by K. Bromberg
But not Brandon, Alan, or Patrick. I’ve worked with all of them before. Have bid against them. Have done the mandatory social bullshit required to be a part of the building industry. I know them well enough to know where they’ll fall in line with their numbers, what their bosses demand and dictate in a profit margin, and how they react to the unpredictable, such as this situation.
I can read everything about them. That’s what I do. I study. I remember. I use it to my advantage when I package my bid together.
And yet when I return my focus to the land before me—Mason talking in the front and Harper just off to my left—I hate that I can’t read her. I know she’s just as important competitively—if not the most important one—and yet her edges seem sharper, her demeanor hardened from what I remember it to be.
I may be a take it as it comes type of guy, but fuck if the unknown isn’t unsettling.
“…let’s head back to the office now and I’ll get you the rest of what you need so you can get started.”
There’s a murmured consent among all of us as we all follow after him toward the waiting cars. I walk a few feet and then swear at my mother and her inherent need to hammer manners into my head as a little boy. But I listen to her silent voice nonetheless, and even though I have a feeling Harper’s going to be pissed I’m calling her out as a woman with the gesture, I turn around to let her pass and go ahead. Ladies first.
But just as I turn, I’m met with a small yelp split seconds before Harper’s body collides squarely into mine. Already off balance, I stumble backward a few steps the same time as my hands tighten in reflex to prevent her from falling farther.
Seconds feel like minutes. Her hard hat slips off and clatters to the ground when she tilts her head up with eyes wide and lashes fluttering to look up at me.
Our eyes hold. A solid punch of too many things hits me—the heat of her body pressed against mine, how tiny and fragile she seems in my arms when she’s always strong and in control, and the flicker of vulnerability that flashes through her eyes.
It’s gone just as quickly as I see it but in that second, we’re back in the darkened classroom. My lips are still warm from hers, my body reeling from her taste, and she’s looking up at me with that mixture of shock, desire, and vulnerability that I was probably too young to understand and too stupid to appreciate at the time. The one that should have led me to chase after her when she ran out the door instead of question the consequences first and never get the chance to later.
But there was more there. I know there was. And right now, the look in her eyes when they meet mine—with the dirt beneath us and the sky above us––brings it all back.
Déjà vu like I’ve never experienced before.
As quick as the memory comes, it’s gone. And I know she must have thought it too because within a beat, we’re a sudden mass of hands pushing off, eyes averting, and throats clearing so we can erect that professional wall back between us. I step away and pick up her hard hat while she smoothes her hands down the line of her skirt.
“Are you okay?” I hand her hard hat to her. Watch her throat move with a swallow. See the flush of embarrassment in her cheeks.
Does she think all these same things when she looks at me?
“I’m fine. Thank you.” Her voice is tight, movements determined, as she takes the helmet and strides past me without another word.
Curious yet cautious thoughts start to spin out of control in my own head, that I can’t allow myself to think. I turn on my heel to follow her just in time to catch her shrug off the other men asking if she’s okay. She strides right past them with a laugh but determination in her gait.
We climb into the waiting town cars ready to bring us back to the office tower and pull out of the dirt lot with a billow of dust around us. She refuses to look my way the entire return trip. And even though Alan’s presence in the front seat prevents me from asking more, I have a feeling even if he wasn’t here, she’d still refuse to acknowledge what happened.
But my unfinished thoughts prevail. What if I had chased after her that night? How would things have been different, or would they have at all? And when I tell myself what-ifs aren’t worth dwelling on, my mind shifts to the look that was in Harper’s eyes.
A look similar to the one my three-year-old niece gets when she’s hurt or afraid but is trying to pretend like hell she’s perfectly fine. A brave, little girl in this big, bad world.
Guess Harper’s not so sure of her heeled feet in this world after all.
And why does that thought bug the shit out of me?
Chapter Five
Harper
I’m the first in the room, my mind focused on getting to work, my body still reacting to the feel of Ryder’s body against mine.
That’s what I get for taking a minute to appreciate the sight of his very fine ass walking in front of me. Take my eyes off the dirt for one damn second and I almost fall face-first and make an idiot out of myself.
Correct that. I did make an idiot out of myself with what felt like a million other eyes watching. Ain’t that a kicker? Try to prove you’re a woman, capable and tough, and end up looking like the helpless damsel.
Of course, no time like the present for the prince who saved me to enter the room. Needing space, I step to the opposite side of the crowd as him because I can still feel my body against his, can still smell the subtle scent of his cologne, and can still see that look in his eyes from earlier today when I don’t want to.
And then I’m left to wonder if that fluttering I feel is from today or just the memory of before? Which one has my body standing to attention when his undeniable presence is near?
How can one mistake of a kiss years ago still make me feel this way?
Because it was one helluva kiss. That’s why.
My thoughts are interrupted when a woman hands me a colored file folder with the number “13” and “Harper Denton” written on the front of it.
