Page 20 of Blue Collar Hotties

It happens every morning: the sweet, bubbly assistant settles down behind the desk, all pink-cheeked and smiling, wearing some crazy new dress in clashing colors or animal print or whatever. She’s so out of place in that room, it’s like seeing a parrot among pigeons. And when she catches my eye… fuck, she lights up like the Fourth of July. Grins wider, blushes harder, and squirms in that desk chair of hers, pressing her legs together beneath the table where I can see them.

Never seen anything like it. Neverfeltanything like it. Seeing this girl is like being struck by lightning, even on a clear, sunny day like today.

Then that boss fella comes stomping out of his office to grind her under his boot heel. Every morning I watch it happen. And every morning shewilts, fiddling with the ends of her dark hair. What does that jackass say to her anyway?

Whatever it is, once he’s gone she hunches over her desk and types away at her keyboard, just as broken and bored as the rest of the workers in that building. Makes my chest ache to see it all over again.

And this morning is the same as yesterday, because I’ve got impossible daydreams running through my brain—things like my scuffed work boot kicking the window in, sparkling shards of glass dropping off me as I march across the room. Things likeher relieved laugh as I sling that girl over my shoulder and steal her away for good, carrying her far across the city rooftops, wind streaming through her dark hair. Stuff like that.

It’s wishful thinking. Complete bullshit. Obviously.

But fuck, I hate seeing her all slumped over like that.

Today’s dress is teal colored, with criss-crossy straps and with a white t-shirt underneath. Bet if I so much as waved at that girl, I’d get grubby hand prints on that white top.

It’s a good reminder, especially when the life has gone out of her like that: I’m not the knight she needs.

Stay. Away.

It’s good advice for myself, but when she looks up, I’m still staring. Practically boring two eye holes in the thick pane of glass. Vibrating in the cold with sheer longing.

“Boss man?”

Sniffing hard, I turn to my second in command, Jimmy. When did he sneak up that ladder? How long has he been standing there? “Yeah?”

“Everything good?” Jimmy leans around me, squinting into the building, and I fight the urge to move and block his view. I may trust this man, may love him like a grouchy older brother, but that doesn’t mean I want his eyes onher.“Those roof tiles have arrived. The boys are getting a train going up the levels, handing them up here.”

I grunt. “Good.”

I’m still antsy as I step to the edge, peering over the scaffolding rail—like there are hundreds of fire ants crawling under my skin. Jimmy sees it, but he says nothing. That’s why he’s my second—or part of it, anyway. He knows what’s relevant to the job, and when to back the hell off.

“We’ll, uh. We’ll get ‘em up here, then.”

He’s halfway back down the ladder before I remember to respond. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

Eight floors up. It’s not that much, in the scheme of things—we’ve all worked plenty higher. But it’s still funny leaning over the rail and seeing cars down there and the tops of trees. People walking dogs and pushing prams, all while the world tilts like I might topple forward—

“Nope.” Jerking my chin back, I stand up straight and tug on my safety line. My gut’s gone queasy. We all clip in up here, all take the right precautions, but I still get these moments of weakness—these flashes of sweaty palms and dry throat, even after a decade in this work.

What would the pretty assistant make of that? Would she still stare like I’m her personal hero? Or would she think I’m weak?

Doesn’t matter.Can’tmatter.

Nice girls like that don’t end up with guys from my side of the tracks.

* * *

By mid afternoon, she’s perked up again. That’s a daily thing, too. This girl is impossible to keep down, no matter what bullshit that boss keeps spewing in her ear each morning. By the time she’s gone for lunch and bounced back to her desk, she’s beaming again, shoulders loose as she tugs out her chair.

She sits down with a flounce, spreading that teal dress over her thighs. Legs cross, one ankle boot bobbing in the empty air beneath her desk, and pearly white teeth nibble on the chewed end of her pencil.

And she watches me.Watchesme. We’re not talking about stolen glimpses here—this girl is completely shameless about it. Like I’m her personal TV channel. Like she’s about to grab a bowl of popcorn to snack on as her big, soulful eyes crawl over every inch of my body.

If anyone else stared at me like that, I’d get pissed off pretty quick. I’m not a critter in a zoo, you know? But whenshedoes it, all flushed with innocent hunger, I find myself flexing my muscles instead. Pushing my hair back when it drops over my forehead; swiping an arm across my sweaty brow and grinning when she squirms.

Fuck, she’s so into this. Watching me. Letting me ham things up, performing for her, lifting heavy shit just so she’ll press her lips together like she’s fighting a moan.

I’m into it too. Hope she never, ever looks away.

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