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I hate that he doesn’t argue with me about it.
Because it says one of two things.
Either he didn’t feel that kiss the same way I did…
…or he did.
But he’s oh-so-confident that I’ll come crawling back for more. And he can just stroll away whistling and knowing he can wag his finger and have me any damn time he pleases.
Like hell.
No matter how divine that kiss felt, I’m not totally crazy.
I don’t have room in my life for a tornado like Holt Silverton.
10
Hung Like A… (Holt)
I can’t believe she bit me.
No, fuck, that’s a lie.
I can believe it.
Just can’t believe I liked it as much as I did.
Nah, that’s another lie.
I liked it. I wanted it. Goddammit if I don’t want her to do it again—preferably without as many clothes.
But I don’t think that’s happening now.
She asked me to leave, and over the past few days, it’s been nothing but texting.
Dry exchanges of info. Checking in every day to make sure no one’s been down Nowhere Lane. Updating her that I’ve made no progress on finding more that might shed light on skeleton man.
I’m thinking that’s not likely, though.
Not when she said that shotgun shell came from her daddy’s gun.
I’m still thinking about it as I sit at my desk in my trailer, reading through purchase orders for our next job. We’ve got a ton of these lined up right now—smaller contracts we can finish in a day or two, doing minor restorations on some damaged buildings—and honestly, they’re the only things keeping us afloat besides the bigger Paradise Hotel cleanup job.
When you can’t land the big contracts in a little town, sometimes it’s smart to pick up a heap of smaller ones to pay the bills.
But if I don’t score a six-figure something or other soon, that’s not gonna be enough to keep my guys happy.
Exhaling slowly, I run a hand over my face.
Ninety-nine problems right now and a girl’s about half of them.
It can’t go on like this.
Boring messages. Not a damn thing about that kiss. No hints she wants me coming back to finish what I started.
She’s pissed at me, probably. And when Libby gets mad, I’m realizing sometimes you gotta fight it out with her in the heat of the moment, but sometimes you give her time to cool down until she’s ready to talk.
I’m not sure which one this is, but we need to sort this shit out.
Maybe I’m not holding back for her, though.
I’m holding back for me.
Because that hellcat turns me inside out and knocks my ass upside down.
I care what she thinks.
I want her to like me, trust me, believe in me, know she can rely on me.
That’s a lot to process.
Because I can’t do that shit again, only for her to turn around and drop me the second I slap my heart in her hands.
I’m mulling that more than wondering how I’m going to stretch a budget to cover a custom foundation adjustment to a pre-existing building when the door to my trailer rattles.
A single hard knock before it snaps open.
“Boss.” Alaska leans in, his face grim. “Just got a call on the main line. One of the fire guys, Rich.”
I frown. Blake’s the fire chief, and if there’s something I need to know, he’s usually the one to call.
“What’s up?” I ask, reaching for my phone—and realizing it’s dead.
Well, that explains it.
I start to plug it in as Alaska says, “There’s a fire at one of our sites. The clear-out and restoration at the old hotel.”
Fuck!
Looks like I’m charging my phone in the car.
“Status on the site?” I shove it in my pocket, thrusting to my feet and whipping around my desk.
“They’re putting it out now,” Alaska says, falling into stride with me. “Blake said he’ll meet you out there.”
“Got it.” I yank the door open, grim frustration rushing through me.
Damn it all.
Even with insurance, we can’t afford a major setback.
This loss might be the nail in Silverton Construction’s coffin, depending on how bad the damage is.
I start clattering down the steps.
Only to nearly stumble right over Libby Potter, who’s just charging up them.
We both freeze.
She glares at me.
She’s snapping mad. It’s not hard to tell, but I’ve got to get to my site.
“Hey,” she bites off. “I’ve had just about enough of this. You can’t even be bothered to pick up your pho—”
“Phone died,” I growl, ducking around her toward my Benz. It’s not the right time. “Got to deal with something on-site. Sorry,” I throw back over my shoulder.
She whips around to glare at me. “Can’t it wait five minutes? You’ve been treating me like—damn it, Holt!”
“It can’t wait, Libby!” I throw the door to the Benz open, sliding in, already kicking the engine up, barely waiting for Alaska to squeeze his massive bulk into the passenger seat.
I don’t hear whatever she says in response.
