Men at Work

by Karen Kendall, Cindi Myers

  “I’ll ask around and see what I can find for you,” he said. “Don’t give up hope.”

  “I won’t,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. After all, she’d always gotten by somehow. And she did have some money in the bank. She just had to keep looking.

  And stop thinking so much about how she’d screwed things up with Josh.

  She’d caught herself driving by his house again yesterday, even though it wasn’t his house anymore. The new owners had been moving in. She’d stopped her car down the street and had watched them for a while—a man and woman and two little girls. The girls had been so excited, skipping around the yard, exclaiming over the flowers, or a frog one of them found. The mom and dad had hauled boxes from the moving truck and had called instructions back and forth. “That lamp goes in the living room.” “Put that box in our bedroom.”

  Watching them, Sam had realized they were the perfect family for the house—ones that would make it a real home. Josh had been right to sell it. One day, when he was ready, he’d buy another home and fix it up for his family.

  And when the time was right, she’d find her home, too.

  “You gonna take those with you to your new place?”

  She turned and saw he was pointing across the room to the strands of red, purple and blue glass beads that separated her kitchen from her photography studio. She smiled. “Sure. I got those at a fair when I was fourteen.” That had been the first foster home where she’d had her own bedroom and her foster mom had let her hang them over the doorway. She’d had them in every place she lived since.

  “I don’t know what you see in that hippie stuff,” he said.

  She laughed. “Those aren’t hippie! Well, they are, but the Victorians had them first. And those are real glass, not plastic.”

  “At least the sofa’s new,” he said. “That’ll look good wherever you go.”

  The sofa had been a definite splurge, purchased after a lucrative job taking school pictures for a private academy. Covered in tomato-red ultrasuede, the sofa matched the throw pillows she’d had since she was a little girl. “The throw pillows belonged to my mom,” she said. The two needlepoint pillows were a little faded after all these years, but she could still clearly read the words Home Sweet Home cross-stitched on one and There’s No Place Like Home on the other.

  “I think my wife, Bernice, had some like that a long time ago,” Mr. B. said. He shook his head. “It’s amazing how many of her things I still have at my place and she’s been gone ten years now.”

  “That’s nice,” she said.

  “Nice until you have to move it all. You’ve got it easy. Try moving when you’ve lived in one spot forty years. I got so much stuff I don’t know what to do with it. You should come down and see if there’s anything you want.”

  “I will.” It would be nice to have something to remember him by. She realized with a start that she had similar mementos from every family she’d lived with. The ceramic clock painted with roses that sat above her worktable was from her first foster home. The afghan at the end of her bed had been crocheted by her second foster mom, while the orchid that bloomed over the kitchen sink was from the third home she’d lived in.

  Why had she never realized this before? No matter where she lived, she always brought pieces of her past with her. Even when she’d lived in her car, it had been full of things she loved and reminders of better times.

  Mr. B. hoisted himself off the stool. “Come on down soon as you can. I got the Salvation Army coming by tomorrow afternoon to pick up a truckload of stuff. The movers are coming at the end of the week.”

  “I’ll stop by later.” She walked with him to the door. “I’ll have to find something that reminds me of you every time I look at it.”

  “Well, you ain’t getting my old recliner, so I don’t know what else would remind you of a grouchy old fart like me.”

  “I’ll find something,” she said.

  When she closed the door behind him, she was smiling, and the smile stayed with her. Mr. B. had reminded her of something important. A home didn’t come ready-made. A person had to move in and put their personal stamp on it. The perfect home for her wasn’t sitting vacant, waiting on her. She had to find a place and make it a home, by filling it with the things—and the people—she loved.

  7

  THE BANQUET to celebrate the launch of the new Frameworks for the Future fund-raising calendar was a black-tie affair held at a posh bayfront ballroom in Miami Beach. Josh wasn’t two steps inside the door before he was nose-to-nose with his own naked image. Looking around, he discovered the walls were lined with life-sized blow-ups of all the calendar photos.

