Tell Me Again

by Michelle Major

  Maybe that hadn’t been the only reason. Her flirting was part of the package. At least that’s what Trevor told himself. For the most part he ignored her innuendos and not-so-veiled suggestions.

  He’d moved Grace to Colorado because they both needed a change after Nana died, and because he wanted the chance to be his own boss. For that and other reasons, he’d been reluctant to form a partnership with Stone Development and relinquish control of what he was building. In the end, a steady stream of income, especially when he was intent on adding to Grace’s college fund, had convinced him to agree to it.

  “I’d thought you also understood that this is my project, and I’ll staff it as I see fit. As long as Kincaid Homes gives you the houses you want, nothing else is important.”

  “But I want you,” Jolene whined.

  “Again,” Trevor said through clenched teeth, “I’m here now. What exactly can I do for you?”

  “I want to know what else you’re working on,” she said quietly. “Is it another house? Are you working with someone else?”

  Trevor fought the urge to groan. This was why he normally took on only his own projects. He didn’t like answering to anyone. “I’m helping out a friend.”

  “What kind of friend?” She raised one delicately arched eyebrow. “A girlfriend?”

  “You and I have a business agreement,” Trevor said with a patience he didn’t feel. “We’ve talked about this, Jo.”

  “I like it when you call me Jo.” She gave him a suggestive smile. “I don’t like to share. You know that. You’re making a good bit of money thanks to me.”

  “And you’re going to have the most environmentally friendly and structurally sound home this side of the Continental Divide. Don’t push it.”

  “Come on, Trevor. This is a small community. There are no secrets here.”

  “It’s no secret,” he said quickly, knowing if he tried to keep something from Jolene, she’d only become more interested in discovering the details. “I have an old friend who owns a summer camp. The recent snowstorm damaged a couple of the buildings, so I’m helping repair them. End of story.”

  “Or just the beginning.” Jolene’s eyebrows rose so much they almost hit her hairline. “You mean Samantha Carlton?” She screeched the words. “The flippin’ supermodel?”

  Trevor felt his jaw clench. “That’s not how I knew her.”

  “It’s how everyone knows her,” Jolene said with a dismissive wave. “Sam Carlton buying that property was the biggest news in this part of the state since I can remember. I’d say I’m offended, but even I’d throw me over for a supermodel. Especially one with her reputation.”

  “There is nothing to throw over,” he answered, feeling his jaw clench. “Sam and I grew up together. There’s nothing more to it. She needs repairs on the camp because—”

  “Because she’s going to sell it.”

  Trevor snapped his mouth shut. This was news Sam hadn’t bothered to share. “Sell it to whom?”

  “A few different developers are sniffing around the property. Rumor has it she’s been talking seriously with a luxury hotel chain out of Aspen and with a major tech corporation.” She smiled widely. “I wouldn’t mind getting in on the bidding if you’ll put in a good word for me.”

  “Why does she want to sell?”

  Jolene gave a feline shrug and brushed invisible lint off her jacket front. “Who knows? Maybe she’s coming out of retirement. From what I hear she’s still in high demand, despite the fact that she’s a bit long in the tooth for the modeling world.”

  “Are you joking? She’s in her early thirties.”

  “Practically a senior citizen,” Jolene said with a trilling laugh. “Your Grace is the right age, or she will be in a couple of years.”

  Familiar panic clawed at Trevor. “Grace isn’t—”

  “That’s a great idea, actually. You should ask Sam to help Grace. Your daughter is tall and gorgeous. In fact she looks a little—a lot—like . . .” Jolene trailed off, her eyes going wide. “Is Sam,” she asked, “Grace’s mo—”

  “No.” The word leapt from his throat on a shout, and Jolene took a step back. “Sam is not my daughter’s mother.” At least that statement was true, although he could see Jolene didn’t believe it.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she whispered.

  “Because it isn’t true.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to go, Jolene. I’m still not sure why you wanted me here this morning.”

  She eased closer. “Trevor, honey, I want you everywhere. Supermodel ex-girlfriend or not.”

  “She’s not . . .” He didn’t finish that sentence because whatever Sam had been to him was nobody’s business but his. “Dale is good at what he does.”

  “He’s also happily married.”

  “This is business, Jolene. Don’t make it into something more. You’ve got a chance with this development to make your mark, to step out from your father’s shadow. We’re at the start here, and if you go down that path, everyone will know it. Remember, it’s a small community.”

  She studied him for a moment then nodded. “You’re a good man, Trevor Kincaid.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’m a man who’s spent too much time standing around this morning. Call if you need me, but try Dale first.”

  “I will,” she agreed, and stuck out her hand.

  That was different, since normally Jolene tried to buss him on the cheek or cop a feel at the end of their meetings. With a smile, he shook her hand and then headed for his truck. He managed to get a hold of the electrician and push back their meeting time, and then headed for the building supplies store on the edge of town.

  He went immediately to the contractors’ desk, which also seemed to double as a local watercooler. He was running behind so, other than a few friendly waves, didn’t bother to engage in conversation.

