“Jess, I know you hav—” He stopped talking when his cell phone beeped. He picked it up, and even I knew who the message was from when he glanced at the screen then back at me, his eyes concerned. “I gotta …” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. I knew who it was. “Sorry.”

He walked into the living room, already pressing the phone to his ear.

Damn it.

I would never have peace here.

Chapter Six

Jessica

“I couldn’t believe my luck when Turner called yesterday,” said Alan, the civil engineer my uncle told me about. He stood behind my chair, peeking at the monitor as I copied the hand-drawn plan into the software line-by-line. “I didn’t come back to the office until late in the afternoon; otherwise, I would have returned his call immediately. My drafter quit two weeks ago, and we haven’t found anyone to replace him yet. We hired an intern, but he started college last semester and doesn’t know much.”

“You know I live in Cleveland and am returning home in the fall.”

He nodded, adjusting his squared eyes over his long face. “I know, I know, but at least now I have more time to find another drafter.”

“True.”

“Okay.” He stood straighter. “I’m gonna leave you to work. Any doubts or questions, I’ll be in my office.”

He turned, smoothed his tie, weaved through the desks spread around the large room, and disappeared inside his office.

I was left alone with my thoughts.

The room was like a big architecture school studio. Several drawing desks and high stools, a few computers, and a strong coffee scent. If it weren’t for the stare of the other workers, I would feel right at home.

I didn’t want to gaze back, but they had to be staring for a reason. Maybe they knew my father. Maybe they had witnessed the incident. I didn’t remember who was there, other than my family members and a few friends. I had been too wound up to pay attention to anything else.

I shook my head and focused on the drawing beside me.

Jesus Christ, how could they still plan everything on paper? Like Uncle T. said, they really were old-fashioned. The good thing was that they were so desperate for a drafter that I was able to negotiate reduced hours, and quite a nice pay for a summer job. And to think I was considering doing this for free! I just wanted to do something and get out of the house.

Which the girls tried to do last Saturday night.

Rachel and Sophie appeared on our front door at seven in the evening, dressed to kill and determined to take me with them. But I wouldn’t budge. I wouldn’t go out this summer. I didn’t want to have any opportunity to encounter Ryan anywhere.

On Monday, while running early morning, my thoughts turned to him again. It was enough to spoil my mood. Brightening my day a little, Uncle T. called in the afternoon to tell me Alan was interested in my work and wanted to see me first thing Tuesday morning.

I borrowed Aunt Cadence’s old Camry, and I came into the office wearing my black legging-style slacks, black pumps, and a fitted white shirt, a little makeup, and jewelry, with my leather portfolio under my arm, and regretted it as soon as everyone turned to look at me.

Everyone wore jeans, tee shirts, flats or sneakers. One guy wore a screaming yellow cap, and one woman hadn’t brushed her hair, I was sure. Alan hadn’t been much better, with thick glasses, a crumpled shirt that didn’t match his tie, worn jeans, and super worn shoes.

Ugh, at least I knew what to do, and I was quite good at it.

Three thirty came too fast, but not fast enough.

“Jessica,” Alan called me from his office door.

I shut down the project I was working on, pulled my purse over my shoulder, and walked to his office with all eyes on me. I couldn’t say I liked this part of the job.

I stepped inside and halted near the door. “Yes?”

Alan juggled between a telephone, a pen, and the computer’s mouse. “A client just called, saying he’s coming to see his project, and I was supposed to stop by the new Habitat for Humanity site on the other side of town.”

“Habitat for Humanity?”

“Yes, I’m sponsoring a dozen houses there and need to drop this—” He pointed to a thick binder. “—there and pick up the report from last week.” What did that have to do with me? I looked at him expectantly for about a minute. “The others are busy until five. Could you please drop this there and pick up the report for me?”

Oh, come on. First day on the job and already asking favors? “Sure.”

“As soon as you get on site, you’ll see the office, which is actually a trailer, to your right. The supervisor should be there. I’ll call and let him know you’re the one coming instead of me.”

He gave me the directions and the binder, and I left the office feeling used. But I couldn’t complain. I had nothing else to do or occupy my day, and keeping my mind out of messes was my objective.

The drive was a short one and I found the place easily. A dirt path led inside the site. To the right, the trailer, to the left the construction. Many men and women worked under the scalding sun on eight houses with walls and roofs, eight other houses that had only half of the framework, and eight with only the concrete slab. By the looks of it, the lot could hold many more houses.

I parked the car behind the trailer and walked with my pumps on the unpaved ground. Damn it. I loved these pumps, and I would spend at least a half hour trying to get all the dirt off them.

With the binder in hand, I entered the trailer, and other than a messy table, three worn chairs, a file cabinet, and a coffee machine, I found no one.

Oh, this was getting better and better.

Cursing under my breath, I looked out the small window and saw no one who looked like a supervisor. Not that it meant anything. The supervisor could be inside one of the houses, but I wasn’t going to walk around in my pumps. I wasn’t that picky. I had done plenty of walks through construction sites during my two years in architecture school, but I had worn jeans and flats.

I rested the binder on the desk and thought about what to do about the report Alan would be waiting for. I didn’t want to rummage through someone else’s stuff, so I had to sit down and wait for the supervisor to come in. If he came in.

Instead, a hand-drawn plan hanging from one of the walls caught my attention. It was a map of the site, showing the locations of the houses already erected and the ones to come, and beside it, a plan of the house. Simple and small, but with the essentials. In the end, the site would have about fifty houses. All sponsored by Alan’s office.

The door opened, and I turned around to greet the supervisor, but I froze when the man entered and halted, staring at me.

A man, really, because he had grown and changed in the last four years.

A white tank shirt hugged his muscles, and his tight dark jeans hung low, just enough to see the color of the boxers under it. Black. Tattoos ran up his arms, hiding under his shirt. New tattoos. His fists clenched; the muscles of his biceps and shoulders flexed and popped. A black bandana held his longer dark hair back. His chiseled jaw tensed, his full lips pursed, his brows knitted together over those alluring hazel eyes. His skin was tanned, as if he spent a long time under the sun.

Ryan cleared his throat. “Hey.”

I was speechless. For several reasons. The odds of finding him here. And he was still, if not more, hot and roughly handsome.

His eyes swept me from head to toe and back. “What are you doing here?”

Heat crawled up my cheeks. “I’m looking for the supervisor.”

“He’s busy.” He walked forward and I found myself retreating. Averting his eyes, he grabbed a clipboard from the desk. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Without another look, Ryan walked out of the trailer. What was he doing here? I fought the urge to spy on him through the window and lost. With his free hand, he pulled the bandana off his hair as long, rapid strides took him to one of the first houses, the ones with roofs.