Uncovered Desires_A Single Mom Alpha Male Protector Romance

by Kelli Walker

  “Are you boys going to give me a hard time in the morning getting up for school?” I asked.

  “No. We promise,” Dom said.

  “We’ll get up the second our alarms go off,” DeShawn said.

  “Mhm,” I said with a grin. “I’m sure you will. Why don’t we go get cleaned up and I’ll think about it.”

  “Better than a ‘no’. We better take it, Dee.”

  “Like you have a choice,” I said. “Come on. Let’s get out of his nice man’s house.”

  “Like I said, you’re welcome anytime.”

  Every time I looked up into his face, a tension grew between us. The confliction within my body got worse. I wanted to gravitate towards him and run away from him. Reach out to touch him and rip away from him. Years. It had been years since I’d allowed myself the room to pay attention to a man. They only wanted one thing, and sometimes they didn’t mind taking it of their own volition. I always stayed painfully aware of my surroundings while out in public and always made sure to lock my doors at night.

  And even though Tristan had that dark stare that scared the shit out of me, there was a kindness behind his words. Behind the timbre of his voice. A silky softness behind the way he loomed. It wasn’t predatory. Rather, it seemed protective.

  Almost.

  “You have a good night. And let me know if there’s anything I can help you with,” I said.

  “Don’t forget to check out her website!” DeShawn said as I shoved the boys to the door.

  “Izzy Carpenter dot com!” Dom exclaimed.

  I heard Tristan chuckling from his doorstep as I quickly escorted my boys across the road. Across the lawn. Back into our house.

  It wasn’t until I turned and looked out the kitchen window that I found him standing there. Staring at us.

  And when he picked up his hand to wave, my body automatically returned the gesture.

  Almost like it wanted the attention for the first time in seventeen years.

  Tristan

  “Anyone here?”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. My name’s Tristan Overcash. I saw the ‘help wanted’ sign out front.”

  “You want an application?”

  “If you’re looking for help, then I’m looking for a job.”

  The man behind the desk in the trailer pulled a very dated application out from a filing cabinet. The heavy machinery outside roared to life and the hammers could be heard off in the distance. Out of the three places I’d visited on my job hunt, this was the only place currently taking applications. ‘Help Wanted’ was apparently a suggestive thing in Texas. Not a definitive need for people to apply for a job. Luckily, the man brandished me a pen and ushered for me to sit down.

  “You got construction experience?” the man asked.

  “And experience fixing heavy machinery,” I said.

  “Really? How much?”

  “About five years under my belt. Worked as a mechanic during college before going to work with the CIA.”

  “The what now?” the man asked.

  “CIA,” I said. “The Central Intell-”

  “I know what the damn CIA is, boy. You mean to tell me you worked there?”

  “Yep. You’ll have all my employment information in this file once I’m done,” I said.

  He looked at me as if I’d just crawled right out of the damn ocean. I finished filling in all the information I had memorized, wrote down Jackson’s information as well as my former boss’s for potential references, then handed the application back to the man. I could only hope he would call me, because I didn’t have any luck anywhere else. And unless I wanted to be bussing tables at two in the morning at the local diner, my only other option was a crude bartending school run by a woman I wasn’t sure was a licensed educator.

  Or bartender, for that matter.

  I pulled up into my driveway after my afternoon out and saw the boys playing out front. DeShawn was throwing a football and Dom was having a very hard time catching it. I got out of my truck and leaned against the door, watching them play for a little while. DeShawn kept telling the poor boy to go long and Dom’s glasses would somehow get in the way of each catch. They’d fall off his face onto the ground or fall down so low he couldn’t see anything.

  All he needed was someone to show him how to guide the ball to his body instead of him getting to it.

  “Need help?” I asked.

  The boys stopped playing and turned their heads toward me.

  “You know how to play football?” Dom asked.

  “Played a little in high school, yeah. Want me to show you how to catch?” I asked.

  “Only if you show DeShawn how to throw. His ball’s always wobbling,” Dom said.

  “My ball’s just fine. You can’t see it is your problem,” DeShawn said.

  “He’s actually right,” I said as I walked across the road. “You aren’t gripping the ball right, so it’s wobbling in the air. What position do you play?”

  “Left tackle,” DeShawn said.

  “All right. Let’s work on your throw first, then we’ll tackle Dom’s catch,” I said.

  I stood out there with the boys for a couple of hours throwing the football around. It took Dom a little bit of time to work on his catch, but pretty soon we were all running around the front yard. I ran to the backyard and pitched the ball over the house and the boys would go wild. Then I’d run around, try to tackle the one with the ball, and then we’d do it all over again. Droplets of sweat ran down my neck and the boys’ shirts were all soaked through.

  It was the most fun I’d had in a very long time.

  “Tristan?”

  I looked up and saw Isabelle standing in the driveway with bags of food in her hands.

  “Hey there,” I said breathlessly. “When did you get back?”

  “The football hit the top of my car,” she said flatly.

  “Ah, sorry. That was me,” I said.

