Everywhere and Every Way(17)

Darn the man.

Morgan swore to hang on to her irritation and not let some hot male body  ruin her right to be right. She'd discovered Cal did not share well  with others. Though he was the head of the project, he was consistently  yanking specific jobs from his brothers and refusing to check in. There  was definitely an underlying tension in the family, and she gathered  that the main problem was Cal's inability to step aside and let them do  their job.

They were deep into framing, and she'd decided to take a day to work  with the men. In her experience, respect was earned, and nothing worked  faster than seeing a woman building beside the crew. Morgan was used to  the stunned silence she usually received when first showing up, and  today was no different.

She owned a custom-made pink hard hat with matching work boots. Her  personal hammer was built for a smaller hand and was also pink. As much  as she preferred white, pink showed less of the dirt kicked up on a job  site.

When she marched past the crew and announced her intention to work the  site, their mouths fell open like a school of guppies'. A few hours  later, they shut up. She knew her stuff, never complained, and worked  harder than they did.

The pounding strains of some heavy metal band blared over the speakers.  Not again. If she had to hear one more screaming guitar solo, she'd lose  it. Marching over to her Michael Kors backpack, she fished around and  grabbed a CD. "Sorry, boys," she called out. "My turn."

A combined groan rose in the air. "I can't work to girly music!" Sam  yelled. The foreman stopped hammering to give her a beseeching look.  "Don't torture us, Morgan."

She gave an evil laugh and hit PLAY. "Y'all are seriously undereducated  in music. Besides, I'm cramped up like a pretzel doing the trim, and I  let you do the fun part. You owe me."

Cal climbed down the ladder and grabbed his water. A begrudging look of  respect crossed the harsh lines of his face. "She's right. She gets her  turn."

Taylor Swift belted out the strains of "Shake It Off," and Morgan  ignored the crew's taunting remarks. "Keep it up. By the end, you'll be  agreeing she has talent and you like her music. Trust me. You're not the  first site I've converted to my way of thinking."

"Would be better if the song was called ‘Take It Off'!" Mike yelled.

Everyone laughed.

"I gotta get something from the truck," Cal said. "Need anything?"

"A bucket of ice water. It's frickin' one hundred degrees today," Jason grumbled. "Why can't we build houses in Alaska?"

"Oh, yeah, ice huts. Fun," Mike quipped.

Cal rolled his eyes and replaced the tape in his tool belt. Took another slug of water. Then peeled off his shirt.

Morgan stared.

His gaze flicked to hers. "You need anything?" he asked.

She tried to answer. She really did. But nothing came out of her  mouth-not even a squeak. Her vision was blurred by the perfect male  specimen before her that was every female fantasy of a construction  worker.

He was . . . perfect. Defined pecs and tight biceps. Endless  toasty-brown skin gleaming with sweat. A perfect swirl of lighter hair  dusting his chest and traveling down washboard abs. He had an actual  eight-pack. Not six. Eight.         

     



 

"Morgan?" he asked.

Her belly dropped to her toes. Her tongue came out to wet her very dry  lips. Between her thighs, an arousal pounded in demand for the slide of  his fingers over her wet core and the feel of those delicious lips over  hers.

Suddenly those eyes lit to hot charcoal, as if he'd just realized why  she'd gone voiceless. Sexual energy swarmed between them. Her nipples  tingled. Morgan wondered what she'd do if they were alone and he stalked  over to her. Wondered if she'd put up even a little fight if he hauled  her up and drove his tongue into her mouth. Wondered if he'd be  primitive enough to take her over the worktable without finesse or  apology, just raw, hungry need.

Lord have mercy.

She dragged in a breath. "No," she finally croaked out. "I'm good."

The man was a Neanderthal. With a smug grin, he hooked his thumbs in his  belt loops and cocked a hip. The motion emphasized his lean waist and  powerful thighs. "Sure? You look like you . . . want something."

Oh, she really didn't like him. Morgan gathered her composure,  desperately fighting a blush. Her gaze deliberately pulled away from his  sweaty, hard body. "No, thank you. Nothing appeals to me at the  moment."

