Everywhere and Every Way
Page 23
A smothered laugh rang out.
She had to give him credit. Cal could take a jab as well as give one. He muttered something under his breath but backed off. “I need the measurements.”
“Which I happen to have right here.” She gave a sunny smile as if being hot, dirty, and sore was a daily occurrence. Her back protested when she unfurled herself from the awkward position and walked over. Grabbing her phone, she recited the numbers while Cal marked it off with the tape. He stretched out, and the soft denim stretched and clung to his ass like a gift from the gods.
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.
She had to give him credit. Cal could take a jab as well as give one. He muttered something under his breath but backed off. “I need the measurements.”
“Which I happen to have right here.” She gave a sunny smile as if being hot, dirty, and sore was a daily occurrence. Her back protested when she unfurled herself from the awkward position and walked over. Grabbing her phone, she recited the numbers while Cal marked it off with the tape. He stretched out, and the soft denim stretched and clung to his ass like a gift from the gods.
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.