  But the photos were apparently a hit with the other guests—at least the female contingent, who were busy oohing and ahhing over each one. It reminded him of his days as an exotic dancer. He liked knowing he still had a little of that brashness in him. He headed toward the tables at the front of the room, where he’d been told he’d been seated.

  He hadn’t gone far before he was waylaid by a buxom matron in a sparkly silver dress. “You’re Mr. July, aren’t you?” she asked. “Would you sign my calendar?”

  Grinning, he scrawled his signature across the bottom left-hand corner of his photo. Before he found his seat he signed three more.

  The models were seated three to a table with members of Frameworks’ board of directors. He exchanged introductions with Ben Delgado, Mr. June, and Mr. August, Hawk Shadow Bonaparte. Ben’s date was also the board chair of Frameworks, Marina Reston, while Hawk was accompanied by a petite platinum blonde with a blue sapphire stud in the side of her nose, Gina. As the lone stag male at the table, Josh felt a little conspicuous.

  He looked around, hoping to see Sam, but the room was filling up quickly and he couldn’t find her.

  Shortly after seven, Marina left them and made her way to the podium at the front of the room. A stunning woman with light brown hair with blond highlights, dressed in a slinky gown that showed off her curves, she had the attention of every man in the room when she spoke, but none more so, Josh thought, than Ben. He hung on her every word and his eyes never left her.

  Josh had looked at Sam that way. He’d give anything for the chance to look at her that way again. It was silly for them to let something like a misunderstanding over a house come between them.

  “I want to welcome you all to this celebration in honor of our first ever Frameworks for the Future fund-raising calendar,” Marina said. “I want to offer a special thanks to our handsome male models.”

  She paused and waited for the applause and whistles to die down, then continued. “Not only do these men volunteer their time helping to build homes for families in need, this time, they literally bared all for the cause and, I think you’ll all agree, the results are stunning.” She motioned to the pictures that decorated the ballroom.

  More applause and catcalls erupted. “Gentlemen, please stand.” Marina motioned for them to rise.

  They did so, some reluctantly, others waving to their fans. Josh grinned. This wasn’t so different from his days as a stripper, except this time women weren’t stuffing his G-string with ones and fives.

  As the applause died down, he started to take his seat once more and, at that moment, spotted Sam. She was seated in the row of tables behind his, to the far right. And she was staring right at him.

  Their eyes met and he felt a rush of emotion—sadness and hope and intense longing. He had to talk to her again. And this time, he’d let her know how he really felt about her.

  THE REST OF THE BANQUET passed in a blur. There were more speeches, then a dinner. Sam ate mechanically, counting the minutes until she could leave and go in search of Josh. Seeing him here tonight had made her realize how foolish she’d been not to seek him out earlier.

  As soon as the last speech had ended and the waiters began clearing the tables, Sam bolted from her chair. For a moment she lost sight of Josh in the milling crowd, then she spotted him. His back was t
o her, but she’d know those broad shoulders and that brown hair in need of a trim anywhere.

  Then he turned and saw her, and it was all she could do not to run toward him. Somehow she walked, cursing the high heels she wore that kept her from moving very swiftly.

  “Sam, it’s good to see you,” he said when she reached his side.

  She searched his face for some sign of his emotions, but his expression was impassive and his eyes gave nothing away. “It’s good to see you, too.” She fumbled with the strap of her evening bag. “I—I saw you sold your house,” she said.

  “Yes. I think the new owners have already moved in.”

  “I saw them. A family with two girls.” She took a deep breath. Apologies were never easy, even when she knew she’d been in the wrong. “You were right, Josh,” she said. “The house is better for them. I’m sorry I said the things I did.”

  She didn’t realize how tense he’d been until he relaxed at her words. “It’s not just about the money for me,” he said. “I wanted you to know that. The money’s important, but it’s not the most important thing. Not by a long shot.”

