by Grey, R. S.
For the record, I didn’t invite him in. He invited himself.
He had a few minutes left of his lunch break and wanted to say hi. Apparently, he finds my company enjoyable, unlike some people. In fact, Max likes me, maybe even a little more than he should. I was spot-on in my earlier assessment that Max would want to revisit our relationship if I gave him the green light. In fact, he steered the conversation toward that topic almost immediately.
“Why didn’t you and I work out?” he asked, leaning one hip against the washing machine, watching me fold Ethan’s clothes.
I shot him an amused smile. “Oh, I don’t know. Does there have to be a reason? We were fifteen.”
“So that’s it? We were just young?”
I caught him giving me a once-over before his smiling gaze met mine again.
“And you were a flirt.”
That’s the problem with guys like Max. He soaks up attention like a sponge and doles out smiles and love to any and everyone, not at all discerning about who the recipients are. It’s a good character trait, don’t get me wrong—no one has a bad word to say about Max—but I’m just not sure I could date someone like him. I’d rather be one in a million than one of a million.
Still, a little time spent with him is good for the ego. I didn’t even mind the flirting. It felt nice to laugh and smile.
Then Ethan showed up like a black cloud rolling right over our beach vacation.
“How many guys on this crew are ‘friends’ of yours?”
The memory of his words makes my hands fist with rage.
If I had his clothes in front of me, I’d fling them across the floor all over again. No—I’d carry them to the lake and toss them out into the water, watch them float away slowly with a crazed smile on my face.
After lunch, I didn’t bother going back to ask Ethan for another task. I didn’t trust myself to be in his vicinity just yet. Fortunately, Robert saw me walking by and politely asked if I could get him some water. I jumped at the chance. I wasn’t doing anything important. When I handed it off to him, I asked how demolition was going. Maybe it was the pitiful way I sounded or the redness still burning my cheeks, but he took the time to walk me through the process while I listened intently.
Now, I’m off cleaning Ethan’s cabin with cleaning supplies I grabbed in the mess hall. It was a stroke of genius on my part—the cabin needs a good scrub-down and it puts me very, very far away from him.
I worked as a maid in that roadside motel for the last year and though I never hoped that one day—fingers crossed—I’d grow up to clean someone else’s toilets, I don’t actually hate the work. It keeps me busy and moving. I focus on the shower and make it as spotless as thirty-year-old tile can be. I wipe down the sink and the mirror. I arrange Ethan’s toothpaste and toothbrush so they’re perfectly aligned in the cup.
His bed is already made, but not well, so I redo it, ensuring the corners are tucked in. If I had a little piece of chocolate, I’d leave it on the pillow. Then I remember whose bed I’m making and decide if I did have chocolate, I’d eat it all in one bite, spitefully.
Dinner has rolled around by the time I’m finished sweeping dust off the front porch, and I’m ready to collapse when I make it back to the mess hall. After sleeping on a pallet on the ground last night, I’m ready to fall asleep where I stand, but I need food first. The crew’s already eating and I feel their eyes on me when I walk in with the cleaning supplies I had to haul back. I know they’re curious about me. It probably seems odd that I’m here, but I have no plans to leave any time soon, so they’ll just have to get used to me. Jeremy and Max are in line to get food and Jeremy mouths that he’ll get me a plate. When I’m done putting everything away, we head outside to eat.
I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around this whole arrangement, the living in the forest thing. If not for the construction project and the awkward girl-to-guy ratio, it would feel like an adult summer camp. The weather in late spring is beautiful, the temperature hovering in the low 70s most days with sunshine overhead. The scenery is beautiful, and the food is a lot better than anything I make at home. Even now, we’re outside eating lasagna on some lawn chairs under a canopy of pine trees. A guy a few feet away from us is strumming on a guitar he must have brought from home. All in all, it’s not half bad, especially now that I’m among friends again.
I try to grab hold of the little things while I can, because as soon as Ethan walks toward the mess hall with Robert by his side, my mood immediately sours.
“He’s looking at you,” Jeremy says, nudging me with his elbow.
“Who cares?” I hiss, mopping up some marinara sauce with my breadstick. Can’t he see I’m busy?!
“He’s coming over here.”
My heart drops right through the seat of my chair. Please, God, no. Not in front of Jeremy and Max. Not while I have a plate of lasagna. I’d like to eat my dinner, not throw it in his face when he says something rude and I fly off the handle again.
“Taylor, can I speak with you?” Ethan asks coldly.
Guitar guy stops strumming. Everyone within a five-yard radius turns to stare at me. I have to stand up.
“Sure,” I say through gritted teeth before putting my plate of food on my seat and turning to let him lead the way. I figure we’ll head around the side of the mess hall so there’ll be no witnesses to our discussion, but we only walk a few paces, just far enough that we’re out of earshot. Everyone can still see us, so I steel my shoulders and look up at him. That way, no one can accuse me of being a coward.
