by Sasha Burke
And so began three long hours of Jason watching over me like a mother hen. Or a protective rooster. Whatever the appropriate overbearing bird metaphor, he was the very dictionary definition of it. Much to his two ever so unhelpful buddies’ visible amusement.
With every bottle of beer I drank, his expression grew more brooding. Every time one of the guys touched me in any friendly, totally innocent way, whether it was a simple pat on my knee or even a brief shoulder nudge to get my attention, he glared at them like they were committing an unholy sin.
Then he got downright hostile with the nice accountant-looking man who’d sidled up to me at the bar and offered to buy me a drink.
Ten whole minutes he spent afterward chewing me out and lecturing me on being more careful about men buying me drinks.
Finally, with my night officially ruined, I told the guys I was taking off and I went outside to get an uber. Tried to at least. Before I could even finish pulling up the app, I had a totally sober, six-foot-three, disgruntled billionaire swiping my phone from my hands and dragging me over to his truck to drive me home himself.
I feigned sleep the entire ride back to our building.
Sunday, I spent most of the day surveying the marsh lands, just like I had the two Sundays prior. Unlike those other two Sundays, however, I had a shadow the whole time. As soon as I saw the big black work truck parked right next to mine outside the trailer, I tried waiting Jason out. But when it starting raining a bit, I finally gave in and trudged on back to the jobsite, fully prepared to get my ass handed to me for being out there alone. Seeing as how I’m a woman and all.
But he didn’t yell at me. Or scold me. He just gave me a silent onceover as if checking to make sure I didn’t have any visible scratches or bumps and bruises. Then he climbed into his truck and left without a word.
Yesterday, however, the man upped his game considerably. All day long, every time I tried to talk to any of my guys in private about something, he’d pull some barely plausible reason to step in—literally—and send them off to take care of something clear on the other side of the jobsite. Just so he could get me alone to lock those intense green eyes on me and tell me we needed to talk. About “us.”
It was tricky, but I managed to escape each time. I used the fake phone call trick a few times, the classic ‘look over there’ and running in the opposite direction tactic once (which I honestly didn’t think was going to work), before finally resorting to hopping in my truck and continuously parking it in new locations around the site while doing mundane paperwork with my windows rolled up until the end of the work day. Cowardly? Yes. But also highly effective. I know Jason. He’d never make a scene in front of the guys.
Maybe today I should go see how those sewer pipes are coming?
Sleepy but sound plan in place, my brain finally gives me the go-ahead to close my eyes and try to get at least a few minutes of shuteye before the sun comes up. The last three nights, I barely got a wink of sleep. Because as it turns out, having Jason follow me around during the day, inevitably results in him following me right into my dreams at night.
Who knew my imagination was so, well, imaginative?
Not to mention vivid.
Even now, I’m fully conscious that I’m dreaming. I know that Jason isn’t really stalking into my room, grouchy as hell, and reprimanding me for running from him all day yesterday in that deep, sexy voice. Still, I feel every inch of my body flood with heat, and my panties getting drenched the instant he pounces on top of me on the bed and rips open my shirt. I feel my legs actually parting under my sheets as dream-Jason presses his big, hard body against me, pinning me down with that huge, thick cock of his to prevent me from escaping again.
I know it’s only a dream, but I let myself revel in it anyway. Because in the dream, I’m not the weird tomboy who’s never had sex, but has worked more power tools than most men ever will in their lifetime. No, I’m the strong, sexy woman that’s capable of making a man like Jason Steele lose control. The woman bold enough to go after what she wants the second he starts to.
That last truly fantastical thought has my hands fisting against the bed covers in frustration.
What I want, I’ll never have.
This is all just a dream. A fantasy that’s never coming true. I need to accept that and banish these futile delusions about Jason and me to the farthest corners of my mind.
I can’t screw this up. This is literally the biggest job I’ve taken on to date, and the first big commercial project I’ve run point on in a while, to be honest.
Before, when Granddad was still alive, folks used to hire me out of respect for him after I took over his company. He had personally taught me everything he knew, and arranged for me to work my butt off for the best of the best in the Pacific Northwest right out of high school.
Maybe that’s why I feel a sort of kinship with Jason. It’s a well-known fact that Jason’s father was a self-made billionaire who raised Jason the way he’d grown up, working from dawn to dusk. Back before Steele Developments International went global, they created their fortune working low-glamour, high-stakes projects like dams and bridges, after years building everything from highways to military barracks and even prisons.
When Jason joined the family business, he brought his savvy smarts and started landing them top-dollar projects like sports stadiums and premiere golf course resorts, along with lavish luxury communities for the outlandishly rich, skyrocketing their net worth to what it is now. And he did it all, not from some glass office, but out with his men on the jobsites getting covered in grime, swearing up a storm, and eating out of food trucks right alongside them.
I respect him for that.
