by Maggie Wells
Her hair was the exact same shade of brown-black as her eyes. She kept it cut short. Really short. He usually preferred long hair on a woman, but on Darla, short hair was the polar opposite of matronly or masculine. The close-crop exposed the long, graceful curve of her neck. Curls sprang up at her nape, but waved at the translucent skin of her temples. She was fair, but not pasty. No, her skin was as luminous as the opal in the ring his mama inherited from her mama. Creamy white warmed by the peachy-pink flush of heat and exertion.
The knock-out punch was her figure. Bubba ought to be required to post a ‘Dangerous Curves Ahead’ sign outside The Pit’s front door, because Darla had them. Full, high breasts, a waist Jake was pretty sure he could span with both hands, and a heart-shaped ass capable of distracting the man from both her rack and the ones Bubba served up with his tangy sauce. There probably wasn’t a man in Mobile who hadn’t given some thought to snagging one of her squeeze bottles of sauce, dousing Darla in the rich spiciness, and taking a big, healthy bite.
More than once, he’d heard Zelda Jo call her Betty Boop, and he had to admit the nickname fit. She was sizzle and sass served up with a side of back-off-jack. He’d always taken her standoffish air to mean she wouldn’t entertain anything more than some friendly ribbing with a dash of harmless flirtation. He wasn’t very good at either of those, so he’d never really tried.
Attractive as she was, she was also sharp-tongued and prickly as the day was long. She carried the air of the untouchable about her. A single mom. A walking, talking scandal. Not that he really cared about local gossip.
He’d never had trouble attracting interested females. Ones that didn’t come with a boatload of baggage. Why waste time and energy on a woman who seemed to enjoy knocking guys down?
Kicking up a gear, he set his sights on the old Tarrington Industries buildings around a curve in the waterfront. Cade Construction was converting the row of abandoned warehouses into luxury loft apartments. Pushing beyond the stitch developing in his side, he zoomed in on the lights shining in the third set of windows from the left.
Home.
He wasn’t quite used to thinking of the condo as his yet. Spurred by his younger brother’s foray into homeownership, he’d purchased the unit from Harley Cade himself a month before. Who’d have thought the lunch lady’s thug kid would transform himself into Mobile’s most successful real estate mogul? Jake was amused and amazed that in the years since graduating from St. Pat’s, Harley’d done better than most every kid born with the silver spoon jammed into their mouths. There was nothing Jake liked more than watching someone defy and overcome odds stacked against them. Harley’d gone from working construction over the summers and after graduation, to flipping houses, to transforming dilapidated property into livable space for people of every income level. If there was something happening in the bay area, Harley had a hand in.
To his surprise, Jake discovered he actually loved building earth-bound things almost as much as he loved rocket propulsion when his younger brother bought a half-finished house on Dauphin Island. With the work on Brian’s place complete, his future sister-in-law suggested he put his tools to work for a higher cause and re-introduced him to Harley Cade. He’d been volunteering his weekends with the Home Again rebuilding project ever since, rehabbing storm-damaged properties so displaced coastal families could return from Mother Nature-imposed exile.
Eyes fixed on the lights he’d left burning in his unit, he picked up the pace for the home stretch. Jake couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Unlike Brian, he’d never had the itch to travel the world. He was an Alabama man through and through. And if his crappy vision kept him from being a space man, then Alabama was as good a place as any.
He didn’t slow until he reached the chain link fence blocking off the areas currently under construction. Cade Construction’s interlocking C logo graced the corner of the warning signs posted at regular intervals. The condo he’d bought was part of the reclamation of dilapidated waterfront warehouses. Due to his work with Home Again, which started as a Cade Construction initiative, Harley’d given him first crack at the new units coming on the market.
Harley and Darla were close. Everyone knew they were. There were some who flat-out wondered if Harley’d played a part in the creation of little Miss Grace Kennet. Harley’s mama, Connie Cade, had been the one who took Darla in when her parents kicked her out. Jake had been off at college when the news broke, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard all about Darla’s fall from grace and the speculation surrounding her new living situation. She’d steadfastly refused to name the father of her child, which only added fuel to the fire.