He’s looking down at me with his head tilted an inch to the left, one eye sort of winked in thought. Then he props his hands on his hips, puffs out a breath, and speaks.
“I’d like to apologize for what I said this afternoon.”
A record scratches.
“What?”
“It was uncalled for.”
I’m slack-jawed from shock. “Oh, okay. Well, thank you, and…” My right hand catches my left elbow and I realize I’m shuffling my feet. I immediately stop. “I’m sorry for throwing your laundry on the ground. In hindsight, it was pretty childish of me.”
He nods, turns, and walks away.
I stand there watching until he disappears inside with Robert.
Huh. That went…well?
Jeremy and Max hound me about the encounter for ten minutes. To them, it seemed like an odd exchange, definitely not a casual employer-employee conversation.
“You looked petrified,” Jeremy points out. “Like Bambi in headlights.”
Max agrees.
Seriously?! I thought I looked like a badass. I even met his gaze. My chin was raised!
“He didn’t exactly look happy either,” Max adds. “Though maybe that’s just how he is? He was a total dick when he found me talking to you earlier.”
Thankfully, Jeremy doesn’t ask him to elaborate, and we all go right back to eating our lasagna. After, we sit out in front of the mess hall talking until the sun starts to set. Some of the guys wander off to shower and attempt to call home. A few of them start up a poker game. We stay right where we are, though, listening to the cicadas and the soft strumming of Mike’s guitar. That’s his name—I know because we invited him to join us. There’s a big group sitting in a circle while he strums. Someone starts telling a story and we all listen, heads tipped back, staring up at the trees and the moon starting to overtake the sky. Most of us were born and raised around here. Even if we didn’t go to the same schools and live in the same small towns, we all had similar upbringings. No one puts on airs. No one gets offended by the sound of someone spitting chewing tobacco or the smell of a cigarette burning beside them. Even if it’s not my thing, it’s still oddly comforting. We’re all trailer trash, everyone one of us, and the thought makes me smile.
* * *
An hour later, I’m inside my new bedroom, AKA Jeremy’s truck. It would work if he had a normal bench seat that stretched from one door to the other. If that were the case, I
’d be catching so many z’s right now, I’d have some to spare.
Unfortunately, Jeremy’s truck is older than dirt and there’s a massive gear shift in the center of the floor that breaks up the two seats, therefore preventing me from lying across it like a bed. My only option is to sleep upright in the passenger seat with my head angled against the window. Even with my pillow wedged between my ear and the door, it’s no use. I’m a sleep-walking zombie in the morning.
I tell myself sleep is overrated. New parents don’t sleep. Insomniacs don’t sleep. People avoiding their bosses by sleeping in trucks don’t sleep either. I greet the morning with enthusiasm, ignore the crick in my neck, and go into the day with a new attitude. Yesterday, I messed up. I let my guard down where Ethan is concerned. Even after his abrupt apology at dinner, it’s still clear he’s a coldhearted jerk. That’s fine. I know that now, and I’ll be better prepared going into today. I have to be. Ethan might not have any reason to be nice to me and help smooth over our rocky relationship, but I do. I need this job badly enough to swallow my pride, keep my temper in check, and get to work.
After I take a quick shower in the communal bathroom while Jeremy stands guard at the door, I throw on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt then frown at my reflection in the mirror. The V-neck isn’t necessarily encroaching on dangerous territory, but when you’re top-heavy, if you give your boobs an inch, they’ll take a mile. I adjust the neckline so it sits a little higher and then spray my hair so it’ll air-dry with beachy waves, and that’s that. I’m ready to tackle the day!
I think ahead and bring two hot coffees out to where Ethan’s finishing up a meeting with some of the subcontractors. They’re standing in front of the demolished meeting hall. All the lumber has been hauled off and the dirt that’s left is uneven and rocky. Still, now that the building is gone, there’s a straight shot all the way from here to the lake, and the view is breathtaking. Much better than staring at a truck dashboard at 3:30 in the morning.
The meeting breaks up a few minutes after I arrive and I rush forward, seizing the opportunity. I look like the aide to a president on a sitcom. Ethan starts walking and I have no choice but to match his pace if I want to keep up.
“Do you like coffee?” I ask genially.
“Who doesn’t like coffee?”
“Some people.”
Our conversation dies a quick death. I have no choice but to revive it.
“Well, would you like some?” I hold both coffees out to him, which—due to the fact that I’m having to take five steps for every one of his—makes it so there’s spillage over the sides and onto my hand.
He reaches over and takes a cup, and afterward I realize he’s left me the one without cream and sugar. There’s no way he did that intentionally. There’s no way he likes sugar in his coffee. He’s got no-frills straight-black-coffee-drinker written all over his perfectly honed features. He must not have been paying attention.
A small nod is the only thanks I get, but I eat it up and continuing walking.
“Should we discuss what happened last week—”
He cuts me off. “I don’t have time.”
“Right. Okay.” I match his no-nonsense tone. “Let’s focus on work. I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I’d like to learn more about the construction side of things.”
