Just One Kiss (Appletree Cove)

by Hall, Traci

  “What do you drink?” Coffee had been a mainstay in his life from the military to now.

  “Tea.”

  Huh. He gestured to the microwave. “Well, you can heat water in there and bring in what you like. I suggest labeling it.” He’d grown up one of five kids. Everything needed a name, or it was up for grabs.

  “I don’t use the microwave.”

  He straightened and whirled toward her in surprise. They were a kitchen necessity to his way of thinking. “What?”

  She lifted her nose and peered at him over it; he noticed her dazzling blue eyes were lined in black. “Microwaves have been linked to cancer.”

  Oh, no. Was she a tree-hugging Pollyanna? “They have not.”

  Her fine black brow arched. “I can send you multiple articles that prove it.”

  He rested his hip against the counter. Sawyer was all about being healthy, but the microwave was fine. “Maybe the original models but not anymore.” There wasn’t a stove in the kitchen for her use. “I guess I can buy a stove…”

  “Don’t do it on my account,” she said, her chin reaching an impossible angle. “I’m only a temp.”

  He’d assumed she would stay, if he liked her work ethic. Wasn’t that why people accepted temporary jobs, in hopes that it would turn into a permanent gig? Her house had the same view as his but needed some TLC. Her dock was missing a post and listed slightly in the water. He got the impression that she could use the job.

  “I can’t make any promises,” he said, “but if you do your work well and follow the rules, it doesn’t have to be temporary.”

  “But it will be.” Grace shifted her purse strap so that it settled on her shoulder, eyeing the open kitchen door as if she wanted to leave. “The longest I can work for you is thirty days.”

  He held out his arm, confused. “Why?”

  She stepped back at his abrupt question.

  “Sorry.” Grace was like a beautiful butterfly. He wanted to hold her and get a better look, but she kept flapping her wings—he was afraid he’d crush her. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

  “I’m a freelance photographer, as you know.” She pursed her lips and didn’t remind him that Bert had broken her camera.

  “Right.”

  “I take temporary jobs between freelance positions.” Her black lashes fluttered. “I don’t like to work at the same thing all the time.”

  He’d never heard of anything so ridiculous. How else did you excel at something except by repetition? How did you create a foundation for wealth? Rules and structure were keys to success.

  “So, even if I gave you a very nice raise, you wouldn’t stay?” He heard the disbelief in his tone and warned himself to calm down. She was his employee. Temporary. He wasn’t responsible for her.

  “Not unless I could get paid ahead for the year,” she said cryptically. “I actually have a photography class I teach in the afternoons at the high school lined up in November.”

  People didn’t turn away steady employment to chase hatching birds at dawn, not when their dock was falling apart. Thank God Grace had shown her true irresponsible colors before he allowed himself to do more than imagine kissing her.

  He edged backward as if her rejection of his possible job offer was personal. “You’re right. Your position is temporary, but I still expect for you to follow my terms of employment.”

  Her jaw clenched. “Everything labeled. Five minutes early. Fast bathroom breaks while on the clock. Did I miss anything?”

  “No, you got it all.” But why had it sounded unreasonable when she said it like that? Sawyer led the way out of the kitchen.

  “Do you need help setting up the computer?” His words were clipped.

  “Nope. That’s why you hired me. I’ll call you over when it’s time to set the passwords.”

  Sawyer had never put together a computer station in his life—he’d always called the professionals, just as he was doing now. “Great,” he said.

  “Great.”

  An awkward silence filled the lobby. Sawyer grabbed the dogs’ Frisbees and went out the back to the fenced-in grass area. Five acres of trees and fields. A creek in the middle. Out here, he had room to breathe. To think.

  He wasn’t sure what had just happened between him and Grace, but it wasn’t how he’d meant for their working relationship to start.

  By the time he went back, it was just past noon and Grace was gone. No good-bye, though she’d left the time, 12:01, on a heart-shaped Post-it. Hardly professional but definitely cute. Like Grace.

