Just What I Needed (The Need You Series)

by Lorelei James

  I’d been picking away at updating this house for six years, since around the same time I’d gone into partnership with Jase Flint. I saw the irony—living in an undone house and I was a partner in a renovation and restoration business.

  After I returned from apprenticing with my grandfather in Sweden, I’d taken a job with one of the big construction firms. At twenty-three I’d had no problem starting at the bottom—setting forms for concrete. Within a month I was “promoted” to the demolition crew. A month later, I filled in on the framing crew and was permanently reassigned there. Once my boss saw my skills were wasted with framing, he switched me to finish carpentry. I lasted a month before the old-guard carpenters complained I rushed through projects—which wasn’t true; I refused to milk the clock like they did. When I found myself back on the concrete forms crew, I quit. There was a difference between paying my dues and being penalized for having a strong work ethic none of the other guys my age had.

  Through the grapevine I’d heard that Flint-Co, a subcontractor, was circling the drain. Jase Flint’s foreman had bailed out, leaving Jase with contracts to fulfill and no one to run the projects. I approached Jase for the project manager position. He was up front with me that he needed a partner to replenish his capital, not just a manager.

  As one of the eight heirs to the Lund family fortune, I had several trust funds, enabling me to buy in to Flint-Co with a substantial amount of cash. Partnering with Jase was the smartest move I’d ever made. From day one he’d treated me as an equal, renaming the business Flint & Lund.

  I worked my ass off. I was proud of helping take Flint & Lund to the next level. Jase respected me. He trusted my judgment. But it’d taken a solid year for our crew to reach those conclusions. I’d neither hidden nor bragged about my family connections, but several guys assumed I’d get tired of “playing” the working stiff and I’d return to my cushy job at Lund Industries.

  I’d never had any desire to work at Lund Industries—aka LI—the family-run corporation worth billions. I sat on the LI Board of Directors because it was the one family obligation that gave me the freedom to not have to work for LI. Brady and Annika loved their jobs with the company. As did my cousins Ash and Nolan. My younger brother, Jensen, played football with the Vikings, so he wasn’t on the company payroll. Neither was my oldest cousin, Jaxson, who played hockey with the Chicago Blackhawks. Dallas, the cherished baby of our Lund family tree, was still in college, but I knew she planned on taking LI by storm once she had her degree. I’ll admit some days it bugged me to be the only Lund heir without a college degree, so I’d jokingly started calling myself the black sheep of the family. Yet the joke was on me; the only person who denied that moniker was my dad.

  Speaking of … I’d stalled long enough. Time to make the call.

  I shoved my plate back and picked up my phone. Scrolling through my recent calls, I counted the number of times my mother had called.

  Twenty-seven times in the last thirty days.

  Had it really been a month since I’d seen her?

  I was such a tool for not calling her back. I hit Dial.

  She answered on the fourth ring. “Is this a trick? Or is it really my beautiful boy reaching out to his mother?”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s me. Sorry I—” I closed my eyes. “I’m a terrible son, all right?”

  “No, you are wonderful son with terrible manners. Big difference.”

  “Thanks for the clarification.”

  “It’s what I do. Point out truths. So, I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “I hear that ‘but’ in your tone.”

  “But I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Of course. You can speak of anything.”

  I didn’t sugarcoat it. “Please back off on your constant pressure for me to find a woman and settle down.”

  A pause followed. Then, “I know not what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. I haven’t been around lately because you harp that it’s not good for me to be alone; then you point to Brady with his perfect match, Lennox, expecting me to follow his same path. I’m not him, Mom.”

  She sighed. “I know this. But you are mistaken about who you’re avoiding at family time. It is not me you’re avoiding. It is Brady.”

  “How’d you come up with that?”

  “Walker, a mother sees these things. You are a green-eyed alien around Brady and Lennox. You’ve always expected to find your life partner long before Brady. That’s why you’ve auditioned so very many ladies for the part, no?”

