“See? It’s all done—and you won’t have to fill out any paperwork.”
The foreman stared down at his phone like he was expecting advice from it.
“Tell the boys to go to work now,” Dev said softly. “So we can get back on schedule.”
Bob cleared his throat. Then he shoved his phone back into his Carhartt jacket. “Finish your lunches, boys. Break’s done.”
In a lower voice, he added, “You better not make me regret this.”
“No problem, boss.”
As the other fellas muttered their return to the picnic table area—with Petey heading for his turkey sub like it was a Bible he really needed to be studying—Dev turned back to the jackhammer.
“Hello! Hi!”
At the sound of the female voice, Dev closed his eyes and pictured the blonde in that sparkly dress floating into the gritty construction site on a pair of shoes better suited to a ballroom’s marble floors than the bald, frozen earth he was standing on.
The idea the other men were surely looking at her had him thinking fondly of strangulation again, and the surge of aggression was a surprise. For all his triggers, what was up with some woman had never been one, and not because he was into dudes. He wasn’t into anybody—
Oh, God, she smelled like heaven, he thought as the wind changed directions again.
“You left this,” she said from right behind him. “In the street.”
Dev opened his lids, and as another gust hit his chest, he let the force of it turn him around.
She was so close. Too close—
Man, her eyes were something else, one blue, one green… both boring right into his soul.
“Sorry,” she murmured when he kept silent. “I just thought you’d need it.”
As she put out his hard hat, he stared at the thing like he’d never seen one before, tracing the scratches in the fluorescent banding, the dent in the short brim, the Wabash logo on the side.
“It’s your hat. Isn’t it?”
Dev looked the woman up and down, lingering on her bare arms and her long legs. “It’s too cold for you out here.”
Before he could stop himself, he walked over to where he’d propped the jackhammer and picked up his waterproof, weatherproof jacket from off the building’s front steps. Going back to her, he swept the folds around her slender shoulders, and then took his stupid hat—after which, he promptly wondered what the hell he was thinking: He’d just wrapped a beauty queen up in some worn-out Carhartt bullcrap that was logo’d with “Wabash Construction Co.” She was probably allergic to anything that didn’t have a fancy label—
The woman curled her red-tipped nails around the rough canvas lapels and brought the two halves closer to her throat.
“But now you’re cold,” she said in a husky voice.
Yeah, the fuck he was cold when he was looking at her.
“Nah, I’m good.” He nodded across the street, at that club’s neon entrance. “You better get back to—”
“What did you say your name was?”
He glanced at the break area, and all the men who were NOT LOOKING, LIKE AT ALL. “I didn’t.”
“Oh. Well… I’m Lyric.” A slender hand extended out of the folds of his shitty jacket. “Pleased to meet you, and thanks for saving my life.”
He put his palms in the air, like it was a stickup. “I’m dirty.”
“I don’t care.”
“Skin’s rough.”
