Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  So far, my record is two minutes flat. I think that time, I’d answered the question about how my day went by describing—in pretty vivid detail—how we’d unclogged a drainage ditch at one of my jobsites and found ourselves knee-deep in a veritable sea of frogs...and how a group of frogs is apparently called an army, according to Google.

  Frankly, I recall judging the guy a little bit for continuing to talk to me for a whole minute after I’d told him that fun amphibian fact. Though I do appreciate his effort at trying to remember the name of the Muppet character Ms. Piggy had been in love with to keep the conversation going those last painful ten seconds before he finally made a lame excuse and hung up.

  With Jason, however, our chats are never awkward. No questions about my nonexistent weekend plans. No asking me how my equally nonexistent family is. It’s shop talk, and that’s it. Everything is brief, almost abrupt.

  I love that.

  There’s no pussy-footing with him, no socially-acceptable rules to abide by. He doesn’t care that I’m conversationally-challenged; he just cares that I do a good job.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not stupid enough to believe Jason doesn’t think I’m peculiar. But the sheer fact that I haven’t once seen that look in his eyes yet, the one that says he’s kind of wishing we’d never met, and that he’s already written me off as a person too strange to spend another second with.

  Well, let’s just say that counts for a lot.

  And to top it all, he hand-picked me to run this incredible project. It’s amazing to have someone like him truly believe in me, trust me to bring his construction vision to life.

  I just can’t let him down.

  Which means I absolutely, positively cannot be developing these bizarre new feelings for him.

  Nope. Can’t happen.

  So…all I have to do is stop thinking sexy thoughts about the man. Forget I ever saw Jason Steele naked.

  Yup. Easy peasey.

  6

  | SUMMER|

  FRIDAY

  (Time: 3:03 a.m.)

  In light of what happened the other morning with all the inappropriate cock-staring, I know I shouldn’t be here again, but…

  Jason’s been acting weird.

  And for me to think a person is being weird, it has to be pretty bad.

  Four whole days now he’s been avoiding me, which is kind of a feat considering we work out of the same trailer on site.

  The first two days, he volunteered to oversee the breakdown and removal of the existing sewage pipes underground. No one volunteers for that. It’s literally a crap job.

  The next day wasn’t any better. He stayed at his corporate office, which, anyone who knows him could tell you he absolutely hates to do.

  And then yesterday, he sent me an email about how he’d have an update on the marsh lands for me to review by next week. The man rarely ever sends me emails. Plus, he was sitting ten feet away from me at the time.

  So here I am, freaking the heck out and knocking incessantly on his door.

  He has to answer. If he doesn’t, there’s a good chance my heart is going to pound its way right out of my chest. And call me paranoid, but I’m pretty sure my having a heart attack outside of his door would just make things even weirder between us.

  As I continue to knock, I’m reminded of the one guy who’d managed to make it through a record three dates with me. In the end, he’d called me “overbearingly over-analytical” and “unable to let go of the little things” before never calling me again.

  If I could help it, I would. My own mother used to tell me I was a constant irritation the entire time I was growing up. But…I just don’t see how other people—normal people—manage to see a problem right in front of them and not need to do something about it.

  For me, if something seems broken, I can’t stop thinking about it until I at least have a plan to fix it. If I can’t come up with a plan, I can’t stop thinking. If I can’t stop thinking, I can’t sleep.

  If only my brain had an on/off switch.

  Thankfully for my aching knuckles, the door finally swings open.

  And just like that, all those overabundant thoughts in my head are wiped out completely.

  As Jason towers in the doorway with his six-foot-plus frame shirtless as usual, hair disheveled from sleep, and chiseled expression visibly on edge, the only thing my brain registers is: He has green eyes.

  No. Just no. Noticing the color of the man’s eyes is not allowed.

  I avert my gaze.

  Which ends up being a colossal tactical error because now, I’m looking at his broad, perfectly sculpted chest. It’s somehow bigger than I remember. His shoulders, too. And don’t even get me started on his arms.

  I’m unable to look away.

  Until, that is, I hear him make a brisk, grumpy sound that sounds hoarse with fatigue…and something else I can’t put my finger on.

  I risk looking back up at his face to find his attention focused on what I’m wearing.

  I look down to make sure my pajama shirt is fully buttoned. It is. Whew. But hell, I forgot to put on shorts again. Good thing my shirt is long enough that he’ll never know.

  “It’s fucking three a.m., Summer, what do you need?”

  Good question. I’m mortified to discover I’m suddenly drawing a blank.

  Another long second of total silence passes and I’m actually starting to worry that I might be having a stroke. It’s like I’m physically unable to find words, any words to utter out loud.

  At least I’m not staring at his chest or arms anymore. Go me. It’s a small victory, but a hard-fought one, if I’m being perfectly honest about it.

  “I…uh…” Forget the stroke, it’s possible I’m suffering from brain damage.

  Jason leans in a bit, as if he’s hoping being a bit closer will help me use my words.

  It has the exact opposite effect.

