by Anna Paige
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Sneak Peek
Broken Ground
Copyright © 2015 Anna Paige
Cover Image by Kim Black
All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Interior Formatting by Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs (http://www.pinkinkdesigns.com)
For my amazingly supportive husband, Shaun.
Everything I know about love, I learned from you.
Last October
THE SOUND OF splintering wood rang in my ears as I swung the sledgehammer, feeling the familiar burn in my arms as I hefted its weight high over my head. I loved that burn, the fatigue in my muscles, sweat rolling down my back as my chest heaved. That burn was like being energized and relaxed at the same time. It was freedom. My arms continued their protest as I swung again and again, reducing the weathered lumber to a haphazard pile of jagged uneven chunks.
Using reclaimed or salvaged components for my projects meant that I usually got to indulge my destructive side before engaging my creative talents. First I destroyed, then I reinvented. Some of my finished projects could be found in million dollar homes. Several had been featured in magazines. While I took pride in that recognition, I found far more satisfaction in the creative process than in the approval of others. Knowing I could take something broken and battered, something with no apparent value, and turn it into something beautiful; that's what drove me. Thrilled me. Fighting had once given me a similar rush, my youthful temper had landed me in more fights than I cared to count, but that didn't last. Even sex couldn't compare. After years of one-night stands, I decided that sex was just something to do. It was a welcome release, nothing more.
I swung the hammer one more time and left it where it fell, then dragged it over and let it rest on the floor by my feet. The radio played softly in the background, an old Buckcherry song. I inspected the disassembled pile of scrap before me, and an image began to form in my mind. I hurried over and picked up a sketch pad, and turned back to the scattered pieces on the floor as I considered the possibilities. My attention was so focused on the mental picture that I didn't realize I wasn't alone.
The soft scraping sound off to my left barely registered at first. I was accustomed to the stray cat that sometimes came in and sat in the rafters of my garage while I worked. He never got too close, being half-feral, but he was as curious as any other cat, so we just sort of co-existed. I'd leave small treats where I knew he would find them but we never interacted. I assumed he had made another appearance and thought no more of it, but a minute later I heard the sound again and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked up from my sketch pad and knew my night had just gone to shit.
Marissa stood there smirking as she leaned casually on the door frame, wearing scarcely enough clothing to cover her, much less keep her warm. She was my former assistant and most recent in a long line of indiscretions. She tried to cross one long leg over the other in what I was sure was meant to be a sultry move but actually ended up making her lurch to the side, and nearly fall out the door. I'd have laughed if I wasn't fully aware of what was coming next.
Shit. She's drunk and pissed. This isn't gonna end well.
My last assistant had relocated when her husband was promoted and transferred to the West Coast. When Marissa had shown up with an impressive resumé and glowing recommendation from her former employer, she had been hired pretty much on the spot. Work was so hectic at the time, I could ill afford not to have someone to fill the position. The only problem? She had a few other positions in mind as well, much more personal ones.
I'd studiously ignored her flirtations for weeks, surprising both myself and my business partners with my restraint. Knowing that mixing business with pleasure was always a bad idea, and an even worse idea when you are in a position of authority, I managed to circumvent her advances, keeping a respectful distance.
Okay, I'm no saint. I'm all about the quick and dirty, no-strings hook up. No slow dances, no exchanged numbers, no promises made, and everyone left satisfied. It had worked for me all these years, with very few issues. Avoiding Marissa was less about the issue of propriety and more about the fact that I'd have to work with her afterward. That was breaking my cardinal rule.
Never fuck someone you have to look in the eye every day. Ever. It just invites misunderstanding. No matter how adamant you are that you don't want strings, if you fucked someone you had to see all the time, it wouldn't be long before they looked at you and saw a goddamn marionette.
Case in point? The scantily clad, half-drunk former employee that hovered at the entrance to my shop.
I knew I was in trouble when I walked into work one morning and found her sprawled across my desk totally naked. I may not have been interested, but my dick sure was. One fucking time. One stupid slip up. And it landed me on everybody's shit list. Spencer and Brant, my best friends and business partners, were so pissed they wouldn't take my calls. Marissa, who quit her job after our ill-advised hook-up in hopes that not working for me would clear the way to our happily ever after, had now taken to harassing phone calls, emails, and text messages. Apparently, my lack of response had spurred her right toward direct confrontation.
Just fucking great. Followed my dick right off a cliff again.
Not wanting things to escalate, I gave her a disarming smile.
Her responding sneer did nothing to bolster my hopes. "Well, Clay, glad to see ruining my life hasn't stifled your creativity." She gestured around the shop. "From the looks of this place, destroying things is a habit of yours." she slurred, her face twisted into a hate-filled sneer.
I tried for an authoritative and calm tone of voice. "Marissa, you've been drinking. You aren't thinking clearly right now, so maybe we should discuss this another time." I took out my phone. "Let me call you a cab and we can talk about this later."