  “I figured it wasn’t one of the boys since they were both in the yard gawking. I was wondering where that ball came from,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  But I tossed a playful wink over to the boys anyway.

  “Well you look about half spent,” Isabelle said. “Wanna come inside for a drink or something? I’ve got plenty of food to feed you with.”

  “Yeah, Tee! Come on inside,” DeShawn said.

  “Tee? I’ve only got one person that calls me that,” I said.

  “Well now you’ve got two,” he said.

  “Make that three,” Dom said.

  “All right, Tee,” Isabelle said with a grin. “You sweaty boys come on inside and get some tea. See what I did there?”

  I grinned as the boys rolled their eyes at their mother’s joke.

  “I’d love to, but I need to go unpack a few more things and take a look at your website. A heads up? You might have an influx of orders come nightfall,” I said.

  “Why don’t you just go look in Ma’s shed out back?” DeShawn asked.

  “Yeah, Mom’s got a whole catalogue of all the stuff she’s made back there,” Dom said.

  “I mean, is that a thing I can do?” I asked.

  I looked over at Isabelle and saw her shoot her boys a look.

  “Let me get the boys set up with their food, then I’ll escort you out back,” she said.

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  I watched them all disappear into the house and I watched them all through the window. The boys kept reaching around her and grabbing their bags of food while she handed them drinks over her head. Then, I saw her look up into her microwave and start fiddling with her face. She smoothed out her eyebrows. Fluffed her hair. Ran her finger over her lips.

  I grinned in through the window at her as she turned her eyes and looked out at me.

  Watching as a flush overcame her cheeks, she disappeared from view. I watched the front door, waiting for her to step out as a surge of pride shot through my veins. She was trying to make
herself presentable for me. Did she do that with most guys? There was something nice about the thought. About a woman wanting to look nice again for me. Isabelle closed the front door behind her, that oil slick hair fluttering behind her body. She walked up to me and I could see her cheeks were still flushed with that bit of embarrassment.

  Such a beautiful color contrasted against the blue and purple streaks through her raven black hair.

  “Follow me,” she said. “I’ll pull out my binder for you.”

  “Your binder?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing fancy. Just snapshots I’ve taken of my finished products over the years.”

  “That’s a nice shed,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “I made it.”

  My eyebrows hiked up to my hairline as she opened the door to her shed. She made it? The thing was as solid and sturdy as they came. Not that I was shocked she made it. But it usually took a least a duo to throw something like that up. I smoothed my hand over the wood and felt that slight gloss slide against my skin. It was sanded down perfectly and stained vigilantly. And the grain of the wood was fantastic. It had a ripple all of its own, and it was obvious she took great care in choosing the slabs of wood she used to make her creations.

  But nothing could’ve compared to the machinery she had in her shop.

  She had many top-of-the-line pieces of equipment made for a small shed like hers. A jointer-planer combination, a disc sander, a band saw with a stand. She had a professional cabinet table saw and a wall full of handheld tools hanging on what looked like a handmade pegged surface. She even had a small laser-cutting machine and a pristine drill press.

  “This new?” I asked.

  “Yep. Wore my last one down over the years, so I picked that one up a few days ago.”

  “This is incredible quality. I’m impressed.”

  “Do you woodwork?” Isabelle asked.

  “No, but I admire people who do. I work with heavy machinery. Though I’m familiar with most smaller pieces of machinery, too. Is that cedar I smell?”

  “Yep. I’ve got stashes of it all over the place. It’s my most popular wood, by far. Especially since it holds such a good stain. My next personal project is a temperature-controlled building I can house my wood in for long-term storage. I can get it cheaper that way if I pick it up in bulk.”

  “Would you know how to wire a building like that?” I asked.

  “Are you asking because you think I only woodwork or because I’m a woman?”

  “Neither. I’m asking because I would know how to wire a building like that. I was going to offer my help.”

  I turned to look at her and watched her sigh.

  “Sorry. I didn’t for that to come out as rough as it sounded.”

  “No need. I’m sure it’s an interesting world being a woodworking woman in the south,” I said.

  “You have no idea. Especially in this town,” Isabelle said.

  “Born and raised?”

  “Oh yes. I had plans to get out, but things don’t always work out as planned.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life,” she said.

  The tone of her voice caused me not to press the subject. I looked over at her small desk in the corner and it struck me as odd that she wouldn’t build herself her own desk. Then again, she’d built just about everything else in the damn building. I walked over to the binder laying on the edge and I flipped it open. And the pictures I saw were incredible. Beautiful couches and intricate dining tables. Cute little television stands and loads of personalized picture frames. Wall decorations and mantles to go over fireplaces. Rocking chairs for porches and customized shutters for houses.

  “Wow, this is a hell of a spread,” I said.

  “Like I said. I dabble in a little bit of everything.”

  “And you excel at it, obviously.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I looked over and watched a grin slide around her cheeks.

  It made her eyes dance.

  “So how did you get into woodworking in the first place?” I asked.

