Love Reimagined

by Delancey Stewart

  “Thanks,” I said. I was usually somewhat off balance, but having Sam do something thoughtful had me completely off kilter. What was I supposed to make of this? “Um…okay. So where do we start?”

  Sam looked up, the playful smile gone. Time for business. “Have a seat.”

  I sat and he pulled up a chair next to me, scooting near to pull the mouse into his hand on my right side. He leaned close to reach the keyboard in front of me and I had a strange sudden impression of his size as I leaned back to let his muscled arm stretch across my space. The corded muscles in his forearm flexed, and something warmed inside me in a very unfamiliar way—at least unfamiliar when associated with Sam. I knew other girls found him attractive, but it was almost as if I’d never really seen him before. At least not in the last several years.

  Now that he was right in my face and literally in my space, my body seemed to want me to acknowledge the broad muscled back, the big capable hands on the keyboard, the thighs challenging the fabric of his jeans.

  “I set up a user account for you. You’ll have to change the password when you have time. For now, it’s just ‘PConstruction1945.’ The year my grandfather started this business.”

  I nodded and watched Sam log into my account, taking a deep breath to force myself to focus. This was Sam, I reminded myself, and it wasn’t too hard to will my general dislike for him to overtake whatever strange impulse I’d felt for a moment to thread my fingers through the dark hair at the nape of his neck.

  This was Sam, and I was at work. The only finger/hair threading that would be happening would be with Chance. Maybe. Probably not. But that was the idea.

  Focus, Miranda.

  “So for now, everything you need is on the desktop here.” Sam was still leaning over in his chair, his shoulder dangerously close to actually touching mine. The space between our bodies felt charged, like the air was snapping with electric knowledge that if he actually touched me I’d probably jump a mile high and unload every angry comment I’d ever held in where Sam Palmer was concerned. Or maybe something completely different would happen—something worse. I had a vague flash of me kissing him, and then cringed at the thought.

  What was wrong with me? The anticipation in the air made me uncomfortable and I scooted away a bit. Sam paused in his description of every single file on my computer and glanced at me with eyes that looked almost hurt.

  “Sorry, I was just, uh, stretching.” Why was I apologizing for wanting to maintain my personal space?

  He nodded, but his look became guarded and he straightened up a bit, moving away from me. “Okay, well, start here with this spreadsheet,” he said. A vague scent of some kind of soap moved around him, along with something else I just realized I’d been noticing for a while.

  “Why do you smell like licorice?” It was out before I could stop it.

  “Why do you care how I smell?” he countered, the little smirk glowing in one corner of his mouth again and those dusty blue eyes fixed intently on me.

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t. Sorry. It’s just…seriously. Do you eat a lot of licorice?” Now that I’d identified it, I realized I’d been smelling it since we’d walked into the office.

  “You like chocolate-covered raisins, I like licorice.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know many people who actually liked black licorice, but there was something I liked about the smell, not that I was going to tell him that. “How’d you know that, by the way?”

  “About the raisins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not everyone is clueless,” he said. Typical.

  “I’m not clueless.” Good comeback, Miranda.

  “Every consider that I didn’t mean you?” His gaze was boring into me now, and angry heat simmered in his eyes.

  I had no idea what to say to that, and found myself scanning back through the last few times I’d seen Sam, trying to figure out when I’d been eating chocolate-covered raisins. They had been my guilty pleasure since I was a kid, but I couldn’t remember ever making a big deal about it. That was Sam, though. Latching on to stupid things so he could use them against you someday. No doubt my affinity for chocolate-covered raisins would somehow become a weapon in Sam’s hands. Past experience showed that he would hurt me if he could.

  Sam blew out a breath and continued. “So every project we’ve got scheduled is on here.” Sam turned his attention back to the spreadsheet. “First I need you to familiarize yourself with the schedule and the plans. Then I need you to do two things. Look at the equipment and manpower resources listed for each job and check them against the lot list and staffing list. Those are over here.” He pulled up another sheet in the workbook. “Sometimes Chance books stuff we can’t even do because the equipment or people we need are on another job.”

  I raised my eyebrows, surprised Chance would make a mistake like that. Or any mistake. Chance was perfect as far as I could tell.

  “He’s not perfect, you know.”

  Great, now Sam was reading my mind. Heat prickled at my cheeks and the back of my neck, and I couldn’t tell if it was from his obvious awareness that I was in love with his brother or if my body was still having some kind of traitorous response to Sam’s masculine proximity.

  “He’s a great salesman, and he’s good with the big ideas. Not so good with details.”

  “Oh.” My eyes were running down the spreadsheet, looking for evidence of Sam’s statement. Chance was a Stanford MBA. I found it hard to believe he’d be bad at resourcing work.

  “The second thing I need is for you to run a total of cost and profit, from these numbers out here.” Sam pointed across the screen. “Every job requires investment, and we try to keep payment schedules on track so one client is essentially paying to do work for the next, and the only time we hit the bank is with deposits. Make sense?”

  “Sure,” I said. I wanted to get to work. The huge screen was packed with numbers and it would take me a while to familiarize myself with the way it was organized. Now that I understood what I was looking at, my mind was turning, eager for the challenge.

