Page 93 of One Wild Wish

R I S E

Owen

I should have joined the priesthood. Maybe I’d have been better off with my brother’s genes, not that dating men came with any less drama. Still, my soon-to-be ex-wife could win a Tony for her theatrics. The melodrama made her a stellar attorney. It also made for a messy and long divorce.

With a grunt, I hefted a final wood plank to its new pile, readying the site for tomorrow’s build. Studs to be put in place, framing to be done. I welcomed the tug on my muscles, the deep ache in my shoulders and forearms. It was honest work. A hell of a lot better than hunching over a desk for hours. Investment bankers didn’t make things. They didn’t even buy things. For eight years, I brokered sales and deals, not caring who got screwed along the way. Starbucks had been my life’s blood, my chair an extension of my ass.

Now I could breathe.

Sawdust. Fresh-cut pine. Freedom drifting on the October breeze.

If my lawyer hadn’t dealt me another blow this morning, I might have actually smiled as I inhaled a lungful of air. Instead I huffed out my breath, clamping my molars tight.

With the new delivery of lumber cleared to the side, I wiped my brow and stretched my neck. A cold beer would be heaven right now. A pizza even better. I took a mental inventory of my sparse fridge and added a trip to the store to my route home. Pick up a slice and a case of Pliny the Elder. Kick up my feet on my back patio. Just me, the squirrels, my neighbor’s noisy Jack Russell, and a night with Victor Hugo. Forget about Tessa and her fucked-up accusations. The knots in my shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Do you handle the volunteers?”

I spun at the raspy voice, not expecting the blond bombshell in front of me. The curvy blond bombshell. Her massive purse and dangerous-looking heels weren’t my style, but she oozed old-Hollywood elegance with her shapely hips and soft features.

I pulled off my work gloves and slapped them against my thigh, sending a cloud of dust between us. “No.”

But the temptation of handling her teased my peripheral vision. That’s what happened when you went without for over a year. Not that offering one syllable would get me far with a woman.

The blond twirled a lock of golden hair around her finger. Something about the action pushed up her breasts. I shifted, unsure where to look. I wasn’t that guy. I tried to make sure women knew they were more than the sum of their parts. This woman’s parts each deserved their own sonnet, curvy as she was, but I was out of practice—all awkward silence and no finesse—and she reminded me too much of the women in D.C. Superficial. Self-centered.

The life I’d kicked to the curb.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I forced my attention to her eyes, and my heart switched gears. Blue.

Blue was all I could see. Blue for a country mile.

Her eyes shone like the sun streaming through turquoise beach glass, pushing long-buried memories to the surface. Startled, I grunted at her, like a Neanderthal, and went to turn.

“So,” she called, and I flipped back. “What’s it like working here? I was thinking of signing up. Doing a couple of shifts each week.”

I chuckled, picturing this pint-sized beauty dirtying her perfect nails. About as likely as my ex working less than an eighty-hour week.

Her luminous eyes narrowed. “For your information, I’ve done construction before. I’m not a total rookie.”

She straightened her posture, daring me to challenge her. The only other person left on site was Nick, making sure all was locked up for the night. He needed to get done and get home, drive his son to karate. I stayed, grudgingly.

“Right.” My tone came out nastier than intended. “You look ready to drywall the place.” Nastier again.

She pursed her bee-stung lips, the plump beauties rich and lush. “Don’t go getting all judgmental. I know the difference between fiberglass sheetrock and cement board.” A smug grin settled on her face, like she was proud of herself. She eyed the backfilled construction site, studied the pipes poking their heads out of the earth. “Are you at the saddle and cripple stage?”

I nearly laughed again, but I reined myself in. I wasn’t a contractor. I’d volunteered on Habitat builds since living in D.C. and paid my rent now with handyman jobs, but woodworking was my thing. I loved dragging my fingers against rough wood, knowing what was once a towering tree could be a rocking chair to calm a baby, a table for a family, a bed to help someone sleep.

What I did know about building a house, was people didn’t toss around words like saddle and cripple .

“We’re saddling,” I said, playing with her. “I assume you have your own tools?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

The pretty little liar was full of it. “Well, we have tools on site, but not always enough to go around. You’ll need a tape measure and hammer and framing square, and don’t forget the chalk-line clamp. You won’t always have a partner to work with.”

“Right. Chalk-line clamp. No problem.” But the corners of her pink lips turned down.

“Safety glasses are a must.”