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“Nate,” Owen corrects, clapping the man’s dirty shoulder with one big palm. He then explains to me, “New guy,” before an amiable expression makes a brief appearance.
“Nate—”
“You can call me Mr. Owen. You don’t work for me.”
Like I said, a brief appearance.
I’ve had it. Had it with Owen and his rich-guy no-one-can-touch-me attitude. My father thought that way too. And he was wrong. Just as “Nate” is wrong. I don’t have to chase after him. I hold the cards in this situation.
“I’m shutting your site down until further notice,” I call out. “Until you can provide proof. Nate.”
Well, well. Look who’s giving me his full attention.
“Proof.” He sweeps back to me so quickly I’m engulfed by the fragrance of his cologne. Either he smells of crisp ocean air, or those blue, blue eyes are triggering my senses. “You want proof?”
“No.” I make a show of hugging my clipboard to my chest. “I demand proof. I have the support of the city, Mr. Owen. No matter what deal you struck with the mayor, I have the authority to shut you down.”
I’m not sure my threat holds water. Daniel barely has any power, and I’m Daniel’s lackey. Owen’s fists ball at his sides all the same. Either he believes I have that power, or he simply hates being inconvenienced. His expression is Angry’s older, meaner brother—meant as a warning for me to back off. He wants me to regret crossing him. I feel the opposite. I’m quite enjoying myself.
He thrusts his suit jacket against my arms. Instinctually, my hand wraps around the expensive material. I carry it rather than let it hit the dirt. He’s on the move again and this time calling over his shoulder, “I have your proof, Ms. Vandemark.”
I exhale impatiently, the sun’s heat mocking me. What is he up to?
Owen snaps his fingers at a bearded guy leaning on the handle of a sledgehammer. “I need to borrow that, Nick. Glasses too.”
Owen unbuttons his cuffs and shoves the shirtsleeves over thick forearms dusted with golden brown hair. I spot an expensive watch and black beaded bracelet on one wrist.
My heart hits my throat as he takes the tool. He’s not only wearing half an Armani suit, but his bulky arms are flexing while wielding a huge hammer in his grip.
He’s Wall Street Thor, an image as out of place as the scent of his cologne. Meanwhile, my feminist tendencies are letting me down. My lizard brain begs for a taste of unapologetically masculine Nathaniel Owen.
No, Vivian.
“Thanks, Nick,” Owen says and then slips the safety glasses onto his crooked-with-plenty-of-character nose.
I stare dumbly, his jacket is draped over the clipboard in the crook of my arm. A smile makes Owen appear downright approachable. Without it, he reminds me more of a UFC fighter in a cage.
“Right this way, Ms. Vandemark.” He beckons.
A few snickers echo behind me. The battle of feminism will be fought at construction sites. Mark my words.
“Beck, door,” Owen tells a craggy-faced man. Beck obeys and opens the door to one of the buildings. I follow Nate inside and find a partially completed unit. The drywall is up, and an unpainted door stands between the entry and a makeshift office equipped with a desk and laptop. There’s a ladder in one corner.
Shiny spackle hides the seams on the wall. An industrial-strength fan is aimed at it and blowing on high. This wall is brand-spanking new.
“This is one of one hundred and forty units,” Owen tells me, his voice raised to be heard over the fan. “The drywall is complete in all of them. I’m not breaking the law, Ms. Vandemark. We passed our electrical inspection. Gary gave me every assurance.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if he is lying or not. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m becoming suspicious of the “innocent” inspector who was just shit-canned. “Daniel doesn’t sign falsified paperwork.”
“Falsified?” A smirk crosses his lips. “I’m not tearing down one hundred and forty units’ worth of drywall because your boss won’t do his job.”
I’ll die before I admit it, but I agree that tearing perfectly good walls out is a waste of resources and energy.
But. I work for Daniel. My job isn’t to reason.
“Rules are rules, Mr. Owen.” I toss his suit coat over a rung on the ladder. “The good people who move their homes and businesses into this unit, and the one hundred forty like it, deserve peace of mind. Faulty wiring could cause a fire and your precious live-work would be reduced to ash. Rules save lives. And money,” I add, assuming him losing millions would take precedence.
His jaw ticks, his eyes never leaving mine.
