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“Yep.” Arlo shot me a quick grin, his hands never slowing down as he lifted the final piece in place, and Dan slid out of the way.
I knew better than to check—Arlo’s ability to work from a mental schematic was insane. He had an uncanny knack of being able to envisage the final product long before the last nail was hammered in—a gift that saved us time and mistakes, allowing any team he was with to work seamlessly together. As Arlo positioned the crossbeams where they needed to go, I took a moment from the fluttering specification to admire the craftsmanship of what we were building, and to check Arlo out as well.
I was only human.
“You okay up there?” I asked them both.
Arlo flipped a plank of wood. His muscles bunched, the sun glinting in his hair, his expression locked into intense concentration, and he looked so damn sexy doing it.
“Yeah,” Dan shouted down.
“What Dan said,” Arlo announced as he examined the last crossbeam and nudged it into place with that remarkable sixth sense that guided his every move on site.
I pulled out my calculator and busied myself with checking the new measurements and ensuring everything aligned, costing up any changes, and miraculously finding no more costs to eat into profit. This project was important, the latest in a long line of luxury outbuildings Byrne Construction had become known for, and I was determined for it to be flawless, while also being profitable. After all, the money to pay Arlo and Dan had to come from somewhere.
My cell buzzed, and I pulled it out to see messages from Leo. I overreacted and nearly dropped the phone. What was wrong? Was Charlie okay? I grabbed the cell and, after three attempts, managed to unlock it, given it wouldn’t recognize my scrunched-up-with-worry face. It was photos of Charlie.
Photoshopped.
Propped up in a barbecue. Sliding down a stair rail. Riding a lion. Floating away with a balloon.
I hated Leo.
I told him so, and all he did was send back a hundred ROFL images and one of Charlie drinking a beer.
Ass.
“Jax,” Arlo called down, snapping me out of my thoughts. “We’re done.”
Dan clambered down from the structure, removing his cap and unhooking himself from the safety rope. “Looks good from up there, boss,” he announced.
I nodded and walked around the summer house so I could check from all angles, satisfied with the progress, and ignoring the push to get up there and measure those angles to see if they were okay—Arlo knew what he was doing.
“You didn’t need to check on us,” Dan said. “We were doing okay.”
I glanced at Arlo, who wasn’t looking at me. “I wasn’t checking on your work,” I lied. Then, I tugged at Arlo and pulled him toward me, seeing his eyes widen as I stole a kiss. “Hey.”
Dan snorted his water, then coughed, and laughed all at the same time.
“Oh, right,” he said and shot a wry smile at us both. “About time.”
Arlo wrinkled his nose, was adorable, and I poked his belly. “You messing up the plans, Marshall?”
“Always, Byrne,” he deadpanned, then grinned at me. “But now, we need to get those roof panels up and secure. We’re on the home stretch, and it’s a Friday, so back to Charlie after this, and dinner, yeah?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I have beer.” The code word for staying over made his grin even wider.
He took his turn to steal a kiss, our hard hats knocking, and then, he was off, back up the ladder.
Dan passed up roofing panels, with my help, which Arlo attached. The structure was coming together beautifully, a blend of Arlo’s intuitive craftsmanship, along with careful planning and costing on my part, ,and Dan’s ability to understand both of us. We worked in sync, communicating through nods and gestures, understanding each other without needing a word spoken.
Once the roofing was in place, Arlo made some last-minute adjustments, and I felt a surge of accomplishment that pushed aside all thoughts of missing Charlie and worrying about Zach. This project was more than just a summer house; it was a showpiece demonstrating what Byrne Construction could achieve, and the couple we were building it for—an interior design team, who was going to be fitting the place out for an episode of their show—could get our name out there. Arlo shimmied down and landed as soft as a cat, fist-bumped a waiting Dan, then crossed over to me, casting a quick eye over the blueprints.
“It’s worked better with that angle,” he pointed out, and glanced at me. “Agreed?” He sounded a little anxious, as if he imagined I’d turn around and tell him he was wrong.
He was never wrong, not with his eye for detail and his ability to picture the finished result of anything before he’d even started.
“Yeah, good call.”
