Page 6 of How Dare You

“Mmhmm,” I nod, “I got it at that new boutique over by the good Indian place.” A trick I learned in college. Wear something new on a day I’m hungover. Between that and an extra layer of concealer, no one notices I’m short on sleep and have a minor, but persistent, headache.

Bea passes me an iced Americano from Turbine Café, the coffee shop my best friend and roommate, Allie, owns. Fortunately, Allie sleeps like the dead, so she didn’t hear me sneak in this morning. By the time I was done washing and drying my hair it was after one in the morning, so I’m running on minimal sleep, which wasn’t a big deal a decade ago, but at twenty-eight—I feel it.

The general contractor and most of his crew have already been here for quite a while. This house is a new build and doesn’t have air conditioning yet, so they get started as early as possible in order to finish before the peak of the stifling desert heat. We find our way to the living room, where the new guy is supposed to start on the built-ins today.

He’s nowhere to be found… just what I need today. “The carpenter’s late,” I tell Bea.

“No, ma’am. The carpenter’s three minutes early,” a low voice with a southern drawl sounds from behind us. A voice belonging to a man I spent hours with last night, who’s kissed me senseless and seen me naked. A man who holds the blame for my current hangover, who knows information that I cannot allow anyone on this jobsite to find out. Ever. I turn around to see Rhett McCoy, mussed sandy blond hair tucked away underneath a backwards cap, mouth spread in a wide, butterfly-inducing smile.

Chapter 2

Rhett

Meeting Devon Blake.

-From Rhett’s June 10th notebook entry, where he writes down the most important thing that happened to him each day.

Devon’s navy eyes don’t even flicker with recognition as she extends her slender hand, introducing herself to me like she didn’t just have her tongue down my throat and those long, shapely legs wrapped around my torso a matter of hours ago.

“Rhett McCoy, nice to meet you,” I answer, searching her eyes for acknowledgment that this isn’t new information. I get nothing. Instead, she introduces me to Bea, a designer who works for her. I’m overwhelmingly relieved to know she’s okay, but more confused than before. After Devon ran from me last night, the last thing I expected was to find her on my jobsite this morning. She said she owned a business, and that it wasn’t going well, but she never said she was a designer.

“The living room is through here,” she says, leading us through the house. Early morning light shines through a wall of windows, lighting up each of her striking features. She looks amazing. Dark brown brows arch perfectly over her deep blue eyes. A straight nose, prominent cheeks, full peach-pink lips, and a narrow chin outline her striking, fair-skinned face. Her white-blonde hair is smooth and styled into loose waves exactly as it was last night. Gold earrings, necklaces, and a bracelet catch the sun as she moves through the room. Wide-legged khaki pants hug her hips and her fitted white shirt is just low enough I have fight myself not to stare. Who wears white on a construction site?

She looks like she got a full eight hours followed by a leisurely morning and even had time to stop for coffee. How? I barely got three hours. Once I found my damn pants, I ran through the country club’s grounds, retracing every step we took, trying to find her, trying to make sure she was safe. But she was gone. I must have finally passed out after lying in bed for hours worrying about her because I woke up to an alarm and a throbbing headache.

“This is the where the built-ins go,” Devon says, pointing to a long wall with a stone fireplace in the center. “They’ll start here—”

“And end here.” I point a wooden carpenter’s pencil to the correct place where the shelving will end.

Displeased at my interruption, she tilts her head, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips at me. Last night, I saw her fire, mostly directed at the guy she walked out on, but with me she was more open, a woman who desperately needed some fun in her life and rose to every challenge I could throw at her. Until she got scared and ran off. This morning, it’s like she’s put a wall up between us, and I don’t understand why.

I tap my chest, where folded papers stick out the top of my front pocket. “I’ve reviewed the plans.”

“The plans changed three times last week. Which ones are those?” she asks, moving toward me with an outstretched hand until she’s close enough that the scent of sweet peppermint and laundry fresh from the dryer wafts up to me. Where does she get off smelling so good? There’s still chlorine in my hair and pool water dried on my skin. “The plans. I’d like to check them.”

“Sure.” I pass them over, the feel of her skin when our fingers brush reminding me how smooth she felt last night. Again, her eyes give away nothing.

Alex, the general contractor who hired me for this job, sent the plans and elevations over yesterday morning. They’re some of the clearest and most thorough I’ve ever worked from. I even checked to see who made them, Friday West Interiors, which must be the name of her company.

“These are correct,” she says handing them back to me after reviewing, tone flat. “Any questions?”

Where the hell did you go last night? Why did you leave so suddenly? When can I see you again? I shake my head. “No, ma’am.”

She narrows her eyes, skeptical, but doesn’t say anything.

Bea, who would probably be considered tall for a woman if she weren’t standing next to Devon who has to be almost six feet, joins the conversation, pulling out her phone and nodding for me to do the same. “Let’s make sure you have our contact info in case anything comes up. Devon did all the work on these, so it’s best if you reach out to her. If you can’t get ahold of her, you can try me too.”

If Devon’s displeased, she doesn’t show it. “I’m going upstairs to check on the progress,” she says, boots echoing on the wood floors of the mid-construction house as she leaves the room. Pulling out a tape measure from my toolbox, I start double checking measurements and pencil marking the wall. It takes almost an hour of listening for those booted footsteps to return, but eventually she walks back through the living room with Bea on her way out the front door. I follow her, calling her name.

“Yes?” the word is clipped.

“I’ve got some questions,” I say.

Before Devon can answer, Bea interjects, “I’ll see you at the office later, angel.” She waves at me on her way out, saying how nice it was nice to meet me, a friendly opposite to Devon’s prickly demeanor.

Devon waits for the front door to close before facing me, “Have an issue with the design?”

I scoff, “You know what I have an issue with.”

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