She snorted derisively, swaying slightly on her feet as she jabbed a finger in my direction. "I tried to talk to you but you wouldn't answer. I'm sick of being ignored, and I wasn't going to wait for you to decide when I was worth talki
ng to. So here I am. You can't avoid me if I'm right here in front of you."
I quickly typed out a text to Spencer, hoping against hope that he might look at his phone and decide to read the damn thing. I held her eye as I put my phone back in my pocket. "Fine, no cab yet. How bout I get you a cup of coffee?" Gesturing to the small kitchen area to my left, I started to move in that direction. "I can have it ready in no time."
She threw her hands up in frustration. "I don't want any fucking coffee! I want you to tell me what I did wrong!" She staggered through the shop, working her way over to me. "You said we would never happen, but we did. I knew you'd give in. I could tell you had feelings for me by the way you looked at me, the way you made love to me." There were tears in her eyes as she reached me and took my shirt in both hands. Desperately wringing her fists into the fabric, she pleaded. "I knew you'd never agree to a relationship while I was working for you, so I quit. For you. Because I love you. There's nothing standing in our way now, so why don't you want me? Why won't you admit that you love me?" She sobbed as she looked up at me. "Are you trying to make me hate you?"
Goddamn it! I really fucked up this time.
Her shattered expression was tinged with the tiniest bit of hope. That little trace of hope was more painful to see than her tears. I did that. I was fucking stupid, and because of that, everyone around me was either hurt or disappointed or both. Yes, I was up front with her. I told her it was just sex and she agreed to it, which should have absolved me of all guilt but it didn't. I knew before I even had the condom open that it was gonna end badly. I knew I was making a mistake. That didn't stop me though, and now here I stood, watching an endless stream of tears roll down the face of the woman whose heart I just broke.
A part of me was screaming reminders of the crazy things she'd done, the threatening messages that showed a completely different woman than the one weeping before me. Her hatred had come across loud and clear over the last few weeks. And as angry as I was at some of the things she'd said, I was also relieved that she no longer professed her love. Hate was easier to deal with.
She should hate me.
I did.
Rather than giving a response that would only cause her more pain, I just stood there silently. She wailed and balled my shirt in her fists, and I allowed her rage at me all she wanted. It was the least I could do. Stupid impulsive mistakes were a habit of mine, some of which I'd never get to atone for. I deserved this, to witness the suffering brought on by my selfishness. I owed her at least that much, since it was the only thing I had to give.
I wasn't sure how long we stood there. Me with my back rigid and head bowed, her with her face buried in my chest, hands still twisted in my shirt as she quietly sobbed. It must have been a while, because ignoring the vibrating phone in my pocket had worried Spencer so much that he came to check on me. I could see his eyes widen as he climbed out of his truck and noticed the other vehicle parked there.
He strode into the shop, eyes flitting over the mess of my work in progress laid out on the floor before he noticed us. He stood stock still and sadly shook his head as he watched her. He gave me a sideways look that told me exactly what he thought: I was getting what I deserved. There was no sympathy for me there, rightfully so. I didn't want him to feel sorry for me. I wanted him to help her. I had no clue how to handle it, how to make it better for her, but Spencer was Mister Sensitive, and I was hoping he'd know what to do.
He nodded to me and made his way over to us. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder, a sympathetic look on his face. She lifted her head from my tear soaked shirt and met his eye. He leaned over and whispered softly in her ear. The radio playing made it impossible to make out what he was saying, which made me nervous. He was just as pissed off at me as she was. I had to hope he would help her first and take his anger out on me later. As he pulled back, she made a soft whimpering sound and looked back up at me.
Having nothing to say to make things better for her, I said the only thing that I could. "I'm so sorry. I really am."
She smiled sadly at me before she released her hold and smoothed my shirt. "Me too."
With that, she turned and made a wobbly path to the door. Looking on as she navigated the various piles of wood, metal, and tools that were strewn about, I asked Spencer, "What did you say to her?"
He also kept an eye on our departing guest as he sighed. "I told her it was time to let go, that it's not her fault, and that the part of you that she's trying to appeal to doesn't exist. You can't possibly understand how she's feeling because you've never allowed yourself to love anyone. Not even your fucking self." He turned to me with a withering look. "I also told her I'd drive her home, so get your keys; you're following us. If I don't take her home in her car, she'll have to come back to get it and I don't think that's in anyone's best interests. Prepare yourself for the return trip. You'll be in the truck alone with me for a decent chunk of time and I intend to have my say. I've fucking had it with this shit. You and I are either going to come to an understanding or we're dissolving the partnership. Brant and I will buy you out, if necessary. We're both tired of your dick getting us into trouble. We've bailed you out for years but this time you're messing with our company." He glared at me a moment before he turned and headed for the door.
