* * *
Over the next five years, Bridget felt like she was in a dream. Her life was turning into everything she ever thought she wanted. She moved out of her dark little studio and into an airy two-bedroom condo in Tribeca. She gave up her office in Mt. Vernon and rented an entire floor on Forty-Fifth Street. She built a vacation home in the Hamptons. She had the clothes, the shoes, the jewelry, the three-hour-long meals in swanky restaurants and the car and driver. The press got wind of her and she started showing up on the local news, the real estate section of the Times, then People magazine and Architectural Digest: “The Girl in the Hard Hat”; “Female Contractor Breaking Glass Ceilings!”
Steele Construction was booming. Bridget’s head of operations was Ethan Jackson, who had a full staff of project managers, field supervisors—Danny Schwartz was overseeing the field guys—a chief estimator with five senior and junior estimators under him, CFO, comptroller and a full accounting department—Mrs. Hashemi kept them all in line—and various support staff at her beck and call. Even though the largest projects were still going to Russo Construction—“Russo!” Her father would shake his fist in the air and say it like a curse every time they lost another top-tier job to the monolith of a company—the requests for proposals and project awards kept rolling in, and Bridget kept accepting them.
It wasn’t easy, though. Bridget had come to accept it would never be easy. She still had to scratch and claw to get the projects into her office to bid and get the jobs. Nobody was going to make room for her at the table; she had to force her way in. She was still denied access to the old boys’ club and the highest level of the work. No golfing, no fishing, no strip clubs or steam rooms or cigar bars for her. It meant hearing hissing whispers of “Nice ass!” and “Nice tits!” as she walked through the site. It meant that there was always some joker who thought it was hilarious to ask her if she knew the difference between a flat-and Phillips-head screwdriver. It meant letting clients’ hands wander when they put an arm around her and finding a way to fend off their passes in a way that didn’t hurt their fragile egos. It meant being ogled and leered at, talked down to, grudgingly tolerated, made to feel like an impostor on her own job sites. It meant breaking her back to earn the respect of her workers and clients again and again.
Her father worried about her. “You’re working so hard, darling. Why don’t you take a day off once in a while?”
But Bridget would just smile, shrug and say, “I’m fine, Daddy. I like working,” trying not to notice the ever-present tremor in his hands. A year before, he’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, though he and Bridget’s mother assured her it was hardly progressing at all.
Steele Construction was awarded a contract for a fashion company at one of their new retail stores on Long Island’s South Shore. It was way out of Bridget’s territory, but she figured it was a good chance to expand, and she still kept to her longtime habit of taking any reasonable job offered. She didn’t have any contacts on Long Island, so when an electrical subcontractor she was working with in Manhattan told her he’d worked with a good carpentry sub out there named Kevin Byrne, after having a lengthy conversation on the phone, she hired him sight unseen. He told her not to worry; he would get things rolling until she could be there in person to meet.
The moment Bridget walked onto the job site, she knew she’d made a mistake. There were clouds of dust everywhere, jagged studs and drywall strewn around like confetti at a New Year’s Eve party. The site was a gigantic mess.
“Can I help you?” A deep voice echoed from behind her.
Bridget turned and looked up into the bright blue eyes of one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen. Mussed blond hair, golden skin, shoulders and arms that made it very clear he built things for a living, a pair of faded Levi’s that hugged all the right places, a slow, sexy smile that only grew wider as she took a step forward and her stiletto caught on a discarded metal two-by-four.
She felt herself begin to fall.
“Whoa, there,” the man said as he caught her round the waist just before she hit the floor.
He pulled her upright and Bridget recognized his scent—Tom Ford Oud. Pretty pricey for a Long Island drywall guy, she thought. Also, Damn, his biceps are the size of softballs.
“It’s really not a good idea to wear six-inch heels on a job site,” he said, grinning.
She realized his hands were still on her, and took a step away, shaking him off. “They are only three inches,” she said stiffly. “And I wouldn’t have tripped if you had kept a clean job site. This place is a disgrace. Where are your containers, green dust, temp lights?”
He raised an amused eyebrow. “Bridget, I presume?”
She straightened her spine. “Ms. Steele to you,” she said. “And you are Mr. Byrne?”
“Kevin,” he said. “And I’m sorry about the mess. You’re right. I’ll talk to my laborers.”
She frowned, only slightly mollified by his apology.
“Anyway,” he said, “I was just about to run out to get some lunch. You want to come with or shall we talk when I get back?”
She stared at him for a moment, wondering if he would have invited a male boss out to lunch in such a casual way, but he didn’t seem to notice. He took off his hard hat and placed it on a bench, wiping his sweaty brow with his muscular forearm. His T-shirt rode up and exposed three ridges of what Bridget was pretty sure was a rock-hard six-pack. She felt an unwelcome answering tingle in her own belly.
“It’ll only be, like, fifteen minutes,” he said, heading for the door. “You coming? There’s a good sandwich place down the street,” he said, pausing to give her a long, slow look over his broad shoulder.