  His desk was up, there were two chairs, but he didn’t have his computer or phones operational yet. Maybe Grace would get to that Monday.

  Enough about Grace.

  Bill had been late because the VA bus had needed a new battery, but they’d gotten the men set up, and they’d done good work so far. Sawyer had them priming the walls and working on the trim. They’d paint on Saturday.

  At four, he asked Bill into his office. “Have a seat,” Sawyer said. “These men are your stars?”

  Bill pet Sarge’s head, the dog sitting by his side. “Yeah. They’ve got apartments in a low-rent district by the pier, they pay their bills on time, and for the most part, they stay outta trouble.”

  Sawyer leaned back in the office chair and folded his hands behind his head, elbows out. “You mentioned some of the guys prefer living outside rather than in—is it an anxiety thing?”

  “The military can take a toll,” Bill said, compassion in his blue eyes. “Not everybody’s equipped to handle the stresses of regular life when they return or what they had to deal with over there. Meds help, but I think feeling useful is just as important.”

  Sawyer nodded. His time in the marines had been overseas, no combat, though. He’d learned structure that served him well.

  Bill patted his right knee and looked down at Sarge, who thumped his tail. “I was depressed as hell before this guy came along. Dog forced me out of bed. I think some days, Sarge did more to help me walk again than the physical therapists. I can even run, but it ain’t pretty.” Bill chuckled. “You did that for me, man.”

  Sawyer had worked with Bill right as his fame was on the rise. “Once we’re up and running, I’d like to hire one or two guys on a permanent basis to assist with cleaning the kennels and caring for the dogs.” Jaden had worried that they might need to hire a backup construction crew, but Sawyer had been pleasantly surprised by the vets’ quality of workmanship. True, it was demolishing and repainting, but the skills from the five-man team were solid.

  Bill smiled so wide his freckles stretched, and he touched Sarge’s head. “That’d be great.”

  Uncomfortable at the show of genuine appreciation, Sawyer pointed to the plans on the wall. “What do you think?”

  Bill got up and studied the architectural drawings. “What am I lookin’ at?”

  Sawyer joined him and tapped the paper. “The first building I want done will have twenty kennels, plenty of storage. Running water. Air and heat. We’ll see how that goes, and if I like it, we can do two more.” It had to work.

  “The plans seem pretty straightforward.” Bill clasped his hands behind his back.

  He’d sketched what he’d wanted and paid a firm to give him the actual building specs, making his “vision” tangible. “Can you recommend someone to oversee the process?”

  “A foreman? Jimmy ran a construction company before he served in Iran and returned wounded. He fell into drugs, but he’s clean now. I’ve had him manage several other projects, and he’s never let me down. Want me to bring him in so you can talk to him?”

  “Sure.” Sawyer was willing to trust Bill’s judgment—so far.

  Bill paused before leaving, his fair skin taking on a rosy tint. Sarge got up with a shake of his furry body. “I see Grace is working with you? I ran into her as she was leaving.”<
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  Sawyer crossed to the desk and peered at Bill for answers. Bill had witnessed what a mess he’d made of things at the coffee shop that day. “No matter what I say to her, it comes out wrong.”

  “I understand that.” Bill laughed. “Just be yourself and she’ll thaw.”

  Sawyer didn’t have high hopes for that scenario. “When she left today, she put a sticky note with the exact time on the monitor screen. I’m tempted to get some old-fashioned time cards.”

  Bill rubbed his jaw as if to hide a smile. “Interesting.”

  Sawyer frowned. “Can you believe she doesn’t drink coffee? Who doesn’t drink coffee? And her friend Lottie owns a coffee shop.”

  “That is strange.”

  “And she doesn’t believe in microwaves. I’m going to have to buy a stove after all.” Sawyer rose, and Kita and Diamond joined him by his side.

  Bill asked in confusion, “Grace wants you to buy a stove?”

  Sawyer paced the office, past the empty bookshelves. He relished the challenge of having this place up to speed by the end of next week. “Grace isn’t the issue.”

