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“And what, exactly, do you suggest I do to keep it down?”
Ugh. The way he says it is dripping in sarcasm. Why does he have to be so freaking sexy? And tall? And those deep brown eyes…
I snap out of it, remembering the headache he’s causing me. “I don’t know, you’re the professional,” I say in my defense. “Don’t they make silencers for guns and stuff? Can you get something like that for your saw?”
He furrows his brow, which is as much emotion as I’ve seen from him this entire interaction. “That’s not… that’s not how any of that works,” he says slowly.
“Well, whatever. There has to be something you can do,” I insist.
"Maybe you're looking at this the wrong way," the man says. I narrow my eyes but allow him to continue. "Instead of me trying to make my power tools quieter, why don't you try blocking the sound? Earplugs, noise-canceling headphones, something like that."
That’s not the solution I was hoping for, and the slight deviant smirk curling up one corner of his lips reveals that he knows what he’s doing to me.
"And what about my customers? Should I go out and buy enough noise-canceling headphones for everyone who enters my store? Are you going to pay for those?"
He shrugs. Shrugs. Infuriating man.
“You could always take a vacation while we’re here working. You seem like you need it.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?” I fire back, uncrossing my arms so I can dramatically wave them about. “What do you know about my life? My store? My struggles? What if I can’t afford a vacation? What if I don’t want to travel the world as a single female and wind up being the next Netflix true crime documentary?”
Fine, I’ll admit, that last one was a little overboard, but even this hard-headed man must see what a ridiculous “solution” that is.
"Okay, okay, stand down," he says, holding his hands up, palms out in a sign of surrender. "Listen, I don't have much control over the noise level in here. My whole crew and I wear ear protection every day, so that's why I suggested you do the same."
I let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing my temple to ward off the oncoming migraine. “Just… try not to be so obnoxious,” I finally say. “Both with the noises you make with your tools as well as the noises you make with your mouth. I’m not a fan of either one.”
Too harsh? Maybe. But I’m in such a bad mood right now, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to improve any time in the near future.
The man’s eyebrows raise slightly, his lips barely parting. I think it’s his surprised look, and I must say, it brings me great satisfaction that I could surprise someone who I assume is otherwise a pillar of strength and stoicism.
Before he can get a word out, I spin on my heel and stomp out the door slamming it behind me.
What a jerk. A handsome jerk, but a jerk nonetheless. Ugh. How much longer will he be working next door? I’m already fantasizing about the day my peaceful life will return.
2
ARCHER
"How's the restaurant-to-retail conversion going?" Bishop, my boss, asks over the phone. I've been at the site for all of two minutes before getting this call, but I'm not surprised. Bishop likes his company on track and to make sure we meet our deadlines.
I’ve been with Clearwater Construction since its conception. The company is owned and operated by Bishop, and over the years I’ve worked my way up to being a Foreman on some of our biggest projects.
“We’ve had a… start,” I say, pausing briefly when I remember exactly how the first day of the renovation started. With one curvy, fiery, redheaded shop owner who can’t stand me and all the ruckus I make. Try as I might, I can’t stifle the grin spreading across my face. I didn’t even get her name, and yet her light blue eyes followed me into sleep last night.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Bishop says, pulling me back into the moment. “I know you were concerned about getting some of that industrial-sized kitchen equipment out, did something happen?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” I reassure him as I pull out the electric and plumbing schematics for the building and spread them out on our work table. “I talked to the client and they want to open up the back room, so we’ll be taking down the wall that the previous owners built around the kitchen. Still don’t understand why they didn’t think that would be a problem.” I grumble out the last part, rolling my eyes as I remember taking measurements and realizing what the idiotic previous restaurant owners did.
“Good,” comes Bishop’s grunted response. “Do you foresee any issues with the deadline on this one? The new owners want a quick turn-around time.”
"I think it'll be in everyone's best interest for this project to be finished as soon as possible," I tell him, my mind once again drifting to the curvy spitfire who stormed into the worksite yesterday morning.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I assure my boss. “Just that I’m motivated to get going on this one.”
“Uh-huh,” he replies, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Well, whatever the reason, I’m happy to hear you’re ready to work.”
