fought her desire that day, too. And even today, thinking it was the last time she’d ever see him, her body wanted him.
How was she going to accept working with him for a month?
She bit her lower lip, the pain grounding her, keeping her from going down the rabbit hole. She had a life aside from Jeb, and it was damned time to start living it. Brandon’s offer had come at the perfect time. If things were a little tense between her and Jeb, so what? It was only temporary. Jeb wouldn’t break his one-month promise, she was certain. He wanted out and away from her, too.
“Do you want the whole family there when the baby comes, or the next day?” Poppy’s question rose above the many conversations.
Sonja looked at Henry with a slight widening of her eyes. Jena smothered a laugh with her hand. Her brother was so private, she was sure the thought of anyone else in the birthing room made him apoplectic.
“We’re going to keep it just us in the delivery room, but we’d love to have everyone meet the baby right after.” Henry used his best attorney voice, and Jena gave him silent props. It hadn’t been an easy road for him and Sonja, with their parents being such racist fucks for too long. As she watched the un-drama unfold, a tremor of realization snaked through her: If the decades-deep sin of her parents, which had blown their family to smithereens, was able to be addressed, and her siblings were willing to work together to begin a new family legacy, what was her problem?
Why hadn’t she been able to keep Jeb as more than a fuck friend? More painful to ask herself: Why had she ever settled for only that?
Chapter 4
Jena thought she’d need weeks to find the right place to launch what she’d begun to think of as The Refuge House, but Brandon had a definite location in mind: an old home that she happened to agree was the perfect spot. Brandon had given her an address to check out in the Garden District. She’d assumed it was a real estate agent’s, but she’d been pleasantly surprised to discover the house that her brother had miraculously found—with a little help from Poppy, she later learned.
The renovation began within a week of their brunch at Brandon’s.
“Why did you pick this place again?” Jena shouted over the cacophony of drills, hammers, and shouts as the construction crew worked inside the old Victorian.
Brandon’s eyes lit up, and it was like looking into a mirror when she was revved up about a mission, or a new client she could find the right aid for.
“This is the center of some of the neediest folks in New Orleans, Jena. But it’s far enough away to be safe for them. If we’re in too rough of a spot, it might be harder to get the volunteers we’re going to need. And I wanted a place that was near all the other, bigger services, like the Salvation Army and Goodwill. It has to be a place where the after-church crowd won’t mind stopping, too.”
Her brother got distracted by a loud bang and went to investigate. A worker had dropped a can of paint.
She’d been impressed by the house’s fresh coat of paint, the gingerbread trim, the colorful detail work, all of which had clearly been accomplished to lure the buyer—her, with Brandon’s funding—inside. While the bare bones of the structure appeared solid, she counted one, maybe two, walls left. Whether it was Katrina or age or both, the house had practically been destroyed. She eyed the wooden stairs, which had what she’d bet was the original railing.
“Is the upstairs as bad as this?” A too-familiar voice, too close. She took a step away before she turned and faced Jeb. At her silence, he nodded at the steps and repeated his query.
“No idea.” Just like she had no idea what the hell he was doing here. She’d made it clear she didn’t need him on site for at least two weeks, bringing the total of their time together to two weeks. Her palms grew sweaty and her heart vied for position with her tonsils. She refused to look at his eyes any longer than she had to, and instead checked out his clothing.
She’d seen Jeb in a suit, in boat clothes, in business casual—he looked especially hot in khakis and a button-down, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, revealing his dark hair. His naked body was no stranger, either, as familiar as her own—until he’d put the kibosh on their arrangement, which her sexual frustration damned him for.
As well as she thought she knew him, she’d never seen him in construction gear. The waistband of his worn jeans slung low from the weight of his tool belt—so low that his white T-shirt struggled to stay tucked in. He wore a short-sleeve plaid cotton shirt over it, and his deep chestnut locks were covered by a hard hat.
“Tell me you’re working for the contractors.”
“Ah, no can do. I’m here to help you get your dream started.”
“Jeb, we had a deal.” Unspoken, maybe, but nonetheless. She hadn’t expected him to show up so quickly, to jump in.
“I struck no agreement with you, Jena. I shook Brandon’s hand. We all do what we have to do.”
“Hey, Jeb!” Brandon waved at him from across the room.
“Gotta go. I believe you’re my boss, as of today. And I’m holding you to your promise.”
“Promise?”
“You said you wouldn’t ever be anything but professional at work.” He turned and walked across the house to a cluster of contractors. Jena felt out of place in her work clothes—dress slacks, presentable blouse, basic jewelry. This was her business, her dream come to life. But it felt as though she were the quiet one, the person who had no idea what she was doing.