Like Jason, I practically grew up with a hardhat, spending most of my youth surrounded by brusque, hard-working, I-am-who-I-am-take-it-or-leave-it construction guys. It was awesome. Though I’d had a mom, it was my grandfather who raised me. And he raised me right. Granddad made sure I could build a house from top to bottom with the bare minimum supplies, while ensuring I could also use every tool and work every piece of machinery.
No one pushed me harder than he did, and because of that, working my way up through the trades to becoming one of the youngest and most qualified general contractors in the state a couple years ago had been a breeze. And though I’ve never run point on anything as grand as the stuff Jason normally takes on, I’ve had my fair share of commercial success.
I’ve handled swanky high-rises and specialty gyms, as well as schools and even a small strip mall once, but again, regardless how good my work was, I wasn’t just a woman in a strongly male-dominated profession, but also one with a reputation for downright odd people skills that used to be muttered about enough to make the big projects—and long-term topnotch crewmen—harder to come by after Granddad finally passed.
It didn’t bother me too much though. I just kept my head down and gave all I had to the projects I did get.
Work is work. That’s what Granddad always used to say.
I miss hearing his words of wisdom. Miss him, period. Every day.
When he died, I lost the only person in the world who ever got me, or ever truly liked me. Sure, my mom loved me in her own basic, biologically-encoded way, but she definitely never liked me. Still doesn’t, in fact. We essentially butt heads over everything.
Case in point, after my mom found out what I had planned for the money Granddad had left me, she made what should’ve been good deeds feel like root canal surgeries.
She rolled her eyes over every check I wrote to fund scholarships for disadvantaged youths wanting to enter the trades, whined about the donations I made to various construction charities in areas recently hit by natural disasters, and then downright bitched over the contribution I made to the new wing at the hospice center I’d ended up moving him to when I discovered the deplorable conditions of the care home she and her husband at the time had initially stuck him in.
That’s why, when I got the approval to build Granddad’s
memorial gazebo in his favorite park, I didn’t touch what was left of his life insurance money. I didn’t even tell her what I was doing at all. The last thing I’d wanted was any of her negativity to touch that memorial. She would’ve ruined it by complaining about my paying more for the see-through glass top for sure, and no doubt disparaged my decision to splurge on the wheelchair swing. What’s worse, she wouldn’t have understood why I did either.
Granddad used to love sitting on his porch swing and looking up at the stars at night—two things she would’ve known if she’d cared enough to spend any time at all with him.
Her loss.
She missed out on getting to know the greatest man I’ve ever known. A man I still partly believe is watching over me and my career. Because let’s face it, if not for the swing and the gazebo, I never would’ve gotten onto Jason’s radar in the first place. The memorial had caught Jason’s attention sometime last year after his dad’s passing, though he didn’t find my information and make contact until just a few months ago when he first started having problems with the construction manager he ended up firing.
And now here we are, with me heading a project I’m absolutely in love with. For a man I’m starting to have decidedly unprofessional feelings for.
Talk about a rock and a hard place.
Now emotionally as well as physically exhausted, but no closer to sleep, I give up trying to fight my insomnia, and decide to get some work done.
Sewage pipes today, definitely.
Maybe that’ll give me a brief reprieve from thinking about the man.
10
* * *
| SUMMER |
WEDNESDAY
(Time: 7:17 a.m.)
Shit, shit, shit. I’m late for work.
Me, Summer Davis.
I’ve never once been late for anything in my entire life. Not back when I was squeezing in five a.m. apprentice shifts loading lumber and equipment while training on machines every morning before my high school classes. Not even when I was juggling a full-time college course load in the evenings after spending my days on burning hot roofs hammering down shingles or hauling and hanging umpteenth sheets of drywall and sheetrock (what I affectionately like to call the year of ibuprofen).
But today of all days, I’m late.
Worst of all, I’m late for a lame, moronic reason.
I overslept.
Or over-dreamt, rather.
Four nights in a row now I’ve been plagued with dreams of Jason so vivid, I’ve woken up feeling achy in places I’ve never ached before. These dreams…they aren’t just vividly realistic, they’re elaborately erotic.
Downright dirty.
And because of all the vivid, elaborate, dirtiness, I’m going to be over an hour late to work.
Shit!
Things can’t continue like this. I need to find a way to get the man out of my head.
And while I’m at it, I need to stop going stupid every time he accidentally touches me.
His palm ghosting the small of my back when he walks past…his fingers squeezing my elbow when he needs to get my attention…his jawline grazing my shoulder when he speaks in my ear to be heard over the construction noise—all perfectly innocent…until my imagination turns it into dirty, sexy fodder for these crazy, impossible fantasies.
Crazy, incredible fantasies…
Damn it! Before I can fall down that rabbit hole again and make myself even later, I rush to throw on the nearest clean clothes I see and I’m out the door in under a minute, speeding up to the jobsite at breakneck speeds.
I make it in record time, shocked I didn’t have flashing red and blue lights behind me in high speed pursuit the whole way. I skid to a stop outside the trailer, my tires kicking up clouds of dust that make a dramatic entrance for me as I sprint up the squeaky metal ramp.
The door flies open before I can turn the knob.
“You’re late.”