Frankly, Jake didn’t think Harley was the one. He knew the guy well enough now to know he wouldn’t have hesitated to claim his kid. Besides, Harley was all snugged up to Delaney Tarrington these days and was happier than any ten men had the right to be. Jake’s past wasn’t exactly snowy white, either. A few weeks after Darla had given birth to her baby, his relationship with his college girlfriend exploded like a supernova.
Jake tried to shake the memories off. Ancient history. In some ways, his brief, and secret, engagement to his college sweetheart seemed like a scene from a movie. Most days, he felt a little like a capped tooth—everything shiny and clean on the surface, but underneath, the original was ugly, possibly rotten, and the imprint of acute pain lingered.
Inhaling deeply, he forced the thought from his head. Darla Kennet had asked him to come to her place for dinner. He held onto the oxygen for a moment, letting the salty air brine his lungs as he continued to chug along.
He loved living close to the bay. Having the dark expanse of water right outside his door made it somehow easier to block out the city lights surrounding him. His unit had a rooftop garden area. On the day he moved in, he’d set up his bed, covered the mattress in the sheets he’d been toting from apartment to apartment for years, then went straight up to the roof to set up the new high-powered telescope he’d bought himself as a housewarming present.
Slowing to a walk, he laced his fingers behind his head and tipped his head back to check on the moon again. Yep. Still there. Big, beautiful, and beaming like a spotlight from the velvety darkness. Blinking at the stars, he wondered if Grace Kennet had a telescope and made a mental note to put his old one in his trunk in case she didn’t.
He had no way of knowing what the girl would need. Just as Darla had no way of knowing he’d totally lied when he said he mentored kids vying for an It IS Rocket Science scholarship.
Guilt twisted in his gut. Truth be told, he’d never even read the entry reports. He merely signed off on the disbursement of funds each year. But when Darla said she wanted his help for Grace, he’d seen his shot. He’d figure out the logistics of his involvement later.
****
Jake slowed to a stop behind a line of dusty pickup trucks. The first time he showed up on a site, the guys from Cade Construction had razzed him mercilessly about his shiny import SUV. He’d let them have their fun as he strapped on his stiff new tool belt, then unlatched the hood to show off the engine. The guys who volunteered their nights and weekends to Home Again reclamation projects might not have fancy engineering degrees, but there wasn’t a man alive who couldn’t appreciate the beauty of German mechanical genius.
He’d been bitten by the home improvement bug when Brian proved he was better off handling paint rollers than table saws. Under the guise of helping his brother, Jake had learned the ins and outs of laying tile, mitering crown molding, and installing cabinetry. He’d also discovered he loved working with his hands.
Hoisting the loaded leather tool belt from the back seat, he lifted a hand to let the project lead know he was reporting for duty. Christian Lacour had the kind of exotic good looks that made other guys contemplate tragic nail gun accidents. Even Jake would have pegged him as more the office type than a hands-on kind of guy. A hotshot out of Tulane University in New Orleans, the guy had a master’s degree in somethi
ng called sustainable real estate development.
Harley’d high fived himself for days after Lacour accepted the position, thrilled to have the brunt of Home Again’s project management load taken off his plate. But he still spent a good chunk of time onsite. Ninety percent of Cade Construction employees still volunteered a number of their off hours on various jobs. Harley included.
Though Jake had never had any formal training in building and construction, the smell of sawdust embedded itself in his pores. After Brian’s house was finished, he’d tackled a kitchen update for his mother, but a few weeks being micromanaged by the woman who gave him life taught him a tough lesson. He needed to find someplace more peaceful to ply his skills. Like a full-fledged renovation site.
Lucky for him, his mom had been pleased as punch with her new backsplash. She’d bragged to Connie Cade at some fundraiser or another, Connie mentioned something to Laney Tarrington, who then babbled to Brooke, and the next thing he knew, Jake was following Harley Cade around a neighborhood that had never fully recovered from the last hurricane to bitch-slap the Alabama coast.
