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She has different plans. “You’ve really put in an A-plus effort this weekend. I kept expecting you to growl at me for talking to your assistant on the phone. What was her name again? I don’t think you ever told me.”
“I forget.”
She chuckles. “Well anyway, I admit defeat. I clearly was trying to find feelings where none exist. It’s obvious you want nothing to do with her.”
I frown and turn to face her as we reach my truck. I know I shouldn’t continue down this road and yet I still hear myself asking, “Why do you think that?”
“Oh, well, it’s the only explanation for why you’re still here, dawdling instead of heading back east. Tell me, is she completely hideous? Does she have a personality like Camille? If so, I don’t blame you one bit for avoiding her.”
Neither and neither.
She’s so beautiful I’m tempted to take up writing poetry, something I’d be piss poor at. Roses are red and violets are another color and I don’t care, just please let me kiss you again. And her personality is so enthralling, so unnervingly spirited that as much as I want to despise her, I can’t seem to actually follow through with it.
Isla tips her head then, studying me. The long stretch of silence following her assessment proves her point for the both of us.
Without another word, I yank open my truck door and, instead of heading to the jobsite, I head home. It’s a test of my willpower, a way to prove to myself yet again that I’m in no hurry to return to Taylor.
That night, I sleep at home, and I don’t set out for the camp until the break of dawn the following morning. I arrive just in time to get to work.
When Taylor walks into the trailer with my cup of coffee, I can tell right away she hasn’t forgiven me for Friday’s argument. Her striking features are a study in cold aloofness, her chin raised, her shoulders pushed back. Her eyes stare at a point just over my head as she sets the mug down and then curtsies—curtsies—before politely mentioning that if I need her to get me anything else, she’d be happy to “obey”. She stresses that word so heavily, there’s no way for it to go over my head.
I wait until she’s outside before I give in to the urge to laugh.
I swear I’ll be gray-haired by the time this project is finished.Chapter 21EthanThe next two weeks blend together in a flurry of activity as foundation work gives way to framing. The crew stays on longer, working right up until dinner. I give them the option to cut out early if they need to, but most guys are happy for the extra pay.
A sense of comradery has formed among them. They hang out together after dinner, some scattered in chairs around the fire pit. A few of them play cards or shoot darts on a board they’ve hung near the mess hall.
Taylor is always there, in the thick of it. I was nervous at first, careful to keep an eye on her considering the circumstances, but she’s done well making a place for herself among a crew of construction workers most women would happily steer clear of.
In fact, she hasn’t just made a place for herself—she’s stepped right up onto the pedestal they’ve polished for her. If she happens to walk by the fire pit, at least five of them jump out of their seats, offering a chair. If she needs an extra napkin or a refill on her water at lunch, there’s a slew of men waiting to do it. It’s not out of the question for one or two of them to come knocking on the trailer door on their breaks wondering where she is. I ask what they need her for, and they always fumble with a reply.
“Oh…nothing, just wanted to thank her for saving me a plate at lunch…”
“She mentioned she’d never tried homemade pecan pie and I had my mom make some over the weekend…”
“She told me she just finished a good book and offered to let me borrow it…”
There’s a line around the block for her attention, but Max seems to always be close at hand, the first to snag her if she ever has a spare moment. Last night, they played cards together during dinner, and I could hear her laughter clear across the mess hall.
Worst of all, though, is Hudson. His schoolboy crush on her has grown roots. He damn well thinks he’s in love with her and drones on about it constantly, even though I’ve given no sign at all that I’d like him to continue talking. In fact, I’ve asked him to do the exact opposite, a request he can’t seem to process.
“Please go outside if you’re going to continue rambling,” I say, forcing my attention back to my computer. “And shut the door behind you.”