* * * *
“We’re going to need five separate rooms downstairs, and upstairs can be whatever we want. Were you thinking of making this a halfway house?” Robyn Jones, a noted local architect, directed her question to Jena. Brandon had pulled all his networking strings to get the top talent in NOLA to pitch in for The Refuge. Jena was eternally grateful. Her CIA work had kept her too far from NOLA, too out of the local business loop. Brandon’s help was immeasurable.
As had been Jeb’s. So far, he’d accomplished the work of a paid contractor.
Jeb, Jena, Brandon, and Robyn stood around the makeshift meeting table—plywood atop four sawhorses—in the far corner of the downstairs, where the drywall had been replaced and fresh coats of cream paint dried. The architect projected her images onto the wall.
“Yes, that’s the direction this will go. I’ve spoken to several local charities, and the heroin epidemic is making empty beds a top priority.” Jena chewed on her bottom lip. “Tell me, Robyn, how many beds do you think we can fit upstairs?”
“With the required bathrooms, eight, maybe ten, tops. The city code might allow for bunks, but I’m not sure that’s what you’re going for.”
“But this won’t be a rehab center, will it?” Jeb studied Robyn’s blueprints.
“Not at all,” Jena said. “I
thought about it, because there’s certainly a need for it. But that’s not the business I’m interested in. We’ll take in folks who need a place before a rehab bed opens up, or right after they get out of treatment, when they’re waiting for a halfway house.”
“If you take in addicts, you’re going to need medical staff. Security, too.” Jeb’s observation, while completely fair, pissed her off. If anyone knew about security and how to provide it, she did.
Or had. This was where she wanted to be; social work was her calling. But it didn’t stop the former CIA operative in her from speaking up from time to time.
“Jeb’s right.” Brandon had uttered those two words exactly five million times since they’d come together and started work on The Refuge. She hadn’t told anyone her idea for a name, not yet.
“Isn’t he always?” Jena muttered under her breath, wishing the construction workers were still there, but they’d knocked off an hour early so that the architect could come in. She took a swig of her bottled water. “We need to make several decisions today, like where the walls are going up down here, and if we want to proceed with the living quarters upstairs. I know where I’d like my office to be, and the other three executive suites. They’ll be simple, nothing over-the-top. I want maximum space for the waiting lounge and the kitchen.”
Jeb’s brow rose. “The kitchen?”
She nodded. “People need to eat, and I see us providing meals in rotation with other shelters during holidays and heavy need times, like winter and when the next hurricane hits. It’s easier if we set up a commercial facility now, rather than later. Am I right?”
The architect nodded, her smile highlighted by ruby lipstick. “It might require going back into what used to be a butler’s pantry and using that space—are you okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“If you want to retain any historical status to this property, some of your proposed changes might not fly with the city board.”
“I think the time for historical classification was before the inside was gutted.” Her brother’s vocation shone at times like these, and she appreciated the clarity.
She sighed. “Brandon’s right. We’ll keep the outside as close to the original as possible, but we’re going forward with this work. This is about the future of New Orleans, and for that we’re going to need a fully modernized office space and shelter facilities.”
“Jeb, do you have anything?” Jena didn’t want him to think she’d leave him out because of her personal feelings.
He scratched his head, his hands speckled with dried paint. Thinking of all the physical work he’d done over the past several days made it difficult to keep her from fantasizing about everything she knew his hands were capable of.
“Honestly? No. Other than getting this place put together, I’m not going to have much to do numbers-wise until your first client walks in the door.” He leaned down and pulled several thick files from his briefcase, contradicting what he’d just claimed. He slid the files across the plywood, one to each team member. “I worked up the costs for every category of client, from homeless to addict to domestic abuse victim. You’ll see the charts with the associated charges. I don’t know a heck of a lot about health insurance, but I made some calls, did a little research. The basic copays for counseling, intake, and referral services are listed.”
“When did you find time to do this?” He’d been at the house as much as she had over the past two weeks, often ten, twelve hours a day. And they were very physical days. Most evenings, she collapsed after her shower.
“We’re all putting in extra time about now, aren’t we?” He didn’t meet her eyes as he looked at his laptop. “If you all turn to page thirteen, you’ll see what it takes to feed anyone we shelter. I think the commercial kitchen is a requirement.”
Jena heard Brandon and the architect chime in on Jeb’s observation, saw Jeb’s smile at a quick comment the builder threw in. Thank God they couldn’t see inside her mind—or worse, her heart, where she still ached for what might have been with Jeb.