  I said nothing, even though it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

  “My part is to encourage you to look for her. That’s all I have done. Not because Brady found his, but because you’ve been ready to meet the right woman for a long time.”

  Her image immediately popped into my head. Hair the color of rich mahogany that framed her heart-shaped face. Large green eyes fringed with sooty lashes. Her lush pink lips curled into a secret smile. The sassy tilt of her head. And that body, all soft, plush curves I wanted to sink into, taste thoroughly and worship with my hands and mouth.

  “Walker, my sweet boy, are you still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your silence makes me wonder if you’re thinking of one woman in particular?”

  Maybe I’d been too hasty in telling Brady I didn’t want to track her down. Because I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for more than an hour since I’d left her at the bar three days ago.

  Bottom line was I needed to know if the spark between us had been real, or if I’d been a chump. I’d call Brady on Monday to ask for his help since he’d offered it.

  “I’m thinking of only you, Mom.”

  She snorted.

  “What’s new with you? Annika said you were bugging her about a heritage thing.”

  “Ann-i-ka. Don’t get me started on her.”

  But that’s exactly what happened. She went off on a tangent and I was off the hook.

  For now.

  Three

  TRINITY

  I hadn’t painted sets since college. But I’d dabbled in every discipline within the fine arts curriculum, so I wasn’t worried that the set designs would be out of the realm of my experience. I just hoped Nate wasn’t expecting museum-quality artwork. He’d been impressed by my portfolio, if confused why an artist with my background would be applying for a set-painting job at a small community theater for minimal pay.

  My spin on it wasn’t a lie … exactly. I wasn’t doing it only for the money. I did enjoy interacting with other creative types and used that energy to create a fresh perspective in my own work. When I got stuck in a rut, the only thing that kept me from spiraling into a massive depression was working on a project completely different from what I’d just done.

  I’d learned—the hard way—that after finishing a project, be it a mixed-media piece, a sculpture, a painting, glassware, metalwork or textiles, I couldn’t do the next logical thing: stick with that medium and build on the (modest) success of it. No, I had to upend my creative process entirely. Every time.

  I’d been told by more successful artist friends to focus and control the chaos instead of allowing it to lead me astray. I pretended to soak in their words of wisdom, all the while knowing they didn’t understand. My brain, my process just didn’t work that way. So I’d stopped trying to explain. I’d also stopped listening to advice—especially unsolicited advice.

  My phone rang and I glanced at the caller ID.

  Speaking of unsolicited advice … in that moment I wondered if I should’ve given the caller my new phone number. I took a deep breath and put a smile in my voice. “Hey, Ramon. What’s up?”

  “Chica. Please tell me you’re up early because you’re in your studio working on that textile commission.”

  “Nope. The client opted not to follow through with it.” Please don’t say I told you so.

  Silence.

  Judgy silence.
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br />   “I am sorry. I love you … but I could’ve told you—”

  “That you win some, you lose some. That’s how it goes, Ramon. Being a working artist is a fickle business.”

  “As I well know, since I’m supplementing my art career by running a food truck,” he retorted.

  Ramon had chosen to use his Mexican heritage in both his art and his cuisine. His food truck business was doing remarkably well, and instead of embracing that success, he was obsessed with taking his art to the next level. Somehow I’d become his sounding board, even though I rarely reciprocated. Except in a moment of self-doubt the week before, I’d shown him the sketches for the Stephens project. And in typical fashion, he’d pointed out several things I’d done wrong.

  “Hey, I’m not immune to needing to pay the mortgage either. That’s why I’m sitting in the parking lot of the Seventh Street Community Center, about to head in so I can start painting sets for the production of Into the Woods.”

  More silence.

  Great. “What?”

  “How did you even find out they were looking for a set painter?”

  “I saw an ad in the Twin Cities Reader. Why does that matter?”

