Page 2 of Working for Him

"I'm headed there now," he adds, and I feel rather than see his gaze shift back to me.

"You're not one of mine," he says. He knows every person on his crew by name, so when he sees my high-viz he’s clearly curious.

I turn on my stool, letting a slow smile curve my mouth. "Lucky me."

That gets his full attention. He pivots toward me, one forearm coming to rest on the counter, and suddenly the two stools between us feel like nothing at all. Up close, I can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, which have been earned by squinting into sun and dust for years. There's a trace of stubble along his jaw that he probably didn't have time to deal with this morning, and my fingers itch with the deeply unhelpful urge to find out if it's as rough as it looks.

"Caleb Wyatt." He doesn't offer his hand, which I appreciate. No performative gestures. Just his name, direct and unadorned. "I run the Jefferson Street site."

"Rena Black." I hold his gaze, watching the way his pupils dilate just slightly in the dim light of the diner. "I specialize in ruining people's mornings and occasionally saving their lives. Sometimes simultaneously."

His mouth twitches, fighting a smile and losing. It transforms his face for half a second, softening the hard edges into something dangerously appealing before he locks it down again.

"What do you do, Rena Black?" The way he says my name makes something warm unfurl low in my belly.

I set my mug down slowly, giving myself time to wrestle my autonomic nervous system back under control. "I make sure people don't die doing their jobs. Safety consultant. Permits and planning brought me in for the Jefferson Street rebuild."

Something shifts in his expression. It’s not irritation, which I'd expected. It’s not dismissal, which I'd been braced for. But it’s interest, real, undeniable interest that he's not bothering to hide.

"You're the consultant," he says, and there's a note in his voice I can't quite break down. There’s a hint of surprise, maybe.

"Guilty as charged." I hold my hands up slightly as if he caught me.

A beat of silence stretches between us, it’s heavy and electric. His gaze drops, just for a second, tracking down to my steel-toed boots and back up again, slow enough that I feel it everywhere. When his eyes meet mine again, there's a flicker of something that makes my breath catch.

Approval. Well, that's what it feels like.

"You don't look like what I expected," he says.

I arch a brow, letting my smile sharpen. "Careful, that sentence usually ends badly for everyone involved."

I watch him for a few seconds before saying, "You wanted a woman in orthopedic shoes with a laminated binder and a grudge against fun," I offer, when he doesn't elaborate.

"Something like that."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I didn't say I was disappointed." He doesn’t look away once. Neither do I.

"I expected someone older," he clarifies, but there's heat behind the words now, a current of awareness that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there, and we're both just done pretending we don't notice it.

"And are you disappointed?" I ask, my voice light, testing the edges of this thing crackling between us.

He studies me for a long moment, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "No," he says finally, rough and honest. "Just surprised."

Marlene sets a plate down in front of him with slightly more force than necessary, the sound is sharp and enough to break whatever spell we've been casting. "Eat. You're no good to anyone on an empty stomach."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, but his eyes don't leave mine.

I should look away. This is already toeing the line of unprofessional, and I haven't even clocked in yet. But my body's not listening to my brain, it’s too busy cataloging the way his shoulders fill out that jacket, the way his voice seems to vibrate through the air between us, and the way his attention feels like a physical weight on my skin.

This is a bad idea. I've had enough bad ideas to recognize the warning signs.

I stand, shrugging into my jacket. His gaze tracks every shift, every adjustment, like he's memorizing the shape of me.

"I'll see you on-site, Wyatt," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Try not to make my life difficult."

He leans back slightly, his posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, and I know he's doing it on purpose. He’s making me wait for his response, drawing this out‌.