“Please don’t open anything yet,” Mason’s assistant says as Mason, himself, walks in the room, right as I was about to do just that.
The subtle hum in my veins returns because we’re about to get started. The bid, the competition, the fight for first. There’s no better feeling than walking into a room as the underdog simply because you’re a woman, to later walk out the victor because your skills and expertise proved them all wrong. And because of this—my drive to prove I’m better than my competitors are, that I need to refocus and get myself back on sure-footedness that the dirt dusting my heels tells me I lost today.
I look around to see everyone else with that anticipatory look on their faces, their excitement palpable, and wonder if it’s the same for them as it is for me.
“Hey, Harp.” Ryder’s low timbre is whispered in my ear, his chin hitting my shoulder as he speaks. I freeze, hold in my yelp of surprise that he’s behind me when he was across the room a second ago, and try to remain as professional as possible when everything in my body feels like it has just been electrified. “Just in case you were wondering, beard burn is a real thing.”
His chuckle rumbles from his chest into my back before he steps away. I’m left staring at the number thirteen on my folder and pretending to remain unaffected to the people around us––like he was discussing the particulars of the project––while inside I’m dying a slow, beautifully torturous death of desire.
My mind shifts gears suddenly and realizes he heard me. Actually heard me as I chastised myself for thinking about it while we talked earlier. Can this day get any worse?
But before I can turn any redder, Mason takes charge of the room. “You’ll note the full-scale model has been placed in the center of the room to make it easy for you all to see from your seats. Elevation renditions are hanging on the wall to your left and a nonnegotiable construction schedule with deadline dates is hanging on the wall to your right. We’ve set up a desk for each of you and you’ll find it fully stocked with supplies, calculators, etcetera,” Mason says with a fl
utter of his fingers as if all this secrecy is self-explanatory.
We all glance to the two rows of desks set facing each other a mere five feet apart. Talk about staring down the enemy while you work. I catch a few furrowed brows of the guys around me as to why all the hubbub and quietly sympathize because I feel the same way.
“By now, each of you should have a file folder in your hands. These are your bibles for this bid. It is your information and yours only. That folder is not to leave this room and it and its contents should remain on the top of your desks when you leave each night.”
Expressions become more bewildered. This stipulation means that our bid calculations would be sitting in plain sight for any of our competitors to open and look at if they wanted to see our numbers.
“Doesn’t that allow for––”
“I know it’s unconventional, Brandon, but it’s the way the contractor wants the bid run and therefore we are following through with his wishes. A couple of notes before you begin. The client is very specific in his demands for the project. He will not negotiate with you over your numbers, so be firm. The first two phases are up for grabs and the lowest bid wins. Good luck.” His chuckle fills the room. “Please, find your desks and feel free to start. Remember, you will have three days including today to work on your numbers, with your presentation to board members taking place on the third day and the subsequent awarding of the project afterward.”
Heads nod in agreement around me even though I know most of us are confused about these strange and unconventional parameters for this bidding process. I haven’t been out of the game that long that things have changed this much, have I?
It doesn’t matter. I can roll with it. I’m used to circumstances making me adjust.
The excitement in the room is palpable as we each find our assigned desks. Eager to begin, I open my folder and shuffle through its contents: bid directives, square footage, key codes for the CAD drawings, building specifications, etcetera. These are all the things that make a girl like me happy. Construction porn.
With a smile wide, the adrenaline escalating, and finally feeling like I’m back in my element, it all fades when I glance up and meet the intense gaze of Ryder.
A mere five feet in front of me.
Seriously? As if tripping and falling against him wasn’t enough, now I have to sit and work directly across from him.
Our eyes hold momentarily before he smiles softly and nods. Was he always this nice to me? I don’t remember him being so. If he was, maybe my brain was so clouded by my constant competitiveness laced with lust for him that I never noticed it.
He shouldn’t be nice to me.
Nice is distracting.
And I don’t need distractions.
I need game-on.
“You ready?” I ask him, my own smile playing at the corners of my lips, a blatant and ironic attempt to distract me from my own thoughts.
“Bring it on, Denton.” He flashes his own grin. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got.”
“More than you can handle.”
His laugh is quick and echoes in my head as I look down, glad to feel like we are back on a more familiar playing field. But as I start to organize the papers in the folder how I prefer them, I realize my mind is still on Ryder.
Christ, Harper. You said you weren’t going to let him distract you.
Not him or his beard or his blue eyes framed by black lenses or strong jaw that pulses at the corners when he concentrates. Nope, I’m not distracted. Not by that or with the realization that the combination of his features is my kryptonite when it comes to a man. A little mix of the bad boy look for this professional woman. I mean just add in some tattoos and he’d be exactly my type.
But he’s not. He can’t be.
He’s Ryder.