Bridget considered firing him. She knew she should. Certainly no one could possibly blame her if she did. But instead she shook her head. “You go,” she said, “I want to inspect the rest of the site.”
Kevin shrugged. “Your choice, of course.” He turned back toward the door.
“I am not happy with how my job site is being run, Mr. Byrne,” called out Bridget. “This all needs to be cleaned up the minute you get back.”
He turned back and smiled. “Yes, boss,” he said as he headed out the door.
* * *
He had called her later that night, asking her to meet him for dinner the next day, a Saturday, so he could clarify some questions from the drawings.
“Can’t we just discuss this over the phone?” asked Bridget, exasperated.
“No,” said Kevin. “We need to go over the plans in person. Seven o’clock? There’s a great Italian place next to Town Hall. Francesco’s.”
“Fine,” said Bridget, partially annoyed and partially already planning what she would wear.
He sprang to his feet as she entered the restaurant. His gorgeous blue eyes slowly raked her from head to toe. “You look amazing,” he said.
Bridget blushed with pleasure and then inwardly cursed her own weakness. She had dressed carefully, discarding the armor of her usual pinstriped suit for a soft lilac Versace dress that covered up her cleavage but left a mile of leg exposed. It wasn’t exactly professional, but she had given in to her desire to look pretty, and now she was paying for it. Because he was not looking at her the way a man should look at his boss.
And she had to admit that some part of her liked that.
“Thank you,” she said crisply. She took a seat. “Now, what were your questions?”
Kevin grinned and sat back down. He took a sip of his drink, reached for a briefcase next to his chair.
Gucci, thought Bridget, eyeing the bag with interest. This guy has got expensive taste.
The waiter stopped by for her drink order. “The lady will have a scotch on the rocks,” said Kevin with a smile.
Bridget frowned. “The lady will have sparkling water,” she corrected.
The waiter looked back and forth between them.
“Come on, Ms. Steele,” said Kevin. “It’s Saturday night. I’m sure you’ve earned it.”
Bridget sighed. “Fine. I will have a glass of Don Julio 1942. Neat.” She looked Kevin in the eyes. “I hate scotch.”
He smiled to himself as he pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. Bridget craned her neck to see a page-long list. “Those are a lot of questions,” she said.
He shrugged. “I like to be thorough.” He reached into the bag again and removed a pen. “Okay, so let’s start with question number one: What’s your favorite flower?”
Bridget knit her brow. “What does that have to do with the job?”
He chuckled. His laugh was deep and warm. Bridget felt it in her gut. “It doesn’t.”
Bridget paused for a moment. She took the list from his hands and flipped it around. “Favorite flower,” she read out loud. “Favorite chocolates, favorite color...” She looked up at him and felt a blush creeping up the back of her neck. “Preferred brand of lingerie?”
He grinned wolfishly. “I told you I like to be thorough.”
This was the moment when she needed to either tell him off and leave the table, or simply fire him right then and there. Instead, she shook her head and laughed at his audaciousness.
Their eyes met, and he took that as the invitation it was and reached across the table, placing his hand on her wrist, softly tugging her toward him.
“Mr. Byrne—” she protested weakly.
He shook his head. “God damn it, Bridget, I’m about to kiss you. So I really think you better go ahead and call me Kevin.”
* * *
Later that night Bridget untangled her limbs from his and stretched out on the bed next to him. She felt like purring.
I’ve earned this, she thought to herself as she watched him fold his arms behind his head and smile at her with a look of wicked pride. The way I’ve been working these past few years, I should be allowed a good-looking distraction.
“You want anything?” he asked her. “You hungry? Thirsty?”
She shook her head lazily.
He sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Okay, well, I’m going to go fix myself a scotch on the rocks.” He winked at her. “Just like you hate.”
She felt the breath catch in her throat as he stood and stretched, his powerful naked body on full display. Holy hell, what a man. She could still feel the way every part of him had felt against every part of her.
“Peonies,” she called out to him as he padded out of the room, not bothering to put his clothes back on.
He turned back toward her. “Huh?”
“My favorite flower.” She smiled. “White peonies.”
* * *
Kevin came through on the Long Island job on time and budget, with very little drama—if you didn’t count the fact that the GC was sleeping with her sub—so Bridget decided she wanted to bring him in on something bigger. She was up for a four-floor build-out for the corporate headquarters of iSplash, a mass media company that focused exclusively on female users. It was a much bigger job than the Long Island project had been, but she wanted Kevin to know that she really believed in him.
“I think I have it in the bag,” she told him. He had come into town for the weekend and they were having dinner at Nobu. “They loved my presentation. The founders made a point of telling me how great they thought it was. And for once, I think me being a woman is actually going to be a good thing.” She laughed. “Suck it, Russo!”
Kevin gave her a crooked grin and swiped a scallop from her plate as he flagged down the waiter. “Another scotch,” he said. He looked at her. “You need anything?”