Year after year, Mother Nature did her best to drive them out. And every time, men like Harley Cade and the people behind the Home Again project stood up to her by coming right back to the coast. At least, until the triple whammy of hurricanes Ivan, Dennis, and Katrina hit. Modeled after Habitat for Humanity, Home Again required the homeowners to invest a modest down payment and a heap of sweat equity into their new home. This particular project hit a little closer to the heart than most.
The potential homeowner, Jeremiah Rasmussen, had once been Mobile’s most dynamic Cub Scouts leader. Recruiting volunteers for the project had been a breeze. Most every guy around Jake’s age had been in his pack at one time or another. Now, a man in his middle fifties, he’d lived through so many humbling experiences he’d been forced to accept help from the boys he’d once led with grace and dignity.
At one time, he’d been a well-paid middle manager for Tarrington Industries. Then, Katrina did a number on his house and both cars. The killer storm also marked the beginning of the end for his career. Tarrington Industries was closed under a cloud of mismanagement and bankruptcy proceedings, and hundreds of Mobile area residents found themselves suddenly unemployed. Mr. Rasmussen had taken a job managing facilities for a chain of local car dealerships, but his new employer didn’t pay nearly what he was used to making and his savings depleted merely trying to keep his family afloat. Desperate, he’d moved his family up to Memphis to take a more promising job. His new gig lasted long enough for him to think he might recover—then the layoffs came.
A lifelong realist, Mr. Rasmussen said himself there wasn’t a lot of call for guys a few years shy of retirement age in the current job market. Knowing Harley Cade was now the guy with his hand in every pie, and aching to move back to the coast, he’d put in a call to the kid he’d once kicked out of his scout pack and asked for help.
“Pride is a luxury few men can afford,” he said as they watched the concrete slab foundation being poured. “If swallowing what’s left of mine is what it takes to come home, then I’ll gulp it down without so much as a sip of water.” He’d flashed a sad smile as he looked around at the assembled volunteers. “This is home. I never want to leave again.”
Jake smiled and waved to the old leader of the pack as he headed for the young man in charge. “Hey, Chris.”
“You’re late,” Christian muttered without looking up from his ever-present tablet.
“I’m a volunteer. You want to fire me?”
“No, I want you here on time.” The other man finally dragged his attention away from the project plan and looked up. “Just for that, I’ve got you on floors. Hope you brought your kneepads.”
“I hear that’s what he says to all his girls,” Matias Cabrera cracked as he stalked past with a stack of two-by-fours on his shoulder. A former military man, and now vice president of Cade Construction, Mat didn’t take shit from anyone, but he loved to dish out hefty doses.
“And they all do,” Christian called after him.
Though he knew Lacour to be a lot more reserved than he let on around the guys, Jake had seen first-hand how the ladies flocked to him. Christian had curly burnished copper hair he kept cropped close, skin the color of café au lait, and the iciest blue eyes Jake had ever seen. The guy’s genetic cocktail was so potent Jake had been unable to repress his inner scientist upon first meeting him. He’d spent thirty minutes of happy hour subtly probing for information about the younger man’s family background. At last, Chris had set down his beer and stated flatly, “Black, Mexican, and Irish-English mutt. Could you stop staring at me now? People are gonna think we’re a couple and you’re not really my type.”
Smiling at the memory, Jake bobbed his head. “Fine. Floors it is.” He started toward the house. “Let me know when I can come out of the doghouse.”
He let the tool belt slide off his shoulder and started to unbuckle the clasp. Without conscious thought, he whistled the perky tune he’d heard on the car radio. He wandered all the way to what would be the living room before the all-too-familiar refrain clicked and he froze. Too late.
“That’s right, Jakey, shake it off,” one of the crew called out.
“Shake-shake,” another chimed in.
“Funny.” Jake settled the tool belt on his hips and eyed the stack of laminate flooring piled in the corner.