And I don’t like Ryder. I mean, I like him and all but he’s so much fun to spar with and compete against that I want that old Ryder back. The one I used to know that would bring out the best in me, make me hate him then later laugh with him. But this new Ryder is a mixed bag who I’m sure will still go head to head with me, but I like the aloofness of years ago better. The one who wouldn’t glance twice at that look in my eye today or keep trying to make eye contact with me in the car after to make sure I’m okay. The guy who’s not nice and doesn’t catch me when I fall.
All of them are perfectly justifiable reasons why I shouldn’t like him.
So why don’t I believe any of them?
The bid, Harper. Start the bid.
Win the job.
Quit trying to figure everything else out first.
Chapter Six
Harper
I go through my calculations again and try to see what I’m missing. My pencil raps against the desk and when I reach for my drink, I realize it’s warm and lacking carbonation. No time like the present to stretch my legs, give my eyes a short rest, and get a new drink. Maybe the respite will help my second wind to kick in.
It’s only when I remove my earbuds and slip my heels on beneath my desk that I realize the war room (as we’ve dubbed it) is basically empty except for Alan and Ryder. Everyone else must be getting a late lunch to fortify themselves for the long night ahead.
I take a few minutes to turn all of my notes facedown on my desk and shut my laptop from prying eyes. As I stand, I take note of Alan bent over the floor model, jotting down notes about something, and Ryder leaned back in his chair, lips pursed, glasses slightly askew, and forehead furrowed in concentration while he scribbles on the paper in front of him.
Yep. He’s still attractive. It’s not like he’s going to not be in the four hours we’ve been at this. I shake my head and drag my eyes away from him. Fresh air is definitely needed. Open space without him crowding it or his laugh filling it or his intelligence questioning it.
With high-caloried goodness straight from the vending machine in one hand, a cold bottle of Diet Coke in the other, I head back into the workroom with renewed vigor. I’m confident I’ll be able to make some lucid sense of the equations currently a chicken-scratched mess of numbers jumbling up my pad of paper. But when I take a seat, I note that Ryder is the only one left in the room.
Figures.
Paranoia strikes the minute I look at the mess on my desk. Was that top sheet of notes askew like that? Was my pad that far forward on the desk? Did someone look at my numbers? I squint my eyes and replay my actions in my head, uncertain whether I have an overactive imagination or they’ve actually been touched.
“You’re back?” Ryder’s gravelly voice slices through the silence. His comment arouses my suspicions.
“Where’s Alan?”
“He went to get something to eat. I thought you’d left too.”
“Nope. I have zero plans of leaving until I’m certain I can undercut your numbers.”
“Hmm.”
I wait for him to say something more than his murmur and hate that it drags my mind to our past. I’d rather have his trademark sarcasm to sneak through, but that lone, drawn-out sound is all he utters. And then nothing else. His eyes are on his laptop, his attention elsewhere.
I’m just being paranoid. Next time I leave my desk, I’ll need to pay closer attention to where I put things.
The room is silent except for the sounds my papers make as I shuffle them. My inherent need to start with a clean and organized desk is futile but still an effort I make.
“Missing something?”
I falter in motion, self-conscious that he’s watching me. “Nope. I’m good.” I refuse to look up. It’s the easiest way to keep my promise to myself. The one to ignore him so I can keep focused. “Just making sure you didn’t sneak a peek at my desk.”
That chuckle of his echoes around the empty room as I hear his chair creak followed by the fall of his feet on the floor. Maybe I’ve run him off to take his own break so now I can have some peace without the charged undercurrent that seems to be a constant when he’s near.
But when his footsteps stop, t
hey squash my hopes of him leaving right along with them.
“This whole setup is unconventional. I swear Van Dyken is trying to make us all paranoid by the time this bid is over. This whole leave-your-work-on-the-desk thing is odd. The bid’s secretive, but our numbers sitting on our desk for others to snoop are free game? Makes no sense.”
What’s with the small talk? Ryder and I never did small talk before. We were at each other’s throats one day then urged each other on the next. We did rivalry well, but never did the chatty thing or the ask-about-back-home thing. We were competitors who respected each other, but friends? No.
So his niceness feels strange to me. I don’t want him to be nice. I just want him to quit talking so I can stop wanting to look up and see if his hair is mussed up from running his hands through it like he used to do when we’d been in the library studying until closing time. A look that used to make my insides flutter and mouth water.
“Don’t you agree, Harper?”
My mind blanks when I glance up and find him right in front of me—ass resting against the front of the desk, one arm crossed over his chest while the other hand plays with the end of his beard, head angled to the side—staring at me with his eyes narrowed behind the black frames of his glasses.
That straight punch of lust I felt checking out Hot-Suit Guy hits me just as violently as it did this morning (was it only this morning?), and yet I balk at the feeling because Hot-Suit Guy is Ryder. And I can’t feel lust for Ryder. I can’t feel anything for him because we’re competing against each other, and not for bragging rights over who’s going to graduate first in our MBA program but rather for a multimillion dollar project that could make or break my career. And possibly his.