  “I know that now.” Someone bumped into her and mumbled an apology. People milled around them.

  Josh touched her arm. “Let’s go somewhere quieter and talk.”

  They had to stop three times on the way out of the ballroom so that Josh could sign calendars for appreciative fans. “This is Samantha Delaney, the photographer,” he said, introducing Sam to the first woman.

  The woman barely glanced at Sam. “It’s so wonderful of you to do this for Frameworks,” she said, beaming at Josh. “I know all my friends are going to want these calendars.”

  “Sorry about that,” Josh said when they were finally alone in a side corridor leading away from the ballroom.

  She smiled. “Not so easy being a celebrity, huh?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t do it for the fame. That’s not what I’m all about, despite the impression you may have gotten.”

  “Josh, I’m sorry. I know that now. I just…” She hugged her arms under her breasts. “Obviously, I have a few issues with the idea of home. You got caught in the cross fire.”

  “If I’d been paying more attention, I’d have figured that out,” he said. “You gave me enough clues. I know it was hard on you, losing everything so young and being moved around all over the place.”

  She gave a shaky laugh, one very close to tears. “Yeah, I’m a mess. Consider yourself lucky that we didn’t keep seeing each other.”

  “Don’t say that.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ve been miserable since you left.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been pretty miserable, too.”

  He pulled her close, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to sob all over his suit. He smoothed his hand down her back and she had never felt more safe. More at home. “You were right about some things,” he said. “I see that now.”

  She swallowed hard. “What was I right about?”

  “I’d let working and making money blind me to what was really important in life. I told myself I’d have time for other things—and other people—when I’d made my stash. That attitude almost cost me the best thing that ever happened to me—you.”

  She raised her head and looked into his eyes. What she saw there warmed her through. “Do you think we could try again?” she asked.

  His arms tightened around her. “I think we have to.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, a slow, sweet meeting of their lips that said more than any words.

  When at last they pulled apart, they were both smiling. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  “Me first.” In all the turmoil of seeing him again, she’d almost forgotten.

  “All right. What’s your surprise?”

  “I bought a house. It’s not much of one,” she hastened to add. “It needs a lot of work. But it has two bedrooms and a den I can use as a studio—and a big front porch. It’s in a run-down neighborhood, but the real-estate agent thinks it’s going to be the next trendy area in Miami.”

  “That’s great,” he said. “I’m glad you found a place.”

  “There’s only one thing…”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need a contractor to help me fix it up right. Do you know anybody?”

  “I might know someone.” He squeezed her arm. “He doesn’t come cheap, though.”

  “Maybe we can work out something.” She trailed a finger down his shirt front. “A mutually beneficial exchange.”

  “Mmm.” He let his smile form slowly, to devastating effect. “Maybe we can do that.”

  She arched against him, eager now to leave the hotel altogether—or else to get a room upstairs. “What was your surprise?” Maybe it was a room.

  “It’s out in the parking lot.”

  “The parking lot?”

  He laughed. “Come on. I’ll show you.” He put his arm around her and guided her to the door.

  A hot breeze ruffled her hair and blew back her dress as they stepped into the parking lot. The salty marine smell of the ocean mingled with the perfume of oleanders, reminding her of the last time they’d made love. Yes, they definitely needed to get out of here soon. To someplace where they could truly be alone.

  Before they reached his truck, Josh turned and took hold of both her hands. “Close your eyes,” he said.

  “What? Then I won’t be able to see where I’m going.”

  “I’ll guide you. Just close your eyes.”

  Pretending reluctance, she closed her eyes and gripped his hands tightly in hers. He led her, stumbling only a little in her heels, across the lot, then stopped. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

  At first she wasn’t sure what she was looking at in the back of Josh’s truck. Then he reached over and opened the driver-side door and the cargo light lit up. She gasped, then clapped her hands together in delight. “It’s a porch swing.”