  “No?”

  Sawyer pressed his palm to the thump of his chest—she was an employee now, and his attraction to her had to be denied. It was a physical thing with no common ground. They were night and day. “Daniella said some things that hit close to home in the breakup.”

  Bill waited by the closed door, his fingers on the handle. “Yeah, sorry about that—saw some of it in the news.”

  “She made sure everyone did.” Sawyer walked to the desk, his gaze on the plans. “The whole point of Bark Camp is to make sure the Sawyer Rivera Training System does everything I’ve been claiming. You know, I haven’t trained and certified a dog myself in over two years? I’ve talked about it, written about it, taught it.” Sawyer looked around his office and then toward Bill, standing at the door. “But this place is where the rubber meets the road. I need to train the dogs here in double time.”

  “Why do you doubt yourself?” Bill rested his hand on Sarge’s head. “Not your ex, I hope.”

  “Bert.” The golden mix was going to be the death of him—he’d gotten the mutt as a rescue without meeting the pup first, and Sawyer realized now that was an ego decision that just might bite him. Hard.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Bert is the dog that knocked Grace over and ate her camera. The one that charged up to Violet. The one that won’t listen…at least, not yet. He’s good with basic commands, but I need more than that.” Sawyer stuffed his hands into his front denim pockets.

  “Well, my money’s on you,” Bill said. “I already have five bucks riding on you, Sawyer.”

  “Against who?”

  “Grace.”

  Sawyer’s arms fell at his sides. Grace had bet against him? Why did that hurt? “What about?”

  “She thinks this”—Bill gestured at the specs pinned to the wall and the empty office—“is too much to accomplish in a week. She seemed concerned that this is a lot to expect of yourself. I told her to look you up online. You’re a man who gets things done.”

  His face must have shown his dismay, because Bill gave a rueful laugh. “Let me go get Jimmy.”

  Sawyer nodded and sank down in the office chair. Maybe he should call the temp agency and see about getting someone else. Someone he didn’t have to prove himself to all over again.

  Or was that cheating on his publicist’s plan and proving Daniella right?

  Being a good man, but only if the circumstances were going his way?

  Besides, he wanted to see Grace’s blue eyes and black curls every day, even if she was annoyed with him for suggesting she label her frilly lunch bag.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday morning, Grace went out back to feed the chickens and found a sealed cardboard box from a camera company on her back porch. Sawyer had come and gone and hadn’t even left a note.

  Was this payback for her Post-it? He hadn’t given her a timecard. She’d seen his reaction to her beliefs about microwaves and how she didn’t drink coffee. She’d turned down what he considered a perfectly good job offer. Grace knew she was unique, but she was the kind to celebrate people’s differences. So why did Sawyer’s reaction rattle her so much?

  Grace took her lunch into Kingston’s quaint downtown and the park at the wharf to watch the boats and get her mind off him. She ate quietly, observing the seagulls and terns. Animals in motion fascinated her—including her beloved chickens.

  Since she was in the area, Grace decided to stop by the Kingston Bird Museum to see if Carlos Perez wanted anything in particular for their newsletter or the website. Each month, the museum featured a different local bird.

  She entered the air-conditioned building and turned left toward Carlos’s office. He was on the phone but hung up when he saw her, beckoning her with a smile. He had thick brown hair and black glasses, and she guessed him to be late thirties. A photo of him with his wife and son, who looked about five, was on his desk.

  “Hey, Grace. How are you?”

  “Hello.” Grace sank into a cushioned armchair opposite his desk. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to deliver the hatchling pictures. You’re welcome to what I sent at no charge, if you can use the images.” She scrunched her nose. “They’re grainy because the light was wrong.” She’d already explained what had happened—but the truth, a dog ate her camera, sounded like a bad excuse. “I just got a new camera.”

  “Ah…right in time for winter birding season. Pick up a pamphlet from the Audubon Society on the way out. They’re in a stack by the exit.”

