by Mara Wells
Carrie smiled ferociously. “Oh, you’re fired alright, and you’re not getting a penny more out of me.”
“We have a contract.”
“That we do. If you’d read it, you’d know that if we part ways before the end of the job, I don’t owe you a thing. It’s a standard exit clause in all my contracts.”
“Bitch.” He stomped past her to gather up his gear. “No wonder no one wants to work with you.”
That stung. It was true that she’d had difficulty finding and keeping reliable help for her remodels. Anytime she contracted out parts of a job, things never went quite right. Was Kirk correct? Was it something about her that made contractors lax? Were her standards too high?
She looked at her poor celestial wall, a confusing mess of patterns and shapes where tranquility and peace were supposed to reign. No, her standards were exactly high enough. She’d never had these problems when she’d worked with Lance. His attention to detail had equaled her own. Running her eyes around the bathroom, she realized she’d need to strip it all back down. If he’d so blatantly messed with the finishing materials, no telling what corners he’d cut behind the scenes. Thin drywall? Pipes smaller than she’d specified? She wouldn’t be happy until she’d inspected every detail herself.
“Get out,” she said to Kirk and waited until he stormed out with his tool kit and tile saw.
He left the door open, and Kristin poked her head in. Her eyes grew round as she looked around her guest bathroom. “Oh no, oh no, no, no.”
Carrie held up a hand. “I’m going to make this right, Kristin. I just need you to be a bit more patient.”
Kristin’s mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was more “no, no, no.”
“We’re starting over.” Carrie put the plan forming in her head into words. “From studs out. I have the perfect guy for the job. And it won’t cost you anything, I promise. This is on me, and I swear I will make it up to you.”
Kristin held out a glass of lemonade to Carrie. “It’s a good thing I like you.”
Carrie covered her relief by taking a long sip. She choked and had to stop a minute to catch her breath. “I didn’t realize there was a secret ingredient.”
“My special recipe. Half fresh-squeezed lemonade, half vodka. When I saw him carry out that lovely showerhead you chose this morning, I figured you’d need it.”
“You let him walk out with it?” Carrie wasn’t proud that she took another long draw of the vodka juice.
“I have enough of my own problems. I’m not taking on yours, too.” Kristin raised her glass in a toast. “Better start working miracles, though. I’ll give you another week, two tops, but after that, no more chances.”
Carrie swallowed hard, glad for the fortifying vodka rushing through her veins. It gave her the composure to accept Kristin’s ultimatum, and it gave her the courage to pick up her phone and make a humbling call.
* * *
Lance was surprised to see Carrie’s number pop up on his phone. Sure, he’d invited her to come by the Dorothy, but after they’d parted ways yesterday, he convinced himself she wouldn’t follow through. Why would she want to work with him again? That meant they had no reason to talk until Saturday, when he’d get to spend a whole evening with his son. He was both elated and slightly panicked at the thought. What did you talk about with a three-year-old? Should he bring a gift? Of course he should.
“Is everything okay?” Lance picked up on the fourth ring, once he walked out onto the front lawn where he’d have some privacy. Thanks to the large crew he’d hired for the Dorothy job, repiping the communal areas—lobby bathroom and the laundry room—was well under way, and the whole building shook as his roofers stripped the roof down to the deck.
“I need your help.” Carrie’s voice was so professional that he was relatively sure the problem wasn’t child- or dog-related, but he checked anyway.
“Oliver and Beckham are fine?” He’d only known about his son for a day, but already the fear that something bad might happen to him haunted the back of Lance’s mind. Intellectually, he understood that Oliver’s life was the same as it had been since birth. Emotion was a whole other thing. A complicated thing.
“Yes, they’re with my mom today. This is a work thing.”
As she explained about her renovation, he shook his head. “Kirk Robles? Never heard of him. You need a new guy?”
“I need you.”
Lance was so surprised he pulled the phone away from his face to check the screen. Yep, that was Carrie alright. “I’m full out on the Dorothy project right now. I don’t have any time or men to spare.”
“Can you please come take a look? Tell me what you think?”
It had been a long and emotional twenty-four hours. What he needed was a beer and some serious couch time. What he should do was stay at the Dorothy and pitch in where he could. What he decided to do, however, was drive to downtown Miami. He didn’t lie to himself. He was still thinking about Carrie’s lips on the rim of her tea mug yesterday, that smudge of deep-red lipstick she left on every cup she used, every cheek she kissed. He was still thinking about her confident smile as she told him about her new restaurant project. He was still thinking about her. Period.
He did one last sweep of the first floor to let the guys know he expected a long day. They needed to take advantage of the empty building while they could. Once in his truck, he waited for the diesel engine to warm up and texted with Carrie, asking for pictures and some background information. That bathroom was in bad shape, but it was a small space. If Mendo kept things on track at the Dorothy, he could probably handle Carrie’s bathroom himself. Did he have the time? Not really. But construction work was like that—feast or famine. It wouldn’t be the first time he spread himself too thin. Since the divorce, he didn’t worry about his hours. No one was waiting for him anyway.
He gunned the truck because that wasn’t true. Not today. Today, Carrie was waiting for him, and he couldn’t stop himself from riding to her rescue.