  Ramon sighed. “Did you ever consider if you’re selling your skills to the lowest bidder then that’s a reflection on what your art is worth? Maybe that’s why you didn’t get the textile commission.”

  I refused to get suckered into an argument with him about artistic integrity when he had a separate stream of income that allowed him to make that choice.

  “I’ll admit I am happy knowing that you didn’t hear about this job from Randy. You don’t need to do another freebie.”

  Ramon hadn’t liked my ex-boyfriend—the ex before my last ex, Milo—at all. “I took the job painting the mural in his sister’s coffee shop even though it wasn’t for much money. It turned out great and was a lot of fun. I could’ve said no, but I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “You should’ve said no. You shouldn’t be wasting your time painting common murals, Trinity. If you would’ve focused your energy on—”

  Not this again. “Look. I’ve gotta go in. I’ll talk to you later.” I hung up.

  I snagged my messenger bag from the cargo area of my SUV and draped the long strap over my shoulder. I garnered a few curious looks as I passed by groups standing around smoking, because I didn’t fit the “actor” mold in my white painter pants and Star Trek T-shirt.

  Nate was the first person I ran into.

  “Trinity! Great to have you on board. I’ll show you what’s been done so far.”

  I followed him into a conference room. Plastic tarps were stacked on the counter and long rolls of paper were bundled together alongside a table filled with dozens of brushes. Another conference table held cans of paint and an industrial-sized airbrushing machine.

  “Wow. This is a pretty sweet setup.”

  “LCCO is amazingly generous with their funding.” He paused. “I should probably tell you that when some of the sets are constructed and painted, you will have high school–age volunteers helping you assemble them.”

  He laughed at my look of horror.

  “The kids are great. Only the students with an interest in art and theater will be assisting.”

  “Okay, that makes a difference.”

  Nate pointed to the wide strip of tape down the center of the floor. “Half of this space is yours. The other half is for the set builder. He’ll mark pieces once they’re ready for paint and you can move them into your work area.”

  “Is there a particular order? Or do I just finish them as they’re brought to me?”

  “I’ll get you a list. We need to have everything finalized two weeks prior to the first performance.” He skirted a stack of plywood and led me to a desk in the corner. “I know you were a late addition to the crew and we appreciate you stepping in on such short notice. I’ve drawn everything out, adding color so you can see exactly the look and style I’m going for. I made blank duplicates of the basic design, so if a concept doesn’t look right onstage, we can change it here first before tackling the paint.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

  He smiled. “We’re a community theater group, but we don’t want to look like amateurs.”

  “I get that. Trust me.”

  “Good. I have to get back since I’m also Chris’s AD, but I’ll let you familiarize yourself with everything. Our builder set up his machinery outside so you won’t have to hear saws and hammers. He’ll have at least two pieces ready to go after lunch.” He cut back through the piles and disappeared.

  I wandered through the space, gauging the materials. Then I sat at the desk and flipped through the schematics. Nate had been very thorough. But in order for me to get a feel for his designs, I’d need to start fresh. I pulled out my sketchbook and colored pencils and got to work.

  Sometimes I listened to music while I worked. But today, with the door between the spaces open, I let the sounds of being backstage inspire me. Snippets of music. Laughter from the cast. Chris and Nate barking instructions and encouragement.

  Every once in a while I’d hear the back door open and footsteps shuffle across the tile into the conference room, but I couldn’t see anything from my corner hiding spot. I’d finished re-creating half of the sketches when a sharp pain reminded me it’d been a few hours since I’d moved.

  I stood and stretched until the tendon in my neck popped back into place. My left foot had fallen asleep, and when I took a step, I lost my balance and my hip connected with the rolls of paper, sending them crashing to the floor.

  “Awesome.”

  Just as I bent over to grab one, I heard a deep male voice say, “Let me help you with that.”

  “Thanks.” I moved the closest roll back up and froze when I saw who had helped me: Walker, the sexy blue-eyed Viking I’d been dreaming about all damn week.