She shook her head. “Anyway, I’m just waiting for the final call to firm it all up—but I’m pretty sure Steele Construction has it—and I was thinking—” she met his eyes, excited to see how he’d react “—that I’d bring you in as my carpentry subcontractor.”
Kevin paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Yeah? In Manhattan?”
She laughed. “I think you can do it. In fact, I think you’d be great.”
He gulped down the last of his drink. “Why not electrical, too? You know I’m licensed.”
Her smile faded a bit. “Yeah, but you’re licensed in Suffolk County, not New York City.”
He shrugged. “I can have someone cover my license.”
“Both? You think you can handle that?”
He shrugged. “Of course I can. I’ve done bigger jobs.”
She frowned. “But it’s different in the city. There’s greater risk and way more logistics. Maybe you should just start with one trade at a time.”
He smiled at her. “Come on. Don’t you trust me?”
“Well, sure. That’s why I’m offering you the carpentry trade. But—”
He took her hand. “Don’t worry. I got it.” He looked around. “Now, where’s that drink I ordered?”
* * *
They were still in bed the next morning when her phone rang.
Bridget slid lazily across Kevin’s chest to grab her cell off the bedside table.
“Ms. Steele? It’s Bob Jones. From iSplash.”
The owner’s rep. Bridget smiled happily, anticipating what he was going to say.
“I’m just calling to let you know that Steele Construction is being awarded the iSplash contract.”
Her grin got bigger. She poked Kevin on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up.
“But I want you to know that your award is against my explicit advice to the client and architect. I am certain they are hiring you simply because you are a woman and not because Steele is the most qualified for this project. They like the optics, but I am more than sure you will be in well over your head. I advised them not to award you this project. And I would advise you to turn this job down before you are embarrassed by getting into something you can’t handle.”
Bridget felt like she had been punched in the gut. Even with a company founded and created for women, she was getting this bullshit.
“Well, Mr. Jones, luckily you are not the person making the decisions. I will see you nice and early Monday morning.” She hung up the phone, her heart beating wildly, trying to hold back the tears. Kevin looked at her expectantly.
“What an asshole!” she burst out.
He cocked his eyebrow. “You didn’t get it?”
She shook her head. “I got it. But he said they only hired me because I’m a woman. He actually had the nerve to tell me that I should turn the job down.”
Kevin frowned. “Maybe I should talk to him?”
She shot him a confused look. “Why would you talk to him? It’s my company.”
“Man to man? Let him know there’s someone he can communicate with?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Why would I—”
Kevin shrugged his shoulders. “Just want us to get off on the right foot with him, is all.” He reached over and kneaded her shoulders and, without thinking, she leaned into him. “But I’m sure you can handle it, babe.”
* * *
Bridget and Kevin were at a fund-raising party for The Robin Hood Foundation. It had been four months since they started at the iSplash job and things were not going well. Even though their contract was signed, Kevin kept coming to her with extras for things he’d missed on the drawings, claiming that he needed more men to make the schedule.
Bridget was in the corner of the room, talking to Ava and nursing a tequila. Trying not to watch Kevin flirt with half the women at the party.
“So,” said Ava, giving Kevin the eye as he placed his hand on a tall redhead’s arm. “Your boyfriend seems nice. Real friendly.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “It’s harmless. He’s a flirt, is all. He can’t help himself.”
Ava raised her eyebrows but kept quiet, burying her nose in her glass of champagne.
A trio of people entered the room, obviously just arriving. There was a small Asian woman, impossibly chic, wearing a bright red wool cape with an oversize hood, her lips the same crimson as the coat, a dusting of snow still glittering on her shoulders and around the edges of her jacket. She was flanked on either side by two good-looking white men in top coats and suits, one with black hair, one with brown. They both leaned toward her like she was the only woman in the room. The woman smiled as the brown-haired man took her cape, exposing a simple charcoal-colored dress so stylishly cut that Bridget suddenly felt like the Gucci sheath she had on was from Frederick’s of Hollywood.
“Who are they?”
Ava followed her gaze. “Ah. The Russos. You’ve never met them?”
Bridget blinked. “Russo as in Russo Construction? I thought that bastard was, like, eighty million years old.”
Ava shook her head. “This is the son, Jason. You’re thinking of his father. He died about six months ago.”
Bridget bit her lip. “I didn’t know.”
Ava shrugged. “Jason got everything. Took over the whole company. And from what I hear, he’s doing brilliantly.”
Bridget laughed. “I’ll say. Still taking every other job we’re up for.”
She squinted, curious about the man who had been her nemesis ever since she had started working in Manhattan. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. Not as big as Kevin, but still well built. His dark, wavy hair was combed back, but one curl kept falling onto his forehead, resisting his attempts to push it away. Unlike most of the men in the room, his suit wasn’t a flashy Italian cut, but his clothes were immaculately tailored, the kind of fit that only happened when they were bespoke. She dreamily wondered if they were from Savile Row. Suddenly, he looked up and locked eyes with Bridget, catching her staring. He smiled at her, and she felt her cheeks heat up as she quickly looked away.
Heels of Steel Page 6