I walk over to put my plate in the sink and she watches me, utterly silent for a refreshing change. The fact that I actually miss hearing her voice, however, makes me think I’m still way too fucking tired to be functional at the moment.
“I’m going to shower,” I inform her then, leaving it to her to see herself out as I walk back toward the master bedroom.
A half a minute later, I’m standing in the shower, under a pulsing spray of hot water when I hear her start talking again.
Okay, I guess she’s staying. And now I’m butt-ass naked and she’s in the doorway of my bathroom, talking about the team and how they’ll love the new hire. Great. Fine. Whatever. The glass shower door is frosted. The woman’s not going to keep me from my shower.
She keeps talking, and I start soaping down, avoiding soaping too far down, just like I avoid the unexpected desire I suddenly have to yank her into the shower with me.
Because that would be bad.
In a so-fucking-good-it’s-bad sort of way.
3
| SUMMER |
MONDAY
(Time: 5:05 a.m.)
Jason’s in the shower and I’m rifling through my notes to make sure I get through everything I need to talk to him about before we both get slammed like we always do once we get to the jobsite. Seems like these impromptu early morning hours in his penthouse are the only times I can grab a few minutes to hammer out these details with him. So much so it’s become our thing. Over the past month and a half, we’ve had countless productive meetings just like this.
Well…maybe not just like this. His deciding to shower during one of our meetings is new. But then again, I can’t blame him. He’s a billionaire. His time is money. Literally. I read an online article once about how much billionaires make every day. For the new school blue-collar billionaires like Jason, it calculated out to about $5,000 per minute.
So, I totally get it. At five-grand a minute, it’s just good sense for the man to multitask.
Like the other night, when I’d managed to catch him before he was heading to bed after a ridiculously long day for us both, he’d simply turned around and started stripping out of his clothes while I talked, signed the form I needed him to with one hand while pulling back the covers with the other, and muttered for me to turn off the living room lights on my way out about a second before his head hit the pillow.
It’s nice that he’s so casual and blunt with me.
When I’d first discovered that I would be working directly under the new young CEO of Steele Developments International, Jason freaking Steele himself, I had been worried that I’d have to be perfectly coiffed at all times with make-up, heels, pantyhose, the whole nine yards.
And I’d tried that. At first. But then I’d had my first freak-out over a missed deadline.
To be fair, the error wasn’t my fault. Jason had hired me to take over the job after he’d fired the previous project manager—a decision that was absolutely warranted from everything I’ve seen. Heck, the guy’s lucky Jason hadn’t pressed charges. Gross negligence aside, an asshole jeopardizing SDI’s first premiere retirement community project, especially one that Jason is personally bankrolling in honor of his late father, deserves to be in jail if you ask me.
After discovering just how royally my predecessor had screwed us my third day on the job, I’d bribed the building manager with everything short of my first unborn child to get him to let me up onto the penthouse level to talk to Jason that night. I don’t remember exactly what I’d been wearing when Jason finally opened the door, but I do remember that he didn’t even bat an eye over my appearance. He just let me in and calmed me down before proceeding to spend the next two hours neck-deep in paperwork and plans with me, showing me firsthand exactly why his development group had the reputation it did for excellence.
Then, when I ended up falling asleep on his couch after my brain finally calmed down enough to ease off the adrenaline pedal for once, I woke up the next morning to find he’d carried me over to one of his guest beds and tucked me in sometime in the night.
After that, we sort of just settled into this nice little groove we’re in now, where we’re both completely comfortable with the other.
Surprising, really. I’d always heard that Jason Steele was as hard and intimidating as they come—lord knows even the biggest bruisers on my crew are a little afraid of him. But honestly, I’ve never seen it. Aside from being intense and gruff, and definitely a touch grouchy when I catch him at the wrong time, he’s kind of…sweet.
I mean really, how many other billionaires would include a rent-free loft in his luxury building as a relocation perk for the entire year or so length of a construction project? A project to help retired folks enjoy their golden years, no less. Seriously, the man’s practically a saint. Especially when it comes to putting up with me every time I—
“Summer?”
“Yes?” I call out into the steam-filled bathroom.
“Thought you left. It was quiet out there for a minute.”
“Sorry.” I cringe. “Just looking through my files for something.” Way to go wasting the man’s time. A whole minute. Crap. That’s $5,000 bucks right there. Meaning the dead air just now cost him more than my entire net paycheck this month.
Get it together, Summer!
I quickly scan my notes for the items with asterisks and double underlines in neon highlighter. “Oh! That’s right.” I take a deep, fortifying breath, and then bravely begin my spiel. “I also needed to ask you about the abandoned marsh land behind our lot,” I say, trying to quell the panic in my chest over the idea of someone else scooping up the old paintball grounds before I can convince Jason to see my vision. “I know it’s in bad shape, and it might have some easement concerns, not to mention the issue of there being no water, electricity, or sewage, but I really think we could do something great with all the extra square footage.”
