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Chapter 9
Mondays were for overachieving.
Eli loved the fresh possibility of the first morning of the workweek, unlike most people who treasured Garfield-style litanies about hating Mondays. To him, a new week was a fresh start. A chance to make up for a week that didn’t go well or a weekend where he’d indulged.
Or a weekend where he’d been blown off.
He’d wanted to indulge—to overindulge—over and over with Isa, but at her apartment she’d balked. The stairs. The goddamn stairs. At the Vancouver, she’d rerouted him, and then at her apartment, she’d given up on him. She’d proven to him that she was a lot like everyone else—first by coddling him, then by feeling sorry for him.
The entire evening had left a sour taste in his mouth and a fresh ripple of loneliness swamped him when he’d returned home alone. He regretted getting swept up in the moment at dinner as much as he regretted driving back to his place without arguing with her further.
He wasn’t a total pig. He would have understood if she balked because she’d changed her mind or because she simply didn’t want to be intimate. He couldn’t help thinking she’d balked because those stairs acted as a reminder that he was different from who she was used to dealing with—a special case. A man with a missing limb that she didn’t know how to accommodate.
Emasculating? Yes. Frustrating? Hell yes.
Today was his clean slate—Eli could start over, get back into the swing of things. Regimens were nothing knew. He was accustomed to following a routine. In his former life as a Marine, his days had been regimented. Once he’d come home, his days were regimented in a different way—organized by rehabilitation and relearning the basics like walking and how to care for and clean his wound. Now he worked out to maintain strength and muscle, ate a healthy amount of protein, veggies, and fruits, and focused on launching Refurbs for Vets.
He’d learned repeatedly that life was anything but routine. Once he’d found a decent gallop, there’d be a hiccup that temporarily set him back. Lately, it was family dinners, assistants in his house and in his way, and the occasional swamping fatigue reminding him to slow down.
Those hiccups paled in comparison to the major upset of Isa.
The woman wasn’t a hiccup; she was an attack—the kind requiring a rushed visit to the hospital for emergency surgery.
Today he was ready for her. He’d been up since five this morning, had started with a protein shake and an aggressive workout that spent his muscles and left him panting and sweating on the mat in his exercise area.
Then it was shower, shave, prep his meals for the day. He wasn’t going to have takeout lunch with his assistant any longer. He’d crossed more than one line with her. He blamed proximity and good old-fashioned lust. Isabella was a beautiful, beguiling, and intriguing woman. He was drawn to her, which meant either she needed to stay out of his way or he would have to fire her.
For good.
The elevator whined, signaling Isa’s arrival. He had mentally prepared for a low-cut shirt, short, short skirt, and high, high heels. But when she slid the elevator door aside, she wasn’t dressed like the Isa of his memory. She wore a navy blue dress with a collar. The sleeves went to her elbows, the front buttoned all the way up, and the skirt hit her knees. There wasn’t a single sexy thing about the frock.
Except that she wore it.
She scuffed in wearing flats instead of clicking along the concrete in a pair of impractical high heels. He found her scuffling less appealing than the clomping he’d bitched about prior.
“Nice shoes,” he grumbled. She’d done this on purpose. Trying to tone herself down so he wouldn’t find her attractive? It was no use. Isa permeated the room with sensuality the instant she stepped in it. Good thing he was immune.
Mostly.
“Mr. Crane,” she stated primly. She wore a pair of large-framed glasses on her nose, and her hair was pulled into a high ponytail.
His libido was panting for her. He couldn’t not be attracted to her. If she’d breezed in here in a paper grocery bag he’d still want her.
Well, too bad.
Right. He had shit to do.
Since most of that “shit” was up to him to assign, he’d prepared ahead. He slapped a stack of file folders down on the dining room table—aka, her desk.
“Need you to dig into these for me.”
“And what are ‘these’?” She rested her bright orange, fancy-looking purse on one of the fabric chairs at the table.
“Candidates for Refurbs. I need estimates on what kind of upgrades each of them requires. Zach’s estimations are in there, along with my budget. You can go through and tell me what fits and what doesn’t.”
Her mouth formed a little O.
“I also need you to schedule the construction.”