My heart thunders in my chest at his dark, disapproving glare. “I’m so sorry, I…” I can’t even defend himself. I have no excuse.
“You missed an important-ass meeting. And I can tell you’re not ready to meet the inspector this morning.”
Shit. The inspector. I dig my nails into my palms to keep from crying. I’ve never, ever screwed up like this.
Jason’s gaze zooms in on my unshed tears. But instead of backing off, he comes down even harder. “You can’t fuck up like this, Summer,” he barks. “Not on this project. Not with a fuckload of your colleagues just waiting to tell me ‘I told you so’ for hiring you despite the rumors.”
I feel the blood drain from my face as his last sentence registers fully.
The harsh words hit its mark dead-on.
But they also dry up my tears in a way nothing else can.
“I promise, boss. It won’t happen again.”
His eyes narrow on me for a beat. “It better not.”
With that, he storms off.
And I smile for the first time in days.
It’s a relief to have things finally back to normal with us.
11
* * *
| JASON |
TUESDAY
(Time: 10:15 am.)
She’s back to her usual self. Thank fuck.
I hated railing on her ass last week, but it needed to be done. There’s a lot riding on the success of this project. For both of us.
Still, I feel like a dick for having to be so blunt. I know she was only late because she hasn’t been sleeping. I see the dark circles under her eyes getting worse every day. And I wish like hell that I could help her, but just as she promised, she hasn’t once shown up at my place to tear me away from my sleep since.
I fucking hate that.
At least she isn’t trying to avoid me anymore. Progress there. I swear, just one more day of that and I would’ve thrown her over my shoulder and dragged her back to my place, kept us locked in my bedroom having sex on every available surface until we both got it out of our systems.
Problem is, I don’t think getting Summer out of my system is even possible.
It’d be fine, or at least manageable, if she simply plagued my dreams. At least dreams you can wake up from. Forget, even. But these wild-ass wide-awake thoughts I’ve been having about the woman since that kiss… Hell. All the wet dreams I’ve ever had in my life combined don’t even come close to comparing.
It’s been intense.
Night after night I’m hit with these hi-def, crystal clear images of her under me, writhing and moaning, her arms stretched high above her on the bed, my left hand pinning her wrists together while my other hand slides into those sexy pair of panties I once caught a glimpse of under her PJs. The pair with tiny little cherries all over them. The pair I always end up shredding with my teeth so I can tongue her soaking wet little slit and—
Damn it. Now I’m hard again. At work, no less.
“Boss?”
Ah hell, now I’m even harder. I turn around and see the object of my burgeoning insanity holding a folder out to me.
“Call me Jason from now on,” I say without thinking. “Everyone else does. It’s just easier since we have so many different company crews on site now, each with their own foreman.”
Yep, I’m a twisted son of a bitch. Still want to hear her calling me by my name even though I can’t touch her.
She shrugs. “Okay. Here are my updated plans for the…” she trails off and gives me a weird look.
“What’s wrong?” I frown. It can’t be my hard-on making her mute, because my tool belt is doing a bang-up job keeping that from being public knowledge. Plus, the woman’s made good on her vow never to look at my cock, or even in its general vicinity, again.
I fucking hate that new development, too.
She gazes over at her desk behind me. “Did you…” She walks over and picks up a glazed blueberry fritter so big, she needs two hands to hold it. “Did you get me a pastry?”
I nod out the window over to where our guys are pig
ging out on doughnuts. “I picked up a couple dozen for the guys since I know they got an early start today. Knowing them, they would’ve scarfed them all down before you even got a chance to smell them so I saved one for you.”
“These are my absolute favorite,” she says, her voice sounding surprised that I’d know a detail like that about her.
“From your favorite bakery, too.”
She shakes her head at me in wonder before excitedly tearing off a piece and popping it in her mouth with a happy little smile. Followed by a tiny little moan.
That forces me to adjust the fit of my jeans. Good industrial tool belt.
“So, about the marsh lands,” I say, averting my eyes from the innocent pastry-eating extravaganza that’s registering as porn where my poor, confused cock is concerned. I quickly flip through the newly added rough sketches and longitudinal cost analysis charts. Her last draft was also extremely detailed, and impressive as hell. Really, this update is just going to make my investors think I’m showing off.
Which reminds me…
“Your name’s not on this,” I say, tapping on the clear folder. “Wasn’t on the last one you turned into me either.”
She blinks in surprise. And panic. “Because those are just my informal notes.”
I grin over her idea of “informal notes.” It’s like calling Disneyland a little playground.
She starts scrambling around, grabbing photo printouts and booting up her laptop before yanking the folder out of my hand and body-blocking me when I try to take it back. “I wasn’t aware you were expecting a formal proposal yet. These were just some things I put together because I thought you were still considering the purchase.”
“I’ve already decided to buy the land. So, I’ll need you to throw a cover page on this,” I tickle her ribs and snatch the folder back when she yelps, “so I can submit it to my board for final approval. I want to make sure to give credit where it’s rightfully due.”