I ramble on for a bit about my ideas for the land. I can’t help it. The untouched acreage really is perfect. It’ll mean more money than Jason had budgeted, yes, but it’ll also allow us to expand the amenities in ways that would make it more sustainable in the long run.
The sounds of him moving around in the shower is my only indication that he’s still alive and listening to me in there. At least he’s not scoffing at my proposal. Yet.
I hear the shower shut off and I take that as my white checkered flag to continue jabbering away. “I drafted up a cost analysis summary for building a full health care facility that on-site physicians and therapy specialists could also see other patients in, via a private concierge medical co-op, which is all the rage right now, along with an adjoining senior activity center. Both facilities would be open to residents and select non-residents, which would offset maintenance costs in a huge way down the line.”
Since he hasn’t given me an outright no yet, I keep going. “I was also thinking of creating different agricultural spaces with one section for residential gardening, of course, but also one section for a botanical research garden open to the public, and one section for a produce garden specifically for an on-site chef to maintain a farm-to-table public restaurant that would similarly double as a property amenity. I know how invested you are in nonprofit organizations and there are a number of other private and grant-funded possibilities that we’d also be able to create partnerships with, some for outreach, some for—”
“I’m sold,” he says, now sounding genuinely intrigued, and only a few feet away. “I’ll call the city to get more info about the land today.”
I instantly feel that same jolt of shocked elation I’d felt earlier when he said he’d hire my pick for the position opening we have. But it’s also more. I’m practically giddy now, thinking about a bunch of cute little retirees tending to their gardens, eating healthy, having access to the kind of round-the-clock medical attention they need, and getting to play with kids in a cool playground built with both children and elderly in mind.
I spin around, half-ready t
o launch a great big hug at my saint of a boss.
Only to find my feet nailed to the floor, somewhere next to my jaw.
It’s no secret that Jason is usually the most handsome man in the room, any room, whether he’s in a suit or covered with jobsite dust from head to toe.
But Jason dripping wet and naked?
I have no words.
All I see before me are miles of tanned, ripped muscles, and an almost dauntingly impressive erection.
No really. It’s huge.
And just like that, I can’t stop my brain from firing off an onslaught of questions. How does he walk around with that thing and not feel like he has an extra sledgehammer weighing down his tool belt? Would my fingers even meet around it? Do his? Was it that hard this morning when I first saw him at the door?
As I continue to stare, it begins to harden and lengthen even more. To the point where I’m not just riveted, but also frankly curious from a general contractor’s standpoint. Sort of like that time I once had to figure out how to get a grand piano into the tiny ass little window on the thirtieth floor of a commercial high rise.
Putting the question of seemingly impossible male-female anatomical fit on the back burner for the time being, I shift my silent inquisition to the matter of why he’s got a hard-on again. That’s the second time today. Is ‘morning wood’ an ongoing thing? Has he been like this every morning without me noticing? And is it some sort of mysterious biological response for my nipples to be tightening this much now that I am noticing?
I feel my cheeks pinking, but I can’t seem to pull my gaze away. A hum of warm pleasure begins in my core and I feel my whole body waking up as if I’ve never really been awake before this moment. It’s unsettling. But not in a bad way.
Definitely not a bad way.
Seriously, I need to stop looking at it. He’s my boss. And my landlord. I need to look away.
Anytime now.
Every second that ticks by is another second too long, another second I’m gaping at him like I’ve never seen a human penis before.
Which is ridiculous for a woman my age. Of course I’ve seen one.
Well, I’ve seen porn. And also that one guy in person who hadn’t been nearly as hung as Jason. Or whatever the term is for a giant cock now standing upright and all but saluting me.
The unexpected penis-sighting that other time had been an accident, too. The real-life penis guy, not the porn. I watched the porn on purpose to see what I was missing. Clearly though, my porn research had been a wholly inadequate means of measurement.
Because wow.
My heart starts to thunder then, and my brain begins cataloging every millisecond of time passing by. The longer he lets me stand here and look my fill, the more I find myself wondering other things. Things so far past improper, I can’t even think of the right adjective.
Erotic images beyond anything I’d ever imagined before start swamping my senses, and my brain is suddenly under siege with more illicit questions. Would it feel hot to the touch against my lips? My tongue? How would he react if I reached for him right now? Would he be all cool and collected like he usually is or could I actually break him of his renowned control?
Do I want him out of control?
I feel my panties growing damp as the answer to that last question heats me from the inside out, rushing my veins like a drug.
Soon, his abs are tensing and his forearms are flexing in a way that tells me he’s guessing what kinds of inappropriate questions are running through my head. And as if in approval of all these dirty thoughts that I can’t seem to rein in, his thick cock pulses, just once.
Causing a sound I’ve never made before to slip past my lips and splinter the steam-filled silence in the room.
4
| JASON |
MONDAY
(Time: Who the hell knows.)
She fucking moaned.