  “My father and I used to do it as a hobby. I was an only child and it was something he’d always wanted to pass on to his children. Once he got past the fact that I wasn’t a boy, things went pretty well,” she said.

  “I see the south still has its traditions.”

  “You can’t blame them. They were raised in that time period. All we can do is take the generations we raise and usher them into a different world,” she said. “And anyway, it all turned out okay. Woodworking was how we bonded.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “What loss?” Isabelle asked.

  “You keep talking about your father in the past tense. I figured…”

  “Oh no. He’s not dead,” she said.

  “Then here’s the point where I open my mouth and take off my shoe,” I said.

  “It’s fine. Though it’s not a subject I wish to discuss with potential clients.”

  “I understand completely. But I’m no longer a potential client. I’d like to place a few orders.”

  “A few?” she asked.

  “Yep. I saw a dining room table, some chairs, a T.V. stand, and a mantlepiece I’m pretty interested in. The mantlepiece in that house is almost rotted through. It could use replacing.”

  “Well if you show me which ones you’re interested in, I can give you a quote. Though I’d have to come over later and measure for exact dimensions, which may or may not alter your original quote.”

  “That’s fine. A rough estimate is all I need for now,” I said.

  I pointed out the ones that caught my eye, but then described a few changes I would make to them. She jotted down a few notes and scratched some figures into the margins of her sheet of paper, then she wrote down a number and circled it. The price was much lower than I was expecting for custom, handmaid pieces.

  “Are you sure this is all it’s going to cost?” I asked.

  “Yep. I don’t gouge my customers,” Isabelle said. “I have a connection for the wood, my tools are already paid off-- minus my newest addition-- and my home is also paid off. All of that affects the pricing after a while. I don’t believe in charging my customers for money I don’t need.”

  “I can feel every single businessman within twenty miles cringing with dissatisfaction.”

  “Well, what they don’t understand is that my ethical beliefs bring me more work than the bigwigs in town. I have more than enough to keep myself afloat, the boys have money for college, and I’m on the quick track to an early retirement.”

  “Then I’m doubly-impressed,” I said with a grin.

  “You should be. Strong women are something to be admired.”

  “Yes they are,” I said as I swept my eyes down her body. “They are indeed.”

  The more I learned about her, the more incredible Isabelle became. Was there anything she couldn't do? I dragged my eyes back up her body and saw a telltale flush creep across her bare chest. It trickled up her neck and painted itself along her cheekbones and it made my stomach do flips.

  “Tristan?”

  “Yes. Sorry. That quote is fine. Do you require any sort of compensation up front?” I asked.

  “I ask all of my potential clients to sleep on the quote. If you wake up in the morning and still want all of those pieces done, then for a quote like this it’ll be half upfront and half once the product is delivered and approved by you.”

  “Does this mean I get your number?” I asked.

  “Or you could come over and knock on my front door,” she said.

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “It was a nice try, though. Much more creative than the stumbling drunks at the bar in town.”

  “If that’s the standard I’m held to around here, I think I’ve found my people.”

  Isabelle giggled, and the sound draped over me like the warm morning sun. It had been a very long time since I’d enjoyed being in
the company of a woman. Though a pang of guilt jolted through my system. A sharp electric wave that almost made me nauseous.

  Lisa...

  “You okay, Tristan?” Isabelle asked.

  “Oh yeah. Just thinking,” I said. “My mind won’t change, I’m sure. But I’ll come knocking on your door in the morning anyway. Or maybe I’ll leave a letter in your mailbox.”

  “How old fashioned,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m nothing if not old-fashioned.”

  “That why you’re still stunned that I work with wood?”

  “No. That’s why I’m still stunned by you.”

  The words flew out of my mouth before I could catch them. I watched Isabelle’s eyes widen before she took a step back from me. Shit. What the hell was I thinking? My mind was spinning in a thousand different direction and I had no idea how to correct what I’d said. It was obvious she was uncomfortable and the guilt that flooded my system was tenfold what it was.

  Smooth, Tristan. The hell were you thinking?

  “Well, I look forward to your letter then,” Isabelle said lightly.

  She held her hand out and quickly escorted me out of the shed. She walked me back to her front lawn and I took the time to thank her again for her time. Then, I jogged myself across the road. Far away from the idiotic, endless hole I’d dug for myself. I stood on my porch and watched her watch me. Wondering what she thought. She folded her arms over her chest, like she was trying to hide something. Or maybe she was contemplating something. Either way, two very important things rolled through my mind.

  I was no closer to having any answers about what made her tick, and it was clear she had been uncomfortable with what I’d said.

  My phone vibrating against my hip pulled me from my thoughts. I turned and walked back inside, then looked at the number calling. I didn’t recognize it and I debated on not taking it.

  Until I remembered the application I put in earlier.

  “This Tristan Overcash?”

  “Yes it is. With whom am I speaking?” I asked.

  “I was rude earlier ‘cause I never introduced myself. The name’s Danny Miller, with StoneHouse Construction. Ya came in earlier today and put in an application.”

  “Yes, sir. How can I help?”