  At my second failed attempt at coherent, multi-syllable words, Jason simply sighs and steps back into his loft. “Come inside, it’s cold out there.”

  He leads me into his living room and drops tiredly into a dark leather chair.

  “Sit,” he says, pointing at the couch across from him.

  To his credit, he doesn’t even look surprised when I forego the sofa and just drop to my butt on the floor where I stand.

  “Okay, out with it. What’s wrong?” he asks gruffly, though in a voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it.

  Seriously, just say something. Anything.

  “Equipment!” The word bursts out of me like a Hail Mary pass. Followed by enough words for an actual sentence. “Some of the equipment we received were—”

  “Hang on,” he interrupts me, his words curt, almost rough. “You woke me up at three a.m. for something that you and I both know can only be handled on site?”

  “Um…yes?” I respond in question form, knowing he’s not buying it.

  A taciturn “try again” expression is his only response.

  “I…can’t sleep,” I finish lamely, going with something truthful, but feeling like a bumbling idiot at the same time.

  His expression softens then, as if I’ve said something that hits home for him as well. “Is something bothering you?”

  I nod.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  For a second, I’m thrown for a complete loop that a human being is actually suggesting I open my mouth and unleash the contents of my overactive brain. Voluntarily.

  But then he shifts forward in his seat and my mind whites out again, leaving my eyes without a keeper as they start traveling lower and lower.

  As much as I fight it—and I really do—I find myself fixated on the one thing I’m more interested in thinking about than work at the moment.

  7

  | JASON |

  FRIDAY

  (Time: Way too early for morning wood.)

  She’s staring at my dick again.

  And as much as I fight it—I really do—I find my cock get
ting hard enough to hammer nails.

  I should tell her to cut it out.

  But I don’t.

  For some totally screwy reason, I’m not thinking about maintaining a professional distance right now. No, I’m thinking about how I miss the shocked expression on her face from the other day. How I miss the wonder, the curiosity she’d had while staring at my hard cock. And how I miss the feeling that I’m the only man to get her that flushed and flustered in a while.

  Or ever.

  Damn it. The possessive, downright primal gut clench I feel at that last possibility is the only thing that’s able to snap me out of it.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s on your mind or not, Summer?” I purposely make my tone harsher than usual.

  “Are you going to fire me?” she blurts out, face full of dread.

  I blink at her in confusion. “What?”

  “I’m sorry I stared so long at your, um, package the other day. I swear, I won’t do it again.” A dark blush stains her cheeks. “I mean I promise after this last time just now.”

  Well, shit, what does it say about me that I’m getting pissed over her vowing to never look at my hard-on again? That’s messed up, man. “Forget about it. It’s no big deal.”

  “We both know that’s not true. You’re my boss. It was inappropriate. I basically sexually harassed you.” She looks down, shoulders heartbreakingly slumped. “I would understand if you don’t want to work with me anymore.”

  So that’s what has her looking more worried than usual. “I’m not going to fire you over this, Summer.”

  “Any other boss would. If any of your other workers did what I did…”

  I bark out a laugh at that. “If any of my big, hulking construction workers came into my bathroom unannounced and stared at my junk, yeah, I probably would fire him.”

  She looks close to tears as she scrambles quickly to her feet. “Thank you for the opportunity, Jason. I won’t ever forget it.”

  My smile fades away. I jump out of my chair and snag her elbow to keep her from walking away. “I told you I’m not firing you, Summer.”

  Her spine stiffens. “Because I’m not a big, hulking dude.”

  One thing I’ve always found fascinating about Summer is that she truly, genuinely thinks she’s just one of the guys. Her first day working for me, she’d asked the men where they were all taking a whizz so she could go as well since the two portable toilets we had on site were both occupied. She was all set to do it, too, toilet paper roll in hand and everything.

  I almost fired my entire crew when I heard they’d stood around and watched her get as far as unzipping her jeans before my main foreman intervened and practically threw her into his truck to drive her to a nearby gas station restroom.

  According to him, she chewed him out something spectacular the entire time.

  “I don’t like you thinking of me differently from the men,” she says plainly, arms crossed over her chest.

  Well, tough shit. “Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but I do think of you differently. Always have. Always will.”

  She jerks back as if I’ve struck her.

  Oh, hell, I know that look. If I’ve learned anything about Summer after all this time, I know that she’s not getting ready to crumble. She’s getting ready to—

  “Field test! Tomorrow,” she growls, poking me in the sternum with an angry index finger, eyes sparking and downright livid. “Me against your best guy. Steel framing and wood framing. I’ll bet you one month’s pay that I’ll be faster, better, and use less materials!”

  Good lord, the woman is too much. She’s fucking lucky I’m not ripping off her sexy little bottomless outfit and burying my face between her legs right now.

  As she stands there with her mutinous little fists balled up at her sides, I study her big blue eyes and the slight sprinkle of freckles crossing her nose, both of which are growing more pronounced the longer I let her seethe. “Summer, trust me when I tell you that I wish I could see you as just one of the guys, that I could ignore how goddamn beautiful you are,” I grit out through my teeth. “But I can’t.”