  Unfortunately, Otis Whitton, the store’s manager, called his name just as he was signing for his latest order.

  “I sent that lumber you ordered over to Bryce Hollow Camp already,” the older man shouted. He rolled his desk chair over to the door of the office that sat behind the crowded counter.

  “Got it, Otis,” Trevor said, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. “I’m ordering a couple more joists.”

  “Bryce Hollow?” One of the men standing in the small group grabbed Trevor’s arm. “That summer camp for troublemakers and degenerates out past the old Barker place?”

  “Careful, Fred.” Trevor shook off the man’s grasp. “Degenerate is a four-syllable word. That’s about three more than you can handle most days.”

  The other men laughed, but Fred didn’t even blink. “What are you doing at the summer camp? You build houses.”

  Trevor shrugged. “Some work for an old friend. In fact, I’m late for—”

  “’Atta boy.” Fred chortled, scratching his stubby fingers across the ratty T-shirt that stretched over his belly. “You know what that means, fellas. One of us is boinking the perfume princess.”

  Trevor felt his whole body go still. He glanced at each of the men in turn, their smiles fading as they saw his body language change.

  Unfortunately, Fred remained oblivious. “You know Mike Wall’s old man did all the work for her when she bought the place. He was so in awe he could barely speak her name. But the old man wasn’t exactly a go-getter. Mike was pretty damn excited when the princess called him after the storm.”

  “She’s not a princess,” Trevor said through gritted teeth.

  “Hey, Mike,” Fred yelled, waving to someone across the store. “Trevor Kincaid is trying to dip his pen in your ink.”

  “Let it go, Fred,” one of the other men said, but it was too late. Mike Wall, a tall hulk of a man with rumpled brown hair and a few days of stubble, was moving toward their group.

  Trevor counted to ten in his head and flicked his eyes toward the front door. He thought about walking away from the order he was placing. It had been a long time since he’d gotten in a fig
ht, but the urge to slam his fist into Fred’s jowly face thrashed around his brain.

  “She’s not a princess,” he repeated, “and no one is boinking anyone.”

  Fred only clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Mike, you’ve been thrown over for Trevor. Your big plans of sweeping that supermodel off her feet and onto her back are officially screwed.”

  “Unlike you, Mike,” another man piped up.

  “Sam Carlton is hot but a bitch,” Mike said, a sneer curling his lips. “Hell, she might even be into women, if you know what I mean.”

  “She’s running a summer camp, not a brothel.” Trevor fisted his hands at his sides. “She wanted you to give her a bid for repairs, not hit on her. Have some class.”

  “Fuck you, Kincaid.” Mike shouldered forward. “You think you’re better than all of us and sticking your—”

  The punch landed against Mike’s jaw with a satisfying crunch before the sentence was out. The man’s head snapped back, but he hadn’t earned the local nickname of Mike “The Wall” for nothing. He immediately slammed a fist into Trevor’s face, making him stumble back against the counter. Trevor shook it off, perversely grateful for an outlet for his frustration. He pushed off the counter, ready to go at it again, but several men held him back. A few others grabbed Mike’s shoulders, effectively separating the two of them. Otis Whitton came barreling out of his office.

  “What the hell, you two? This is a family business, not a biker bar. None of that crap in here.”

  That reminder was all Trevor needed to get a hold of himself. There was a reason he hadn’t been in a fight in years. He was a respected business owner, not a brawler. “Sorry, Otis.” He looked at the two men holding him. “It’s over,” he said and then pointed at Mike. “Not another word about her. Your dad is a good man, and he deserves better than you disgracing the family’s reputation with your trash talk.”

  He leveled a look at Fred, who lifted his hands, palms up. “Nothing more from me, either.”

  Trevor signed the order form on the counter and shoved it forward. “Put these on my account, Otis,” he said and stalked out of the store.

  Sam was reviewing camper applications early Monday afternoon when David Henderson knocked and then let himself into the small cabin that she used as an office during the off-season.

  “Everything going according to schedule?” she asked, turning away from the computer monitor.

  The older man crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you sure Trevor Kincaid is the right man to be handling the repairs?”

  Sam frowned. She’d seen Trevor arrive at camp an hour ago to meet with the electrician. It was the reason she was holed up in the office—easier to avoid him this way.

  “It seems like this job would be simple compared to building houses,” she answered. “Don’t you think he can handle it?”

  David scrubbed a hand over his white beard. Put a red cap on his head and David Henderson would be a dead ringer for Santa Claus. He was as quiet as his wife was talkative and Sam appreciated his steady hand in taking care of the property. “He can probably handle it, but that doesn’t mean he’s the right man for the job.” He paused then added, “For you.”

  “He’s not for me,” Sam said quickly and swallowed against the emotions that rose in her throat. David was worried for her, even if he had no reason to be. She’d never met her father and her mother had refused to speak about him. David Henderson had been the first man to feel like something of a dad to her, and despite his reserved nature, she knew he cared deeply for the people he loved. Sam was honored to be among that group. “He’s doing this to keep an eye on me with his daughter.” She’d shared the bare bones of her history with Trevor and the connection to Grace with the Hendersons after Grace’s first visit to the camp.

