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Epilogue
Patrick
“Hey, boss,” the voicebelow me calls out, and I look down to see Jeff grinning up at me between the cracks in the sub-floor of the custom house we’re building.
“I swear to Christ, Jeff,” I say, shooting him an annoyed glare. “If you tell me the plumbing crew is running behind on the Thompson job, I’ll—”
“Plumbing crew’s already here, boss.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’ wrong, boss,” Jeff said, breaking into a wide grin. “Your girlfriend’s here.”
I sigh, looking away from him long enough to re-roll the blueprints I’d been using to spot-check work. Stuffing them back into their tube, I leave what will eventually be the master suite. Rounding the last few steps on the curved staircase, I find Jeff at the bottom of it. Still grinning.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” I say, slapping the tube against his chest as I stride past him. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Sorry, boss,” Jeff says to my back. “Your fiancé is here.”
Fiancé.
Cari’s going to marry me.
Goddamned right she is.
Tossing my hardhat onto one of the work tables set up in the entryway, I see her, leaning against my dusty work truck, shading her eyes with her hands, the ring I put on her finger, sparkling in the late morning sun.
She’s wearing a pair of cut-offs and a baggy, paint splattered T-shirt—one of mine—and flip-flops. Her hair is pulled away from her face, piled on top of her head and she has paint smudged on her cheek. Streaked across her thighs.
When she sees me, she breaks into a wide grin and waves, like we haven’t seen each other in weeks rather than hours. Just looking at her makes me want to fuck her against the side of my truck—thirty-man work crew be damned.
As soon as I’m close enough, I reach under her shirt and hook a finger into one of her belt loops and pull her close. “What did I tell you about showing up on my site, looking like this?” I growl in her ear before pulling away enough to scowl at her but it doesn’t hold. As soon as I see her grinning up at me, I laugh.
“Like what?” she says, blue eyes wide and innocent.
I drop a hand, running it up the length of her thigh until I hit the streaks of paint peeking out from the frayed hem of her shorts. My thumb skims the inside of her paint-streaked thigh. “What are you doing here?”
“You forgot your lunch at home,” she says, her breath catching in her throat. “Again.”
I look down to see my lunch box dangling from her fingers. “Did I?”
“Know what I think?” Now, it’s her turn to scowl. “I think you left it on purpose, just so I’d bring it to you.”
I give her the Gilroy grin. “Maybe,” I say, taking my lunch box from her, I toss it through my open truck window. Right now, leftover lasagna is the last thing I want to eat. Swallowing a groan, I flex my fingers around her thigh, the paint on them cracking under my hand. “You know you’re killing me right now...”
She gives as good as she gets, grinning back at me. “Maybe.”
Behind me, power saws have stopped whining and nail guns have stopped punching. I turn my head, glaring into the black cavern of the house we’re working on.
“Morning, fellas,” Cari says, lifting a hand to wave in the direction I’m glaring. From inside the black, a chorus of construction workers call back.
“Morning, Cari.”
I tighten my glare. Less than a second later, table saws are screeching and nail-guns are thunking. Satisfied with their response, I turn and shake my head at her. “They’re worse than a sewing-circle,” I say, fighting the smile that threatens to take over my face every time I look at her. “You shouldn’t encourage them.”
“I think they’re sweet.”
“Only you would call thirty gawking construction workers sweet.”