  He stared at me.

  Ha! More like he glared at me.

  He bit off, “You,” as if too angry to say anything else.

  My mouth opened to explain when Nate sailed into the room. “Trinity, I need some—” He stopped and his gaze winged between us. “Oh, good. I see you two have met.”

  “Not exactly,” the bearded wonder muttered low enough for only me to hear.

  Outside the room, someone hollered, “Nate, Chris needs you.”

  “It never fails.” Nate grabbed a roll of masking tape off the table and breezed out the door.

  “So who are you pretending to be today? Amelia Earhart? Because you’re not Amelia Carlson.”

  I took a step backward. “What are you doing here? Are you stalking me or something?”

  “I’d have to know your name to stalk you, sweetheart, and we both know you lied to me about that. So I’ll ask again. Who are you?” He tipped his head toward the door. “Unless you want me to go out there and ask Nate, in front of everybody, who you really are?”

  “Just chill for a sec. It’s not what you think.”

  “Babe, I’m so chill I’m fucking frosty. Who. Are. You?”

  “Stop crowding me.”

  “Have it your way.” He spun around.

  “Walker. Wait.” I set my hand on his upper arm to stop him. The feel of his bulky biceps caused a strange tickle in my belly. This guy was solid muscle. He could break me in two if he wanted. And he seemed mad enough to do it.

  Do you blame him?

  He got right in my face. “I’m surprised you remembered my name. For the last time. Who. Are. You?”

  “Trinity Carlson.”

  He muttered about a weird T name and then demanded, “Why lie about it?”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “Bull. Shit. Did you or did you not tell me your name was Amelia?”

  I’d had enough of him looming over me. “No, I did not specifically tell you my name was Amelia. You overheard someone call me by that name and assumed it was mine.”

  That literally knocked him back a step.


  See? Not the only one at fault here, big guy.

  Then he rallied with, “But you didn’t correct that assumption either.”

  “No, but I didn’t lie to you, Walker.”

  I saw the moment when it clicked. “You lied to those other guys? Why?”

  “There were two of them, one of me. I was in a strange bar without my wingwoman or my cell phone—so yeah, do the math.” I paused. “Look, the name thing wasn’t a blatant lie, but more like a … half-truth. And I felt bad about doing it.”

  “Half-truth?” He made a sound of disbelief. “You do realize that’s the same as a lie?”

  He sort of had me there. “Let’s not delve into an ‘Is the glass half full or partially empty?’ argument,” I said breezily. “My full name is Trinity Amelia Carlson. Professionally I go by Trinity Amelia.”

  “But everyone calls you Amelia?”

  I shook my head. “Just my family.” My stepmonster started calling me that because Trinity sounded too hippie-ish. Heaven knew a man of my father’s stature didn’t want the general public to be reminded of his out-of-wedlock dalliance. “I go by Trinity. And I never told you to call me Amelia. In fact, I think you said my name once.”

  “Fine. Trinity. Maybe your name was a half-truth, but don’t deny the number you gave me was completely fake—and that, sweetheart, was a total dick move.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What? It was not fake! Which means it was not a dick move! That was my old cell phone number.”

  “Old, like from years past? Because even if you change cell phone providers, you can keep your ‘old’ number.”

  “Unless the reason you change it is because of harassment,” I retorted. “Last month I got twenty-four thousand unknown calls. Twenty-four thousand. Do you have any idea what it’s like for your phone to ring every two minutes? Day and night? My provider threw out an excuse about autobot issues and refused to do anything. I’d just switched providers and got a new phone number the day we met. So when you asked for my number, the one I gave you was a reflex, okay? I had that number for four years and the new one for four hours.” I inhaled a deep breath. “Besides, you didn’t give me your number. And you did leave the bar in one helluva hurry. Maybe I took that to mean you only wanted to contact me on your terms. So I’m mostly at fault here, but not completely, and you know it.”