Chapter 9
Carrie paced in front of Kristin’s elevator doors, rubbing her palms together in a nervous gesture she wasn’t proud of. Kristin was inside the apartment, though, so she’d never know how close her designer was to a breakdown. Kirk. She couldn’t believe that guy. Carrie couldn’t tell which she wanted to do more: scream in rage or ugly cry like Oliver when he was overtired. Well, minus the snot running down her face. She’d skip that part and go right into the wailing and foot pounding.
The doors finally slid open, and the breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her. Thank God. Somehow, having Lance here made her believe the bathroom could be salvaged. If anyone could get it back on track, it was Lance Donovan. And if he couldn’t, well, she’d have to refund all of Kristin’s money, dissolve her company, and start over with a new name, a new brand. So, not much at stake here. Only her whole professional life. Nothing to worry about.
“You made it.”
He smiled at her, that devastating smile of his, a little crooked with the right side lifting a millimeter or two higher than the left. “I did.”
They stared at each for a long moment. He looked good. He hadn’t shaved today, and stubble shadowed his jaw. His untrimmed hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His white Excalibur Construction T-shirt pulled across that muscled chest of his, ending right below the waist of his faded work jeans. The right thigh was worn through, not quite a hole yet but starting to fray. If they were still married, she’d buy him a new pair. The thought snapped her out of her odd trance. If they were still married. Seeing the guy so many times in two days was messing with her mind.
“You going to show me the bathroom?” Lance’s head tilted to one side, and Carrie scolded herself for finding it adorable because Oliver did the same thing whenever she told him something he didn’t want to hear. Bedtime. Get out of the bathtub. No more C
heerios.
She waved Lance in and led the way to her celestial space turned hellhole. She stepped back so he could go inside.
“Who’s the hottie, and why didn’t you hire him in the first place? I wouldn’t mind this one hanging around all day, if you know what I mean.” Kristin giggled at her own joke, toasting Carrie with a fresh glass of her vodka-infused lemonade.
“He’s my ex.” Carrie bit out the words. She’d panicked and called him, but now that he was walking around her bathroom, the tiny room she’d had such big plans for, she was a bit humiliated for him to see how badly the job had gone. She was a professional. This didn’t happen to her.
“So he is available.” Kristin winked at her and leaned against the wall.
Available? For all their talking yesterday, Carrie didn’t know if he was available or not. Was he remarried? Dating someone? Probably. How would the woman in his life feel about Lance’s sudden entry into fatherhood?
“I don’t know,” Carrie admitted in a low voice.
“I am.” Lance’s back was to them, but the space was small. Of course he could hear them. “Married to my job. That’s what you always said, isn’t it, Carrie?”
Not a conversation to have in front of Kristin. “What do you think? Can you do it?”
Lance joined them in the hallway. “Take it back to studs and build it to your specs? Sure.”
Kristin toasted him. “Good man. When can you get started?”
Lance propped his hands on his hips. “I’ve got another job going right now. Any chance this could wait a few weeks?”
“I told you the timeline.” Carrie didn’t look at Kristin, didn’t want the client to see the fear in her eyes.
“Right.” He spun in place, surveying the room. “I’ll have to talk to my site manager, but I think we can spare a guy or two. Give me a day to work out the details, okay?”
Elation bubbled in Carrie’s chest. It was going to be okay. Lance was going to make it okay. She wouldn’t have to dissolve her business and start over from scratch. She smiled at him. He smiled back.
“Sounds good.” She turned to Kristin, confidence restored. “I promise you, this bathroom is going to be gorgeous.”
“Within the week?”
“Hopefully.” Carrie stuck out her hand to seal the vow with a shake. “Or maybe two? You did say two weeks earlier.”
“I did, but really the sooner, the better.” Kristin walked them to the door.
“Understood.” Lance flashed his crooked smile at Kristin, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way no hetero female could possibly resist. “Do you want it fast, or do you want it perfect?”
Kristin saluted him with her glass, duly charmed by his baby blues. “Perfect, of course.”
“Two weeks then.” He covered his heart with his hand, pledge-of-allegiance style. “I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Fine, you’ve got yourself a deal.” Kristin sipped her drink, watching Lance from under her long, probably fake eyelashes. “I’ll be glad to have tomorrow off from all the construction noise. See you Wednesday.” She wiggled her fingers in goodbye and closed the door behind them.
Carrie called the elevator, nerves stretched so tight she thought she could hear them twang as she walked. That had been close, too close, and now here she was owing Lance for saving the day, for charming Kristin into extra time, for getting her business back on track. She felt unsettled by the whole thing, from her panicked call to him to his casual acceptance of the job. The Lance she knew wouldn’t have been so calm, would’ve argued about Kristin’s timeline and threatened her with all the things that could go wrong if the job was rushed. When had he learned to schmooze a client like that? When had he traded his anger for charm? For all that she’d lived with the man for five years, she found herself staring at him like she’d never seen him before.
“Come by the Dorothy tomorrow.” Lance followed her into the elevator, unaware she was silently freaking out. “You could bring Oliver.”