* * * *
Jeb knew he was being an asshole, but this was pure survival. It was bad enough that he and Jena worked in the same building each day. At least he’d been able to get wrapped up in the physical construction part and not have to deal with her one-on-one. This business meeting was the most intimate environment he’d faced her in since that day at her brother’s, and he planned to keep it that way.
“You’ve got a talent for numbers.” Robyn the architect leaned over his head, looking at the spreadsheet on his laptop.
“As you do for city zoning laws and building code.” He was fairly certain that she didn’t need to know every accounting detail to build the best facility for the center—and that she didn’t mean for her breasts to be right next to his right cheek. And yet, they were. His nape tingled, and—damn it—he didn’t stop himself from pinpointing the cause.
Jena stared at him and Robyn, her displeasure marked by the curl of her sweet lips. No, just lips. No more sexy adjectives where Jena was concerned.
Jena lied to you, never fully trusted you. If he repeated the saying like a mantra, he’d reprogram his attraction to her. He’d read about it on a post-apocalyptic relationship site.
When he didn’t take the architect’s feminine bait, she straightened and walked back to her computer. “I’m done with my presentation.” She looked at Jena, whose detached expression was back in place.
“Thank you, Robyn. You’ve gone above and beyond your job description.”
Was it just Jeb, or had Jena just verbally speared Robyn the architect? More likely, she’d aimed the jab at him. That explained the tight ball of nerves in his gut. He and Jena had been linked by some invisible cord since they were little kids. To expect that to dissipate because they’d called off the last variation of their relationship was insanity.
“We’re making good progress this week. I’m hoping we’ll each have our own offices by next week, so we can install the furniture.” Jena stood, and he told himself he wasn’t fazed by how loosely her business casual clothing hung on her frame. It wasn’t his problem if Jena hadn’t gained back the weight that the stress of her ordeal in South America had caused her to lose so precipitously. He watched her as she shifted her attention to Brandon, who came by when his regular job permitted it.
“So, what do you think?” Jena asked him.
“I think you’re doing a fantastic job. You really don’t need me around anymore. Have you come up with a name yet?”
Jena nodded. “The Refuge House.”
“Nice and to the point.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you still set to have the first client in two more weeks?” Brandon looked up from the one of the folders Jeb had handed out.
“I’m hoping it will be a lot sooner than that.” She looked at the architect. “When is the earliest we can have the front reception area and extra waiting room done?”
Robyn clicked through the slides she’d already presented. “If we go with this more basic design, we’ll be ready by the end of next week, or early the following.”
Jeb eyed the space around them. They had made a lot of progress, but he knew the rest of it wasn’t going to be any easier. Of course, he wanted the space to remain unfinished until after he’d moved on. It’d be easier to leave before he became too invested.
Before he spent too much time around Jena.
Frustration made his fingers drum on the plywood surface. He couldn’t leave for Atlanta until he finished this project. From the figures he’d run, it’d be months before that happened. He wouldn’t be around to see it come to full fruition. He’d agreed to thirty days, period.
He dreaded the remaining weeks in an office space with Jena. It was one thing to hold up his personal vow when they barely spoke to one another, but once the clients came in, Jena would need resour
ces. And she’d come to him, expect him to pull the money out of thin air. He’d have to see her, deal with his emotions every goddamn day.
“Where are we on the funds so far?” Brandon got to the jugular of the shelter.
“We’re good.” Jena tapped her pencil on her notebook. Her cleavage taunted him, reminded him of all they’d lost—all he’d lost. The scent of her skin, the warmth of her mouth on his cock… “Right, Jeb?”
Shit. She’d caught him red-handed, and by the glimmer of amusement in her eyes, she knew it.
“Since the Boudreaux Foundation is covering all initial start-up costs, yes, we’re good. But we need to start bringing in money as soon as we can. We’re supposed to be fully solvent, with your funding only as a backup, right?” He tossed his query to Brandon, who looked a little stymied. Had he caught the waves of sexual tension between his sister and Jeb?
“Good to know.” Brandon stood. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop. But I have to say, this is your baby now, Jena.” He left the room. The rest of the group began to stand and pick up their supplies.
Jena’s face was flushed, and she refused to look at him. Instinct told him that he’d upset her—or, worse, she was still feeling the attraction between them. Jeb’s about-face on their friends-with-benefits deal was pure instinct, nothing but animal survival.
The same animal reaction tugged at him, nudged him to go talk to her as the meeting broke up, make small talk, anything to mend the chasm between them.
A split he’d willingly made. Jena was his lethal addiction, and what did his friends in recovery say? One day at a time. Yeah, one day at a time he’d stayed away from her, and he needed to do it again now. Get up and walk through the door and go back to his apartment.