  “I thought you might like it.”

  She threw her arms around him and he whirled her about. She laughed and kissed him again. “How long have you been driving around with this is your truck?” she asked.

  “A few days.” He looked sheepish. “I was trying to work up the guts to come see you.” He glanced at the swing. “This was my peace offering. Or a bribe.”

  “A bribe?”

  “Whatever it took to get you back.” His eyes met hers again. “Fifteen years ago, we were just kids. I didn’t realize how special you were then. Now I feel like we’ve had a second chance. I’m not going to blow it again. I love you, Sam. Don’t leave me again.”

  “I love you, too.” Tears stung her eyes—tears of happiness she didn’t try to hold back. “All these years, I thought what was missing in my life was a real home. Now I know home isn’t a building—it’s the people you love and want to be with. And I know I want to be with you.”

  He pulled her close, her head on his shoulder. “Welcome home, Sam.”

  No words had ever sounded sweeter. No place had ever felt as right as in his arms. No matter where they lived, or where they hung that porch swing—she would always be at home with Josh.

  WATCHING IT GO UP

  Colleen Collins

  To my Men at Work coauthors, Karen Kendall and

  Cindi Myers, who were a blast to brainstorm with!

  1

  BEHIND THE DOOR was a naked man.

  Or so private investigator Gina Keys hoped.

  Because if he was naked, he was less likely to run. And if he tried, he’d be picked up for indecent exposure, which would suit her just fine because she’d gladly drive down to the jail and grill him, right there in the holding cell.

  On the other hand, if he was still dressed and put it together that she’d been tailing him, he’d likely bolt and she’d end up in her bald-tire, vegetable-green Honda trying to keep up with his monster-wheel, metallic-green pickup. Oh, yeah, that
would be fun. Like a pea chasing down the Jolly Green Giant.

  Not tonight, baby. This girl—and, in her book, thirty-one years old was still a girl—was too tired and hungry to play follow-the-leader on a hot August night through Miami’s congested streets.

  The dude had better be naked.

  She double-checked the address over the door as she adjusted her fanny pack. Yeah, this was it. Samantha Delaney’s photography studio. Sidling over to the window, Gina tugged off her Miami Heat baseball cap and fluffed her hair, pretending to check her reflection as she scoped for any openings in the drapes. Not a one. She paused to relish a passing ocean breeze before shoving her cap back on.

  She checked her watch. Six-fifteen. She’d watched her target walk in here a little before six.

  Moving back to the door, she raised her fist to knock, then halted. A peephole. Was someone watching her? Not likely, but Gina had long ago learned to err on the side of caution. She stood still, listened, but heard only the distant clash of Cuban and reggaeton music from apartments across the street.

  She tested the doorknob. Unlocked. Cool. After double-checking her phone was on vibrate, she slipped inside.

  Damn.

  She’d assumed she’d be in the photography studio’s reception area, but she was in the studio itself—a narrow room, most likely the front room of an apartment turned into the photography space. Twenty feet in front of her, a slim woman with short brown hair, her back to Gina, was busily adjusting a light. A table heaped with construction tools was to Gina’s left. The rest of the room was cluttered with miscellaneous boxes, lights, cameras. In the back, a rack of clothes. A hodgepodge of photos—from pets to brides—lined the walls.

  She glanced to her right.

  There, bathed in lights against the tightly closed drapes, stood Gina’s target.

  Hawk Shadow Bonaparte.

  Unfortunately, not naked. Still dressed in his work clothes. Boots, jeans and a pristine white T-shirt that set off his mocha skin. A six-five, hundred-percent Native American, he made tall, dark and handsome seem like a child’s ditty. The guy was massive, swarthy, deliciously dangerous-looking. His thick, inky-black hair ran riot over his head, like a primal aura. The glare of lights highlighted the flat, raw-boned planes of his cheeks and lips.