  “When you’ve done that, let me know and we’ll compare.”

  Compare? “Wait, you already did this?” I stared at Sam, ignoring his ever-present arrogant smirk.

  “Of course.”

  “So, what? This is some kind of test?” My blood started to boil. Of course it was. Sam was testing me. He didn’t think I could manage this job.

  Sam let out a sharp breath, clearly frustrated with me and shook his head, a hand rising to rub one side of his jaw. “No. You’re just double-checking me, Miranda. I’m not perfect either.” He stood and pulled the chair back to the corner of the room. “Answer the phones, too, please.”

  Sam turned and disappeared into his office, leaving me to decide whether I was angry or not.

  Chapter 9

  Sam

  I couldn’t help it. Whenever Miranda walked through the door at Palmer Construction, it was like the air in the office changed. For one thing, she smelled good. Like muffins, or flowers. Or baked flowers. I can’t explain it, but I’m used to spending pretty much all my time with my older brother. And while most of the girls I’ve ever met seem to think Chance smells okay, they didn’t grow up sharing a room with the dude. I’m not saying the office normally stinks, nothing like that. And Chance doesn’t really stink either, probably. I don’t profess to be a dude-smell expert. But I’m saying the air noticeably changes when Miranda arrives—becomes all sunshine and flowers, and I can’t help the damned smile that tries to glue itself to my face, or the insane swirl of anticipation in my gut.

  Part of it was just something new and different. Not much changed in Kings Grove. Things were a little interesting last year, with all the excitement over Connor Charles. And then Maddie and her brother moved up here, and that was cool. But in general, the locals were the locals, and the place was small.

  When I was in high school, I was determined that as soon as I graduated, I’d be off like a shot. I
was going to go to LA, or up to San Francisco. Anywhere there was life and movement, art and culture. New people, new worlds to explore. I wanted the same opportunity Chance had gotten. But then Dad got sick.

  The only real consolation to being stuck in this one horse town was Miranda George. And I really couldn’t figure out why she was still here. I guess it shouldn’t have been much consolation, considering she hated me. But my stupid heart didn’t seem to care. Any excuse to be close to Miranda was a good one.

  I’d pretty much always felt that way about her, ever since we were in the same class in first grade and she’d tipped over the aquarium on her second day of school. Our teacher, Mr. Aarons, wasn’t in the room when it happened—we were supposed to be at lunch, but Miranda forgot something in the room and I came back with her to get it. We peeked in on the fish, and the button on her overalls got caught on the top edge of the aquarium so when she stepped back she pulled the whole thing with her, and it crashed to the floor, fish flopping everywhere and making those sad “o” mouths.

  The thing was plastic, so we tipped it back up and tried to arrange the little trees and rocks the way they were. We saved the fish and refilled the whole thing before Mr. Aarons came back. But when he slipped in the massive puddle of water after lunch and found Rocky the goldfish floating belly up the next morning, the jig was up. At recess I told Miranda I’d take the heat. And she almost let me, but that’s the thing I love most about her. Miranda has a good heart and a clear view of right and wrong. When I raised my hand and confessed, her blue eyes got wide and watery, and two seconds later she was standing up, telling the whole story.

  I might have only been seven years old, but something in my heart recognized it then. That spark she has—that glow inside her that calls to me like some kind of low-frequency dog whistle only I can hear. She’s the one. I’ve thought so for as long as I can remember.

  Unfortunately it isn’t mutual. Not even close.

  “Doing okay?” I called out to her from my office, unable to just let things be.

  “I’ve been here ten minutes. Nothing I can’t handle yet, Sam.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the sound of her irritation. “Keep me posted.” What the hell was wrong with me? I must be a glutton for punishment. It made me happy to have her here, even though it was pretty clear I wasn’t her preferred Palmer brother. I hadn’t heard her talk to me without that adorable bitey edge of irritation since our freshman year in high school when Miranda had decided to hate me after that party.

  I leaned back in my chair and stretched, lacing my fingers behind my neck and staring out the window at the parking lot behind our building. It was full of equipment—backhoes, excavators, dozers. Palmer was doing well, and I was glad to be part of it, even if it did sometimes feel like I was trying to hold up a tent in a hurricane. Chance wasn’t the most organized fellow, but he made up in charisma and business development what he lacked in forethought.

  The office was quiet for an hour or two, with the exception of me checking in on Miranda and her snapping at me that she was fine and grumbling about my penchant for black licorice. I couldn’t help that any more than I could help my admiration for her. I like what I like.

  “Seriously, what’s the deal? I mean, it’d be one thing if it didn’t have such a strong smell.” Miranda wrinkled her nose adorably under her glasses, making her entire face scrunch up.

  “Anise.” I bit the end off the piece of licorice in my hand and chewed it in that adorable way of mine.

  “What?” She sighed and leaned back in her chair, giving me an exasperated look.

  “The smell. It’s anise. It’s some kind of herb or flower or something.”

  “I hate it.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “I’ll add it to the list,” I told her. “Sure you don’t want a piece?”

  She sat back up abruptly. “Seriously? No!” She made a point of giving her full attention to the screen in front of her again, clearly dismissing me.