  “He got in a fight with Mike Wall at Whitton’s store earlier this morning.” David stared out the high window that looked toward the lake as he said the words. “Although knowing Mike, I’m sure he deserved it.”

  Sam felt her mouth drop open. “What do you mean ‘he deserved it’?” A sick pit opened in her stomach. “Why were they fighting?”

  David continued to gaze out the window. “Otis wouldn’t tell me the details. He just said to keep on eye on you.”

  “I’ve got to talk to Trevor,” she said, shoving her feet into the winter boots sitting next to her desk. “I don’t need him to defend me against assholes like Mike.”

  “How do you—”

  “We both know how Mike feels about me, especially after I wouldn’t hire him to do the repairs. I’ll handle this, David.”

  “Now Sam—” he started, but she was already out the door.

  She found Trevor and the electrician in the main cabin’s oversized kitchen. The roofers were hammering away above them so neither man heard her stalk in. She tapped Trevor on the shoulder to get his attention.

  “What do you think—” she began then gasped as he turned and the light caught the shiner around his right eye. “You have a black eye,” she yelled, only after realizing the roofers had gone quiet above them. Her voice rang out in the silence of the kitchen.

  Trevor touched a finger to the bruised skin under his eye and winced. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Um, I think I’ve got everything I need,” the electrician said quickly. “I’ll schedule some time at the end of the week to get back out here.”

  “Thanks, Steve,” Trevor said, not taking his eyes off Sam. As the man hurried away, Trevor pointed to the ceiling. “You might want to take it down a few decibels.” He quirked a brow. “I’ve already given the guys at Whitton’s plenty to talk about.”

  “A black eye is not a joke. You can’t go around hitting any guy who acts like an idiot toward me. We’re not kids anymore.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Trevor said, and touched the corner of his eye again. “I was faster at ducking punches when I was fifteen.”

  Sam blew out a breath, frustration warring with something she didn’t want to examine inside her. It felt a lot like gratitude, which was stupid because she’d been fighting her own battles against lecherous men for a long time. She sure as hell didn’t need Trevor taking on the role of knight in shining armor, especially when she knew somehow it would turn into one more reason why Grace spending time with her was a bad idea.

  But her heart didn’t seem to get the memo, and it began to flutter wildly as Trevor studied her. “I liked being fifteen with you,” he whispered and memories flooded through her.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—go there. “You need ice on your eye.”

  “It’s fine, Sam.”

  “It needs ice,” she insisted and stepped around him toward the industrial-size refrigerator that had been pushed against the far wall. “Damn,” she muttered and whirled back around to face him. “It’s unplugged.”

  He shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

  “It will be to Grace,” she answered. “There’s a mini-fridge in the office.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged him through the main cabin, well aware she was only able to move him because he allowed her to.

  The billowy clouds that had blanketed the morning sky had blown away, and she squinted against the dazzling sun. The staff office was in a private cabin behind the others, situated in a small clearing of trees, which offered both privacy and the ability to keep an eye on the camp’s main area.

  Trevor didn’t say a word as she practically dragged him along the path and through the door, slamming it shut behind them. Releasing his arm, she bent in front of the mini-fridge and grabbed one of the ice packs from the freezer.

  She whirled back around to find him standing toe to toe with her.

  “What’s going on?” he asked softly.

  She held up the blue gel-filled cold pack. “I’ve got a towel to wrap it in here somewhere.” She shifted, trying to move around him toward the desk, but he placed his hands on her arms, holding her steady.


  “Sam.”

  “Let me do this. Please.”

  He released her, and she wrapped the cold pack in a thin towel then lifted it to his face.

  The towel slipped and his head jerked back as the cold touched the bruising. She used her free hand to brush the hair off his forehead. “He really landed a good one,” she said softly, earning a chuckle from Trevor.

  “He looks worse.”

  “I have no doubt,” she agreed and held the ice against his eye. “Do you want to sit down?” She motioned to the couch that sat against one wall.

  “No.”

  His unharmed eye drifted shut and she took the opportunity to study him. His skin was golden from days spent in the sun, and the shadow of a beard covered his jaw, as if he’d forgotten to shave this morning. In contrast to his swarthy complexion, his golden eyelashes were long and soft where they rested against his cheek. Lashes that cosmetics companies would envy. Her body warmed at the memory of having those eyelashes flutter against her skin when he’d held her tight.

  As if he could read her wayward thoughts, his eye opened and she was pinned by that sparkling blue gaze. She took a step back, and he lifted a hand to pull the ice pack away from his other eye.

  “Why are we here?” Trevor asked.

  “Your black eye,” she answered immediately, but he shook his head.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I need to help you. I need to make it better so we’re even.”

  “Even?”

  She nodded. “I can’t owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me.”

  “We have a working relationship I can handle,” she said, dropping the towel to her desk and pressing the ice pack between her fingers. She welcomed the burn of the cold against her fingertips. “Then you go and play the hero.”