After spending a good minute staring at me like I’m some sort of god with blinding rays of sunlight shooting out of my dick…or like I’m an altar and she’s ready to get on her knees and pray.
Oh, hell, that last visual now has me so hard, it’s taking everything in me to keep precum from leaking out of me. Clenching my teeth, I squeeze my fists tighter to keep from touching her.
She should’ve left.
There’s just no coming back from this. I mean I’ve never cared much about women visually measuring my package before. Figured they’re probably entitled, what with most men thinking about the shape and size of their tits and ass probably more than the color of their eyes or anything less offensive.
But it’s different when it’s Summer doing the staring. It’s kind of cute, in an innocently candid way. But it’s definitely not okay.
How the hell do I tell her to stop staring at my dick? It doesn’t feel like the kind of thing I should have to tell another adult human being.
For a woman nearing thirty, she’s oddly unaware of propriety and how she shouldn’t be alone in my house with me while I’m hard and naked. I’m not a prude, but isn’t there some part of her whispering that this is dangerous? She doesn’t know me that well, shouldn’t she be on guard against the possibility of my taking advantage of her?
Not that I would; I just assumed women came stock with that warning bell ringing any time it could be an issue.
It dawns on me then that I’m worried about her. She’s sweet. Naïve.
And she’s still staring.
That’s when something in me snaps. “Shit, Summer, turn the fuck around.” I hear the heat buried under the anger in my words, the unearthed fire and brimstone warning her to mind her manners or I won’t be responsible for what happens next.
For a second there, it looks like she’s just plain not going to heed my barking command.
And for a second there, I actually want her to take my last bit of control.
But she doesn’t.
Jesus Christ.
As soon as she takes her eyes off my dick and spins around, I finally feel the red haze that had been fucking with my senses for the last few minutes start to dull and fade away. Enough for me to talk like a human again.
“Go on to the jobsite, Summer. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
I see her nod and start to leave without questioning why it’s going to take me that long to get there. Hallelujah.
But before she goes, she quickly reaches for the towel hanging on the back of the door and blindly shoves it at me. “Sorry, I made you drip all over the floor.”
And then she bolts.
Damn it all to hell. She’s just so fucking cute.
I toss the towel on the counter and head back into the shower, her ironic choice of words in parting not lost on me.
5
| SUMMER |
MONDAY
(Time: 5:52 a.m.)
All the way to the jobsite, I feel like I should be hitting the ground running with follow-up plans now that Jason agreed to consider the marsh lands behind the lot.
But I’m not.
Instead, all I can think about is how unbelievably sexy the man is. How in the world has it never affected me before today?
A vividly clear snapshot of him standing in his bathroom today suddenly hits my memory banks again, and I very nearly swerve into a parked car.
It’s like some kind of mental dam has broken. And now, isolated memories of him over the past month and a half are starting to look like those optical illusion images. Like the one with the rabbit that’s clearly a rabbit…until suddenly, your perception shifts and you realize it’s a duck.
Things like how huge his calloused hand had felt gripping my elbow the other week when he stopped me from stepping into a muddy puddle. Or how his deep voice is always so much rougher, raspier the mornings I accidentally wake him up. Or the way his body emits heat like a furnace whenever I stand too close, but in a pleasant way, like when my skin gets warm and toasty in front of a campfire.
Suddenly, all of it has the inside of my car feeling
hotter than a burning kiln.
I roll down all my windows to let in some brisk mountain air, and though the early morning fog helps a little, I’m starting to think that nothing short of an ice-cold shower is going to work.
Almost thirty years I’ve been on this planet and this is the first time I’m actually, legitimately hot and bothered over a man.
Not that I’ve never been attracted to a man before. I definitely have. But it was always short-lived, usually dying the moment that put-off look would creep into his eyes. The same look most people get around me when they realize they can’t quite figure me out, and moreover, that they don’t want to.
I swear, I make an effort to not be weird. But it just…happens.
Maybe it’s because I’m not good at keeping behind those invisible lines people draw around themselves. I’m not sure why I don’t see said lines until well after I’ve trudged across them.
With guys, it always starts out the same. With them asking for my number. Every time, I find myself wincing and almost wishing I were the kind of woman that drew over the men who’re only looking for one night stands. I’ve gone out drinking with my guys enough times to have heard how simple and quick the exchanges go when they’re picking up their drunken flavor of the week, no-name, walk-of-shame quickies.
No man has ever tried that with me. Nope, I always get the nice guys who want to chat on the phone before asking me out on a proper date.
Small talk? Not a skill I possess.
I never know how to tell them that I’m not good at chatting on the phone. Or chatting in general. At least not about anything outside of work. So, I end up giving them my phone number.
Sometimes, miraculously, those awkward first conversations still result in plans for a first date. With the optimistic guys, at least. The more realistic ones jump out of the burning building the second their weirdo-detection alarm starts blaring. Usually by the five-minute mark.
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