I was halfway across the room, after fishing my keys out of my coat pocket, when he popped his head back in. "She says the keys are in her purse and she left it in here."
Shrugging at him, I looked around the room, trying to remember if I had seen it. There was so much shit around the shop that finding it would turn into a game of Where's-Fucking-Waldo. Spencer shuffled in, head down as he inspected the floor and every flat surface he could find while studiously avoiding eye contact.
Shaking my head, I made my way to him. "You keep looking, I'm gonna make sure she didn't leave it in the car because I don't remember her having it when she came in." He grunted in agreement and didn't look up.
When I stepped outside, the first thing I noticed was the sound of a car engine running. I looked over to the source of the sound; it was her Jetta. She didn't appear to be inside it, so I immediately headed to the side of the workshop, expecting to see her bent over the shrubbery, emptying the alcohol-soaked contents of her stomach.
Just as I stepped from the gravel to the grass, the revving of the Jetta's diesel engine pierced the air.
As I spun toward the sound of gravel flying, I heard Spencer yell, "Shit, Clay, look out!"
I barely managed to jump out of the way as the car bore down on me. From behind the wheel, Marissa jerked her head in my direction as I leapt to safety and the sound of twisting metal filled the air.
Present Day
"YOU WHAT?" SPENCER looked at me like I was stupid. I'd known when I came back to town for this morning's meeting that I'd have to tell him about my plans. He was taking it about how I'd expected.
"I offered to escort Ali to a charity function in D.C. next weekend. A gala, I believe it's called." My voice was even and reasonable.
"That's what I thought you said but I was half hoping I was hallucinating." He reached for a pen from the cup on his desk and began tapping it against the blotter. Yep, he was pissed. "I thought we had an understanding, Clay. I thought you said you'd keep your hands, and everything else, off the fucking employees."
His raised voice set my teeth on edge. He knew better than to shout at me. Rather than react, I sat stoically and waited for him to rein it in. If he didn't, this was going to end badly. I may have been a fuck-up, but I bowed down to no one.
Not even him.
After a failed attempt to stare me down, he sat back in his chair, rubbing his hands through his perfectly styled hair, leaving it in disarray. "Alright, let's try this again. Explain to me why you thought dating your assistant was okay, particularly given the shit storm surrounding the last indiscretion. The one that was barely eight months ago, by the way."
He was getting on my nerves.
Seeing that he was slo
wly unwinding, I decided to engage. "It's not a date, Spence. She's a friend, that's all. You're the one who encouraged me to have a non-sexual relationship with a woman. Well, here you go. Ali is it. A friend, someone to hang out with who understands the misery of being stuck out there in Bum-Fucked-Egypt. Nothing more. Hell, you were the one who told me you weren't worried about us hooking up because she's not my type. I believe your exact words were 'too much of a good girl...' and 'out of your league...', remember? And I agree, she's not my type but that doesn't mean we can't be friends. So what's the problem all of a sudden?"
Denson, Virginia, was about as rural as it gets. Working on a project there was a close second to a colonoscopy on my list of shit to avoid. But for the last few weeks, that's exactly what I'd been doing — the project, not the colonoscopy — and the only reason I wasn't half out of my mind was Ali. Her near-constant smile and quick wit had been like a soothing balm for me.
I owed her for that.
And, despite her not being my usual type, I may have also wanted to spend as much time with her as possible, but that was neither here nor there.
Spencer watched me for a long moment before answering. "It's not that I think there's anything going on. I just don't want you put in a position that might tempt you. Let me ask you a question..." he narrowed his eyes, "Does she know who you are and your connection to this build? I mean, I would assume that you told her, given what a close friend she is."
He did not just fucking ask that.
It was my turn to glare. "No, Spence. She doesn't know and I see no need to enlighten her on the subject. As far as I'm concerned, I'm the lead designer and project manager on the build, nothing more. Period. I don't need the small town gossips stirring up shit best left in the past and, to be perfectly fucking honest, I don't need you doing it either." By the time I finished speaking, I was gritting my teeth to the point of pain.
He held his hands up as if to ward off an attack, but spoke in a level, patient voice that indicated he'd gotten the answer he was expecting. "Easy, killer. I wasn't trying to ruffle your feathers. It was just a question. I won't bring it up again but I also won't pretend that I approve of you keeping it from her. If she's as great a person as you say she is, she will understand and — more importantly — as your friend, she deserves the truth." He cut off the terse reply I was poised to deliver and shifted the conversation to business. "I'm glad you're stepping up for a friend, it's admirable. Keep in mind, however, that you'll be attending this event as a representative of the company and anything that transpires — good or bad - reflects on us. Our business reputation has to come first. Even though the Marissa thing isn't public knowledge, we can't afford another mishap like that." The word mishap came out a little forced, as if he was trying his best not to sound condemning. "The last thing we need is to appear vulnerable with vultures like Holden Shepard circling overhead."
