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“For what?”
“A truce. No more games. No more lies. Just us giving this an actual try.”
A flood of warmth saturates my blood and bones. My whole body relaxes like I’m finally home. No more running. “You’re going to finally start being nice to me?”
A playful grin appears on his face. “I didn’t say that. I still plan on punishing you for teasing me with that picture.” He lifts his brows. “You still have no clue what you do to me, do you?”
“I think I mostly infuriate you,” I answer honestly.
He laughs as his face moves a mere inch from mine. “How’d we get here?”
“Where?” It comes out in a hush. I’m practically speechless with him this close.
He whispers right back, “With me needing your lips more than I need my next breath.”
I praise myself for finding the strength to go after what I want for once. One picture summoned the unattainable man I’ve been pining for, for far too long. All I can think of as Nathan’s lips close in on mine is how crazy this is.
How one selfie can changeeverything.
1
Nathan
Three months prior
Barely two steps onto the construction site and my black dress shoes are coated with dirt, soot, and gravel. The air reeks of burning tires and liquor, but I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I need to figure out why my dad told me his new purchase of a 28-story, three-million-square-foot hotel resort only needed an interior facelift. I’m clearly looking at a demolition.
I’m trudging toward the entrance when I’m stopped by a worker in a yellow hard hat. His cheeks are red enough to rival his neon-orange vest as he begins to shout at me in Spanish. I know some rudimentary Spanish, but he’s talking too fast and is mostly drowned out by the background noise of construction. He takes a step closer, his finger stabbing the air aggressively around my chest area. His gesture is a glaringly obvious:Who the fuck do you think you are?
Before I can tell him that I own this building, another man in a matching orange vest comes jogging toward us. “Juan!” His voice booms over all the noise. When he reaches us, he smacksthe man named Juan on the back of his helmet. “You tonto, are you loco?This is el jefe.Watch your tone.” He turns to me and offers his hand. “I’m Frankie, the foreman here. I’m so sorry, Mr. Hatcher.”
“What’s he so upset about?” I nod toward Juan who has retreated several steps out of earshot, his head hung in shame.
“Juan’s my shift lead. He takes safety very seriously. You’re about to enter an active demo site and you’re not wearing a hard hat. He’d be responsible if you got hurt. He shouldn’t have shouted at you though. I’ll write him up for that.”
I nod in understanding. “Right. You’re bilingual?”
Frankie nods. “Yes, sir.”
“How do I say, ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. Good job,’ in Spanish?”
With an odd look on his face, Frankie slowly translates my words. I walk up to Juan with my hand outstretched. He shakes it firmly, but there’s fear in his eyes like he’s worried he’s about to lose his job. “Lo siento, tienes razón. Buen trabajo.” I must sound like a fool in my American accent, but I tried.
Juan relaxes, blowing out a big breath of relief. He taps his hard hat. “Always safety,” he says in a thick accent. I pat his shoulder as a final gesture of approval.
As Juan disappears back into the jobsite, I turn to Frankie. “Don’t write him up. Give him a raise. If it’s not in the budget, bill my office.”
Frankie laughs, seemingly more out of surprise than anything else. “Geez. Thank you. When suits come around here, they’re usually assholes to my guys.”
I half-smile. “I have my moments. Do you have protective gear I can use? My dad’s inside. I need to speak with him.”
“Right away.” Frankie hustles off to a nearby trailer and returns with a bright yellow hard hat. The interior paddingis holding on to a faint smell of sweat, but desperate times, desperate measures.
Dad’s standing in the heart of the building. With all the rubble around us, it looks like he’s in the eye of a storm, which explains the calm on his face. “Nate!” he thunders out. “Nice of you to show up, finally. You sleeping in these days?”
I check my watch. “It’s seven thirty in the morning,” I answer flatly. My dad is such an early riser, it could be argued he’s actually a night owl. He continues to invite me to five o’clock sunrise hikes despite how many times I tell him to shove it up his ass.
“So, what do you think of this beauty? A fucking steal, right?”