  She’d screwed up big time by not delivering the pictures. “Nothing until then?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Carlos took off his glasses and squinted at her. “I mentioned your name to someone talking about doing a coffee table book of Puget Sound wildlife.”

  “You did?” Grace grinned. “Thank you!”

  “Sure. I wish you every success, Grace.” His phone rang again. He smiled and answered.

  She got up and fluttered her fingers at Carlos as she left. He was a busy man whose love of birds had landed him in his perfect job.

  Hers was getting paid to capture unique images of the wildlife around her. A coffee table book sounded interesting and could be a way for her pictures to reach a wider audience. How much would something like that pay? Would it be enough to sway Mr. Haviland to give her that loan?

  When she arrived home, she poured a glass of unsweetened iced tea and took her laptop to the back porch with a view of her dock and the water. The view never got old.

  She’d work her fingers to the bone to save this house—but it wasn’t blood, sweat, or tears that Mr. Haviland wanted. The bank manager wanted cold hard cash.

  Grace typed “Sawyer Rivera” into the search bar, and his gorgeous face heated her screen. Books, a TV pilot, and a model named Daniella Romano. According to the internet, Sawyer had served in the Marines and rescued pit bulls from fighting rings in the heart of Los Angeles when he got out. Loved his family, loved his country, loved dogs.

  On paper, he was perfect. In real life, Grace thought with a sniff, he could loosen up a little. Physically, they’d be amazing together. Her breasts chafed against the silk of her bra, her skin that sensitive at the idea of being with Sawyer. His large hands had held her firmly, protectively, when they’d fallen down the dune. She brushed her finger down her throat and imagined that it was Sawyer before whisking it away, leaving a trail of goose bumps.

  They had nothing in common to see them past that first flush of desire. He oozed shiny new luxury while she was comfortable with her worn things and the history behind them. But he was her boss, and she would deny any inappropriate feelings she had for him. The next month would require a lot of cold showers.

  Bill respected the man, so she would be open-minded in regard t
o his business, though she just didn’t see how he could be ready in a week.

  By Monday, Grace hadn’t sent a note or called to thank Sawyer for the camera. He’d made his position clear by leaving her camera on the back porch like a thief in the night, and she would oblige. Follow the rules. Deny any attraction. She drove to work, tense.

  Grace knew nothing about confrontations. She’d been taught passive-aggression to make her feelings clear. The truth was she couldn’t afford for Sawyer to fire her for not following his rules.

  Inside the building, she was reluctantly impressed by the difference from Friday. The guys had swept up the cement floor, primed, and painted everything in beige. Why on earth would Sawyer choose such a dull color? It was a blank canvas that begged for decoration.

  She put her purse under her desk, noting that Sawyer had left a very long, detailed list of her duties for the day, starting with his office computer and printer. He would be away ordering supplies but back by four thirty to lock up.

  Of course he wouldn’t leave a key—he didn’t know her.

  She brought her electric kettle to the kitchen, her statement with her name labeled in purple glitter lost without him there to see it, and plugged it in to make a cup of tea. The day passed quickly, and she liked the sense of accomplishment that came with finishing his office. She’d started to unpack his books to the shelves but stopped, since it wasn’t on the list and he probably had an alphabetical system or something.

  Operation: Prove She Didn’t Care fizzled as the week progressed and Sawyer made a point of never being with her unless the guys were around. The old offices upstairs had all been converted to private spaces with desks and futons and a tall wardrobe for clothes and personal items.

  She’d heard him tell Jimmy, the new foreman, he had four brothers and immediately felt sorry for his mother. Grace couldn’t imagine a house full of Rivera men who all wanted to be the boss.

  At last it was Friday morning, and after a grinding ride over, Grace entered the office for Bark Camp at quarter to nine. Sawyer was out back with the dogs, which suited her just fine. They’d been super polite when forced to speak to each other. The week had been tension-filled, and Grace counted down the remaining time on a little desk calendar she’d picked up at the dollar store.