“Haters. You know they’re gonna hate,” Mat chimed in as he strode into the room. He’d ditched the two-by-fours and picked up a couple of sullen-looking teenagers wearing bright turquoise Home Again T-shirts. Gesturing to the two volunteers, he grinned. “I brought you flunkies.”
Jake rubbed his hands together in his best mad scientist impersonation. “Just what I’ve always wanted.” His audience was not impressed. He eyed the two high school students appraisingly. “Either of you ever touch a hammer?”
The boy raised a tentative hand halfway, then let it fall to his side. The girl simply stared at him. He didn’t need his vast knowledge of aerospace dynamics to see the duo were padding their extracurriculars for college applications. Only a few weeks into stewarding similar candidates through the process, Jake had figured out exactly how to get the best results from this brand of volunteer.
Extending a hand, he fixed them both with his most professorial stare. “Hello. I’m Dr. Jake Dalton. I’m an aerospace engineer for NSA Industries. I hold advanced degrees in quantum mechanics and theoretical physics from the U of A and MIT. Not only am I going to teach you the ropes around here, but I’ll also be the one writing your letters of recommendation.” A few regulars snickered, but the two flunkies he’d been given snapped to attention. He sent a smirk sailing in Mat’s direction, then refocused his energies on his students for the day. “All right, then.” He clapped his hands together and gave them a narrow-eyed stare. “Who’s ready to learn the joys of laminate flooring?”
A heavy hand landed on Jake’s shoulder. He looked up to find Mat staring at a point beyond him.
“Hold up a sec. The big man’s here, and I think he’s looking for you.”
Jake whirled, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. The urge to roll his eyes was overwhelming when he spotted Harley Cade striding through the chaos like he was the King of Everything out for a stroll in the park. Mat worked for Cade Construction, but Jake certainly didn’t. Harley and his mother provided the seed money for the Home Again project, but plenty of other coastal businesses and families contributed too.
Harley may or may not be considered the big man on the project, but he certainly was one in every other sense. Nearly six and a half feet tall, the man was a solid wall of bulk. When he felt like doing so, he tempered his intimidating size with a good-old-boy smile and a lazy demeanor that couldn’t be further from the truth. Other times, he didn’t bother hiding his steel and gunmetal core. He was the kind of guy women wanted, and men tried to goad into a fistfight.
> Cade moved through the worksite like a politician, doling out smiles and waves, greeting a few people by name, but all the while keeping his sight set on his goal. And Mat hadn’t been wrong. Harley seemed to have his crosshairs set on him.
Perplexed, Jake resettled the tool belt on his hips as he turned back to the teenagers. “Why don’t you two go unstrap the flooring,” he instructed. “I’ll be with you in a second.”
The kids shuffled to the far corner of the room and Jake steadied himself for whatever might be coming. For the most part, he hadn’t really given Harley a whole lot of thought. Their paths usually only crossed on job sites, and then they rarely did more than the usual nod and grunt. He’d certainly never done anything to get sideways with the guy. Or, if he had, he didn’t know how.
He liked Harley, but he suffered neither the desire to be him nor the delusion he could somehow beat him in a fight. The running and part-time construction work kept him in shape, but didn’t make him Floyd Mayweather. If someone the size of Harley Cade had a beef with him, Jake was more of a mind to try to negotiate an outcome that wouldn’t result in loose teeth or broken ribs.
“Hey, Harley.” Jake kept his gaze on the teenagers, making sure they were on track with their task before bothering to look up. “What’s up?”
Harley smirked and turned to nod a greeting at the teenagers. Much to Jake’s chagrin, the little shits took one look at Cade and decided to hop to.
“You’re doing laminate today, huh?”
“I drew the short straw,” Jake confirmed.
“For a guy who can score any chick he wants by telling them his first name, ol’ Christian sure likes to dole out the punishment.”
Jake smirked and nodded. “Goes with the name, I guess.”
“And the red room,” Matias chimed in as he led a couple more volunteers toward the back of the house. Turning to the older woman, he beamed a toothpaste-ad smile. “Don’t worry. We make him leave the whips at home.”