  Her lips part a fraction of an inch, in pure, unadulterated shock.

  “I already know you’re better than my guys. If I’m ever down a man and I need someone of your caliber to fill in, believe me, I’m going to expect you to be out there with us. But none of that changes the fact that I’m fully aware that you’re a woman. A gorgeous woman I can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard I try.”

  Face flushing pink, she sinks her teeth into her lower lip and gives me that cute, confused little smile—my favorite of all her facial expressions.

  That’s all it takes to break me.

  Before I know it, I’m wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her in close. Slowly though, so she can stop me if she wants to.

  But instead of pulling away, she molds herself flush against me.

  And I’m fucking lost.

  How the hell she expects me to think of her as one of my men, I’ll never understand. She’s dainty, tiny compared to me. And she always smells good, even after hours of hard labor. I blame that fruity lotion she keeps in her desk. After I saw her smoothing it on her arms one day, all I could think about for the rest of the week was strawberries…or more specifically, strawberry sauce, and my licking it off the soft skin of her belly right there in the office trailer.

  Fuck, I want her mouth on mine. Her full lips have been driving me to distraction since the day we met. But now that I’m feeling her hard little nipples pressed against me, I’m torn as to where I want to put my mouth first.

  Any hope of her helping me with this tie-breaking decision is shot to hell when she takes her curious little hands and starts running them shyly across my torso.

  That’s my cue to come to my damn senses.

  I have to let her go.

  Now. Right now.

  But even as I tell myself it’s the right thing to do, my arms don’t listen. They don’t let her go. I don’t back off; I don’t unwind her from my grip; I don’t sever whatever this is keeping me connected to her.

  Instead, I continue to hold her, staring into her wide, trusting blue eyes, wondering if I’d ever forgive myself if I threw away my self-imposed rules just this once.

  What’s one night? I’ve spent a lifetime following rules, pushing boundaries but never crossing them. Who says I can’t break this one arbitrary rule?

  My hand presses to her hip and I run it up to her ribs, loving the planes of her body. She’s so fucking beautiful. Sleek, gentle curves toned and tanned from all the manual labor our trade demands. Exotic, expressive eyes. And a lush mouth I could fantasize about for hours.

  When she turns those eyes and that mouth up to me, I can’t help myself. I do the one thing I’ve been wanting to do since the first time I saw her in this sexy-ass shirt.

  I undo a button.

  Then another.

  “Jason,” she breathes, and my cock jumps at the sound of my name crossing her lips for the first time. She’s never called me anything but boss or Mr. Steele until now.

  If she does it again, I’ll be taking her right here on the goddamn living room rug.

  Jesus Christ. This woman is going to destroy my sanity, my sense of right and wrong. Unless I do the smart thing and hit the brakes this instant.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, I spear my fingers through her sun-streaked hair, pulling her messy bun loose. The soft, silky waves tickle as they tumble over my hand to skim the top of her hip. I hadn’t realized her hair was so long. Or that letting it out of those sensible buns she always wears would release the scent of flowers. Summer flowers. Fitting.

  And now, all I can think about is how it would feel to wrap those long, flower-scented, golden-brown strands around my fist as I coax her lips open with my thick, hard—

  Fuuuck. How does this sweet, maddening little woman manage to get past every last one of my defenses without even trying?

>   If I don’t stop now, I won’t stop at all.

  “You should go,” I somehow manage to mutter thickly, surprised at how fucking hard it is to utter the words.

  I’d thought it’d eventually fade, this spark between us, this tension.

  Evidently, I’d thought wrong.

  8

  | SUMMER |

  FRIDAY

  (Time: For the first time ever, I have no clue.)

  “You’ve never told me to leave before,” I murmur inanely. I’m not sure why it bears mentioning, but it does. “Not once, in all this time we’ve known each other. No matter how annoying I got. You’ve shut the door in my face before I made it inside, yes, but you’ve never made me feel unwelcome, unwanted here once I got past the door.”

  “You’re always welcome here, Summer.”

  “But today, you want me to leave.”

  He sighs gruffly. “No, I actually don’t. And that’s exactly why you need to leave.” His tone is firm this time, resolute. He lets go of me and takes a step back.

  The loss of his touch, his body heat, is so acute, a tiny sound of protest escapes me.

  He halts and looks down at me as if he’s worried he’s hurt me. We’re toe to toe, face to face, and all I want is to get that heat back, his touch back.

  It’s as if he can hear my thoughts loud and clear, and his lips instantly press into a grim line in response. The visible regret darkening his deep green eyes is what jerks me back to reality.

  What am I doing?

  This is my boss, my landlord. The best boss and landlord I’ve ever had.

  Be that as it may, logic and reason both appear to be MIA as I begin to close the distance between us one more time. Even though everything inside of me is screaming at me to stop. Before I cross one of those invisible lines I can’t uncross later.

  But I don’t care.