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“Tell me.”
His eyes lock onto mine and I’m back on that roof, breath coming in shaky tremors, awash in the goodness of him. Still holding my gaze, he tosses it back into the pile. It’s a sexy, confident, screw-it-all move that I love.
It’s the kind of thing Vonda would love even more. It’s weird to imagine that, against all odds, he senses that fun, wild Vonda part of me. He trusts her.
He doesn’t know the most important details of my life or even my real name or hair color, but he knows my Vonda side. And he knows my maker’s heart.
“You got a truck?”
He comes to me—slowly. My blood races as he nears. Is he going to kiss me? I would let him kiss me.
But instead of kissing me, he stops.
I look up at his gorgeous lips and sparkly golden-brown cheek stubble and enchantingly uneven dimples.
“Did you just ask Henry fucking Locke if he has a truck?”
* * *
An hour later, we’re rumbling over the Brooklyn Bridge in a heavy-duty diesel pick-up truck with the Locke Worldwide logo on the side.
It’s loaded with the best stuff from the site, courtesy of the crew that Henry called over. He told me to point out the best bits, then he disappeared.
He was on the verge of losing the Most Eligible Bastard’s manliness competition at that point for not helping to load…but then he came back in work clothes—a long-sleeved green T-shirt and jeans and boots and gloves—and he started loading with the guys.
He went for the heavy stuff, like the hunks of concrete. He sometimes grunted, muscles bulging like melons under the light fabric of the shirt. I tried not to stare too hard as he worked. Or when he’d wipe the dripping sweat off his forehead with his big freaking glove, sometimes leaving smears of dust.
Manliness portion of Most Eligible Bastard unlocked!
We’re heading deep into Brooklyn, away from the trendy parts.
“And you’re not telling where we’re going.”
“Take a left up here on Oakerton,” I say.
He takes a left. On we go.
I look at the increasingly decrepit buildings from his point of view, wondering what he thinks. Was I wrong to bring him here? No matter how dirty he gets his hands, he’s a billionaire, a man from another world. He wields a shovel, yes, but some of those shovels have giant bows on them.
I check my phone. I texted Latrisha during the loading, making sure she’d be around and she hasn’t responded.
This is the kind of reclaimed shit she lives for.
We pull up at the Southfield makers space. There’s actually street parking in this part of town, of the leave-your-vehicle-at-your-own-risk kind.
I suddenly dread taking him into the dank and half-ruined warehouse, with industrial lighting and power sources hanging from ropes and duct tape on things. There are plywood partitions between workspaces. Giant welding setups that aren’t entirely legal. Home-cooked venting that is totally not code.
Even the grungiest Locke fabrication facility is a palace compared to this. Clean and spic and span.
And then there’s the culture of the place.
It’s not all well-behaved jewelry makers who just need a soldering setup, or fashion-forward furniture makers like Latrisha. There’s a wild edge to a lot of the people, from the tattoo-and-leather Neo-Renaissance guys over in the blacksmith area to the facially pierced mosaic artisans to the crazy-ass pottery people and neon guys and everyone else. Will the scene be too outlandish?
“You have an alarm on this thing, right?” I say.
“I’m not worried,” he says. “Who’s going to steal a load of vintage construction debris?”
“Um, you’re about to meet them,” I say.