I’m not even sucking up right now. It’s the truth. Yesterday, Robert barely skimmed the surface. I want to be useful, want to know what’s going on. I’d like to see a blueprint and have some inkling of what it is I’m looking at. Is that a bathroom or an elevator? No idea.
“Not on this project.”
His rejection stings, but I move along. It’s called picking your battles, and it’s how I’m going to win this war.
“Okay, no problem. Why don’t you just give me a list of tasks you’d like me to complete today and I’ll get to work.”
“First, I want you out of my hair.”
I stop walking. He continues, then realizes I’m not beside him.
He turns back to find me.
“How’s this?” I ask, half shouting.
His eyes squeeze closed and he tilts his head to the sky, praying for patience.
Laugh, dammit!
He regains his composure and shakes his head. “I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have enough work for a personal assistant.”
Crap. I thought he was just saying that in the heat of the moment as a way to get me to quit. I have a mini panic attack. He can’t fire me. He needs me. No, I need him. I need this job!
“But you’re the boss,” I point out, dumbly. “You’re a busy guy. Busy guys need assistants.”
He arches a brow.
“I did your laundry.” I’m desperately trying to prove my usefulness.
“Yes, and look how well that turned out.”
Point taken.
“What did you think of your cabin last night?” I goad. “Spotless, right?”
“Our cabin.”
“What?”
He looks away. Sips his coffee. “It was fine. I liked how you arranged my toothbrush and toothpaste.”
Of course he did because he’s a neurotic control freak. It’s probably the reason he makes a good manager on building projects like this.
“Okay, well, that just goes to show that maybe there are things I could do to help you around here, but you don’t have time to micromanage me. So, here’s the solution: I’ll come up with ways to be useful, and I’ll try hard not to pester you while I do it.”
“You’re pestering me right now.”
I nearly smile, because I swear he’s teasing me—I mean, no one is this rude—but his beautifully arrogant mask doesn’t crack even a bit.
This guy.
I swear.
“Noted. No more pestering.” I start walking backward and he stands there, watching me. Then I throw up a salute, turn, and head in the direction of the mess hall so I can start brainstorming ways to be useful.
Chapter 15
Ethan
An hour after we part ways, Taylor walks into the trailer while I’m on a conference call with my partners and, without saying a word, she picks up the coffee cup on my desk and replaces it with a new one, its contents still steaming. Then she reaches for the trashcan under my desk and carries it outside. A few minutes later, she replaces it, empty.
I sit there, watching her as Grant drones on about one thing or another. He likes the sound of his own voice, which is why these calls always take thirty minutes longer than they should.
Taylor walks over to the desk Robert and Hudson share and tidies it up, wiping away dust before carrying their trashcan out to be emptied as well.
When she comes back inside, she moves quickly and quietly, keeping her gaze on the ground. It’s like she’s trying to blend in with the wall, which is absolutely impossible for someone like her.
Most of the time she wears her hair up in a ponytail, hidden. Today, it’s down and longer than I thought it’d be. Not Amish-girl-wearing-a-denim-dress long, but long enough that it catches my attention. It’s pretty. Pretty! Jesus. It’s brown, but to call it that would be like calling a tree plain ol’ green. There are other colors in there too, chestnut and honey, and right then, she glances over her shoulder, apparently aware of the attention I’m paying her.
I look up at the ceiling and recline in my chair.
“Grant, can you wrap this up?” Steven says, making me chuckle under my breath. “This could have been condensed into a two-sentence email.”
“You guys never read my emails!” he argues.
It’s the truth, but he only has himself to blame for that. Too many forwarded memes means he basically has to mark something URGENTLY URGENT in all caps before any of us bother.
Grant rushes to finish his rambling diatribe about nothing all that important and my gaze skates right back to Taylor as she finishes tidying up the other desk.
In jeans and her work boots, she shouldn’t be all that noteworthy. I’ve never hea
rd a guy beg to see his girlfriend in a pair of boots versus a sky-high pair of heels, but maybe I’ve been stuck in the middle of the woods for too long because Taylor in a simple outfit of boots and a t-shirt has me nearly enraptured. The shirt pulls a little too tight over her chest. Her jeans are too big on her, but that just means they hang loose on her small waist, allowing a sliver of skin to show when she leans over. She tugs them back up and puffs a piece of hair away from her face as she surveys the space. Short of bringing in a vacuum and mop, she’s done all she can. She smiles to herself and then leaves.
I sit there with my phone pressed to my ear, unaware that the call ended five minutes ago. Everyone else has already hung up.
* * *
“Where’d you find Taylor?” Robert asks later that afternoon while we’re walking the site.
I peer at him out of the corner of my eye.
“How I find any of my employees—she came to the recruiting event.”
His brows perk up. Apparently, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “You didn’t know her before all this?”
My silence serves as a placeholder for my reply. I’d rather not lie to Robert. We’ve worked together for years, and I know from seeing him deal with my crew that I’d be hard-pressed to regain his respect if I lost it.