That snapped her right back into the moment. “To an active construction site?”
“Right, bad idea. I heard it as soon as it left my mouth.” He smiled ruefully, a familiar expression that made him her Lance again.
“You take lunch breaks?”
He leaned broad shoulders against the back wall. “Yeah, most days.”
“You can have lunch with us.” She busied herself looking for something in her purse. Keys? Sure, it didn’t matter. She just couldn’t look at him. “If you want.”
Lance waited until she looked up, and his eyes locked with hers. “Oh, I want.”
Carrie stilled. Caught. Because she wanted, too. She watched him watch her, sure that want on his face was reflected on hers. He’d always read her so easily. It was one of the things she loved about being with him, how completely she felt seen. Understood. Only now she wished he wasn’t quite so perceptive.
He took a step toward her. She took a step back and another until she was pressed against the elevator doors. He followed, stopping when he was close enough that the heat of his body radiated through the thin T-shirt, warming her. Melting her resistance, one particle at a time. She grasped the strap of her bag tightly with both hands. She would not reach for him.
“You want me, too.” It wasn’t a question, but her head bobbed in agreement. His eyes flared at the movement, pupils darkening, widening. He leaned toward her. She wobbled on her heels, knees suddenly too weak to support her. Lance shot out a hand and steadied her, using his grip to pull her closer.
He lowered his head. He was going to kiss her. She knew it, knew she should do something to stop it. Nothing good could come of kissing Lance. But he’d come and helped when she called, hadn’t stayed angry at her about Oliver. And he smelled so good, a citrusy soap and that something in the air that was simply Lance. Her Lance.
“Yes,” she said even though he hadn’t asked a question, and his lips crashed down on hers.
It was fierce, their first kiss since Oliver was conceived, like the years apart had left them both starving. She was starving. She let go of her bag’s strap and fisted handfuls of T-shirt, hauling him closer until her breasts pressed into his chest. She moaned at the pressure. He changed the angle of their kiss, going deeper, harder. She couldn’t breathe and didn’t care. He was all the air she needed. God, she’d missed him. Missed this, the very us of them together.
The door dinged and opened, bringing fresh air against her back. She gasped and pulled away, stepping backward and over the threshold, wiping her palms down the front of her chocolate skirt. What a mistake. What a colossal mistake. She should say that out loud, tell him to forget it happened. She opened her mouth, but one look from his smoldering eyes silenced her. Instead, she turned and fled. She was pretty sure he’d get the message. Lance Donovan was not something she could have, and her raging hormones would simply have to calm down and get over it.
He followed her to her Blazer and leaned in the window once she’d pulled on her seat belt. “See you tomorrow?”
Oh God, tomorrow. She swallowed. “Yeah.”
He tapped the top of her car. “Sleep well.”
“I always do,” she lied. Then she lied to herself all the way home about how letting Lance back into her life was only for Oliver’s sake. And Beckham, of course. Yeah, it was all for them. She would put the kiss out of her mind. Old habits and all that. She was sure it meant as little to Lance as it had to her. If she never mentioned the kiss again, she doubted he’d even bring it up. It was better this way, really. She repeated that in her head until it started to sound true.
Chapter 10
Lance cursed under his breath in Spanish, a habit he’d picked up from his days learning the construction business from the ground up, literally. He’d started off as a flooring laborer, learning the intricacies of tile installation, the importance of good knee pad
s, and how to curse a blue streak in three different languages from Mendo.
Working his way up—again, literally—from flooring to masonry to roofing, Lance learned that nothing was ever easy-peasy on a construction site. No matter how uncomplicated the plan, complications were bound to arise. He was good at complications. At least, the construction kind. He enjoyed unexpected challenges like finding mold in the walls or plumbing lines not being where they were supposed to be.
He found himself wishing the Dorothy was the exception, a smooth sail of a job, no problem solving needed. After a restless night when he couldn’t get the sight of Carrie’s wicked, red mouth out of his mind, he wasn’t at his best, problem-solving-wise. He’d spent hours trying to remember the exact shape of her breasts against his chest. Had motherhood changed her body? Had she nursed Oliver? There were so many things he didn’t know, things he had no right to ask. Bottom line? He was in trouble, and it was more than the fact that obsessively thinking about the kiss and where more kissing might lead made the fit of his jeans extremely uncomfortable. He needed to get himself under control before Mendo thought he was getting a hard-on from the disaster in front of them.
Mendo stood back from the elevator shaft, one hand on the back of his neck, hard hat tipped forward.
“Is that water?” Lance knew it was water. He could see clearly with his own two eyes that the bottom of the elevator shaft was filled with a very shallow pool of water. He supposed it could be worse. It could be a foot of water instead of the mere quarter inch he guessed the current pool to be.
“Yuh-huh.”
“Where’s it coming from?” Lance broke out the small flashlight he always had on him and flashed it around the bottom of the shaft. Definitely water. No clear source.
Mendo clucked his answer, shaking his head.
“At least the old car’s been removed, right?” Lance looked up, double-checking that over two thousand pounds of elevator wasn’t going to come smashing down on his head. Nope, coast was clear. The two-story shaft was empty. Well, except for the puddle.