The crew kept working, not realizing the sexual undertone of the  ridiculous conversation. He tipped back his head with pure delight and  grinned. "Could've fooled me."

Morgan wanted to give him a good retort, but her brain muscles had died  with the surge of estrogen, so she kept quiet. His chuckle as he walked  away burned through her. She donned her work gloves, grabbed her drill,  and got to work.

Time passed. The sounds of hammers, drills, and country-turned-pop music  filled the air. The sawdust pile grew, dirtying her clothes and burying  under her fingernails. Her arms burned. Her skin turned sticky from the  heat.

She loved every second.

The guys broke for lunch but she was too Zen and decided to keep  working. Morgan fell into the meditative space of old-fashioned hard  work. As with Cal, this was her favorite part. She adored the steps of  decorating and furnishing because it called to her creative energy, but  the physical work of building a house was an adrenaline rush. Installing  the guts and mechanics, her fingers gripped a hammer, everything fell  away, and Morgan was left with a clean purity in her soul.

The clatter of wood startled her out of her happy place. She blinked and looked up.

"I got it."

Dalton stood over her with a huge grin on his face. A beam of cedar lay  before her, the beautiful reddish tinge flirting within the grains to  wow an onlooker. Morgan took off her gloves and picked it up, stroking  the smooth finish. "Where?" she demanded.

He puffed up like a well-tipped stripper from Magic Mike. "Private  contacts. I'm not telling you, because I'm afraid you'll filch him from  me when you're done with Pierce Brothers."

"I'm impressed. I most certainly would." Her mind swept over her vision  for the massive, open kitchen. "But I told you we were going with pine.  It'll go better with the visual. I already ordered it."

"You're gonna cancel the order, 'cause this is better."

She squinted at him. He didn't wait for her to rise to challenge him.  Dalton dropped to the floor beside her and cradled the precious beam in  his hand. His tawny hair was tied back, and his blue eyes looked a bit  dreamy. Their knees touched as they faced each other on the sawdust  floor.

"Convince me. I'd have to cancel the order with the West Coast and piss a  lot of people off. The Rosenthals like a more organic look, and pine  fits the bill. Gives the impression of a kitchen where you cook and  gather."

"Will they cook?"

"No."

Dalton grinned. "Good, we're going with cedar. It's more natural, and  I'll stain it twice for a deeper finish and more character. I'll build  the cabinetry around the horseshoe countertops and pair it with a  hand-carved bench to match."

She visualized the possibility. Hmm. "I could still do that with pine."

"It won't look as good." His voice held a stubborn tone. "This is a huge  open space, with the kitchen and background as the main focus. Tristan  said you picked out the Amalfi gold marble, but you wanted the burlesque  gold instead."

Morgan sighed. They both grasped the cedar wood, not wanting to relinquish it. "I did, but it's too light."

"Exactly. Let me do the cedar, and the burlesque will blend perfectly.  The red tints will pull from the cedar. I can also do matching stools  with the bench. I'm telling you, Morgan, this is the way to go. But I  have to pull the trigger on this right away. My contact gave me a few  hours before he's pulling the order on me-there's a lineup."         

     



 

God, the cedar was more rare. Pricey, but so very worth it, especially if she got to switch out the marble. "I don't know."

His voice was a whisper of sound, urgent and convincing. "Do it. I swear it will work better. I feel it in my bones."

A smile curved her lips. She loved working with people with an obvious  passion for their craft. Their fingers interweaved together over the  wood, two artists admiring a perfect tool. It was risky. She didn't have  time to call the Rosenthals, so she'd need to go with her gut. Morgan  took the leap.

"I'll do it."

"You won't regret it. I'll make it so good for you."

They smiled at each other, still holding the wood, locked in an artistic embrace.

"What the hell is going on here?"

They looked up. Cal stood over them, face tight with anger, a muscle  ticking in his jaw as he stared down at their clasped hands. "What do  you mean?" she asked.