  I would have been put off by Miranda’s clear message of disdain for me if we hadn’t had such a long shared history. I knew she had a good heart. And one day maybe she’d forgive me for something that really hadn’t been my fault.

  “Reminds me of my dad,” I told her, leaning against the doorframe between my office and the reception area.

  She dropped her hands from the keyboard with a sigh and her eyes slowly rose to meet mine. “Now I remind you of your dad?” Her voice was wavering between irritation and all-out anger.

  “Not you,” I laughed. “The licorice. When I came in here as a kid, my dad always had a bag of black licorice in his top desk drawer. I remember him chewing on it while he worked in there.” I nodded toward my own desk, and for a split second, I could see my dad there just like he’d been back in the day, his hat pulled down over his brow as he pored over papers on the desk with a piece of licorice hanging from his lips. “He started eating it when Chance was born, because Mom made him quit smoking.”

  Miranda’s face had changed, and she didn’t look as pissed. I gave her a sad smile. Talking about Dad and Mom always made my heart hurt a little.

  “Your dad was a great man,” she said softly.

  Hearing her say the words made my heart hurt even more, and part of me felt like I might actually cry if I just stood there looking at her. I’m sure she’d think that was pretty attractive. I laughed instead. “He was. So the licorice stays. It’s a tribute. And a habit.”

  “I’ll get used to it,” she said, her voice less angry than it had been earlier. “I’ve been comparing the lists like you asked,” she said, her voice becoming more businesslike, like she’d pushed a button and switched it. “And there are a couple things that don’t line up.”

  I walked around the desk and peered at the screen in front of Miranda, trying not to be distracted by the faint lemon scent of her hair or the fact that if I leaned in just a little more I could bury my nose in it. She had both documents up, side by side, and had highlighted inconsistencies so I could clearly see where the errors were. Smart girl.

  “Here,” she pointed at the screen. “This truck went in for repairs and then was retired, right?”

  “Backhoe.”

  “Backhoe yourself,” she said, annoyance creeping back into her voice. “You see what I’m talking about here? This truck.” she jabbed the screen.

  “Yeah, you’re right. But it’s a backhoe, not a truck.”

  She turned and stared at me, understanding clearing the anger in her eyes and making them dance. “Oh. Right. Okay. Backhoe. I thought you were…”

  “I’m not calling you a backhoe,” I assured her. I hadn’t dropped to the name-calling level yet. Give me a few more days dealing with the crazy nerves being close to Miranda inspired, though, and anything was possible.

  I stepped back, forcing some distance between myself and the lemon scent that made me want to wrap my arms around the girl in front of me. I cleared my throat, aware of the blood racing through my body. “That’s good,” I said. My voice sounded weird, but I forced myself to think about backhoes and bobcats. “Can you just make a list of the discrepancies? I’ll see if we have enough for the jobs we’ve got planned or if we might have to shift the schedule around a bit to free up resources from other jobs.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Hey, look who’s hard at work!” Chance said, bursting through the door in his usual whirlwind.

  Miranda’s back noticeably straightened. “Hi,” she said softly.

  But Chance was already bustling into his office, dropping blueprints and his laptop onto his desk. “Sam,” he called. “Can I talk to you, bro?”

  “Yeah, I’m standing right behind you.” I’d followed him into his office, but as was his nature, he was unaware of it. After all, I was not him. And while Chance was a good guy, the only person who really interested him fully was…him.

  “Ah, yeah. How’s it going here? With…” he pointed a thumb to the outer office at Miranda. I was glad she
couldn’t see him. Everything about his posture felt dismissive of her.

  “Really good,” I said, fully aware that Miranda could hear every word I said. “Miranda’s smart and quick. She’s already identified a couple discrepancies with the resourcing for the jobs coming up in the next month.”

  Chance stopped his whirlwind of motion and dropped his palms to his desk. “Nope. Just looked at that list yesterday, we’re good.”

  I raised an eyebrow at my brother. “She’s just double-checking.”

  “I don’t need to be double-checked, man. I did it last night, and we’re solid.”

  “The old backhoe went in for servicing and didn’t come out, remember? We talked to Tony about retiring it last week, but you’ve got it scheduled for two weeks up at the Honor Dam development.”

  Miranda appeared at my shoulder. “I’ll check again,” she said, her voice totally different when Chance was around than it was when she spoke to me. “Maybe I missed something.”

  “You didn’t,” I bit out, still watching my brother. I didn’t like her apologizing for doing good work.

  Chance shrugged and shot Miranda his best panty-melting smile. “Nah,” he said. “It was probably my mistake. No big deal.”

  I watched Miranda’s face as Chance’s smile did its work. Target acquired, locked, and…direct hit. She melted and went back to her desk, a faint smile still on her face.

  That was Chance. Our whole lives he’d gotten away with everything, skated by on looks and charm. That’s not to say he wasn’t smart—he was. Smart enough to know that in this world, looks and charm would get you pretty damned far. We had more clients than we could handle, thanks to my brother’s looks and charm. And I hoped Miranda might really be able to help me shoulder the mountain of work that created back here at the office.