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Chapter Two
Vivian
The Grand Marin site is further along than I imagined.
The brick buildings are standing, windows and doors installed—manufacturers’ stickers on most of them. Dirt roads in every direction cut through the buildings and around them. When paved, those roads will lead through an open-air shopping center with a small-town feel.
Perfect for the city of Clear Ridge.
Huge construction equipment and trucks stand sentinel, none of them in operation at the moment.
I climb from the car, wilted from the A/C and sun beating the windshield during my drive. I was stuck in traffic for forty-eight minutes, and when I was moving again completed the twenty-minute trek to Grand Marin.
Bright side, the traffic jam gave me an opportunity to call Amber for an assist. She did a thorough digging and found out many exceptions were made for this property. It’s been humming along even with Owen’s special requests. That they didn’t gum up the system boggles the mind.
One of the city ordinances requires high wattage on streetlights, but Nathaniel Owen requested lower in order to preserve stargazing. Another ordinance requires sod, and Owen quibbled about that too, insisting forest flooring is better. Yet another states in this area of Ohio, the buildings must adhere to a specific style guide, but Owen insisted on using his own.
Our resident billionaire builder either delights in being a pain in the city’s rear end and uses workarounds as a way to save money, or he enjoys watching city officials jump through hoops.
I’m not in a jumping mood.
I pull the white hardhat over my hair and carry a storage clipboard with my cell phone tucked inside. I’m going for aesthetics. I’m not an inspector, but I can look like one.
The guys onsite seem to be in a light, airy mood, and there are a lot of them. Most holding Starbucks cups and leaning on either buildings or shovels. I must have stopped by at break time.
Heads turn as I approach. Their conversations and laughter ebb. All I hear is the crunch of gravel under my high-heeled shoes. I look left and then right, noting more hardhats and tool belts, before my eyes land on a man in a suit.
Owen.
It has to be him. I’d bet my tiny, budget-busting apartment on it.
His charcoal-gray suit is well-made and expensive and too hot for the day, hinting that he spent most of his day in A/C. His suit jacket is tossed over one arm and a pressed white shirt stretches over his broad back. Sweat darkens the material between his shoulder blades.
One hand is raised to shield his eyes as he studies the uppermost floor of one of the buildings. I approach, curious and disgusted in equal measure.
Rich people. Yuck.
I stand next to him and crane my head as well. I’m not sure what I’m looking at, so I study the pitch of the roof while waiting to be acknowledged. He doesn’t flinch.
“Mr. Owen, I presume?” I finally say.
I feel the turn of his head, the weight of his gaze like a hawk that’s spied his dinner.
“Who wants to know?” His voice is low and rough. Despite the day’s heat, the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
It’s the kind of reply I would expect from a guy who doesn’t do things by the book. The kind of reply that might’ve come from my father.
“Do you have drywall in these units, Mr. Owen?” I turn to meet him face to face. The second we lock eyes, heat flames my cheeks and my heart rate soars.
As much as I want to blame summer or anxiety on my physical reaction, I can’t dismiss the man’s attractiveness. Of their own volition, my eyes drink in the sight of him. The men I’ve encountered since I started working for the city are never this good-looking. Rarely are they average looking.
Whenever Daniel or Gary mentioned Nathaniel Owen, I pictured a cantankerous old codger, not a guy in his thirties. A fan of lines surrounds Owen’s eyes. Late thirties, I mentally correct. He’s probably a few years older than me.
His brawn doesn’t belong in a tailored suit but he wears it well. Like it’s bending to his will, not the other way around. Let’s blame my reaction on surprise. Owen is fifteen years younger and fifty times more attractive than I imagined. That would throw anyone for a loop.
“Now, why would you ask me something like that?” He offers the barest tip of his lips.
I size him up, taking inventory. His blue eyes sparkle from behind long eyelashes. His nose has a crooked bend like it’s been broken more than once. That’s not surprising. He has a knack for pissing people off.
