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Jake Ryland strolled into the rubble-filled room, looking crisp and clean and utterly infuriating. How the hell did his starched button-down shirt and pressed jeans never get dirty? His Italian leather shoes, which she imagined cost more than her monthly salary, gleamed as he stepped over the demo debris to look at the screen on Trina's video camera. While they discussed something in whispers, Frankie brushed at her own shirt. She self-consciously knocked off chips of plaster and wood and tried not to react to the fact that he hadn't even acknowledged her presence. And failed. She cleared her throat.
“Are you not entertained?” she asked as she held out her arms and half bowed.
Frankie couldn’t keep the snark from her voice. She did feel a bit like a gladiator, performing feats of strength for the masses. Jake gave her a side-eye glance and shrugged a shoulder. He wouldn't give her the respect of turning to face her. If the show ever did run to blood sport, she'd be gunning for Caesar.
“It was a good bit. But I need to talk to you. Outside.”
A bit? Why did she feel like he was looking down at her for giving him exactly what he asked for?Fucking emperors.
She tucked her glasses into the V-neck of her T-shirt and leaned the sledge against the wall, so she wouldn’t be tempted to brain him with it, before following him out the front door. By the time she caught up with him, he was already at the craft services table set up in the side yard, because the garage at this house was currently packed with the owners’ belongings. She took off her hard hat and propped it against her hip as she resisted the urge to reach for a cookie with her filthy hands. She drummed her fingers against the hard plastic, eager to get back to work.
Because of those stupid delays, they'd gotten a late start on this house. The Kaufmans had needed to move out of their old house before the crew had even gotten started on their new one. It grated on her conscience that Valenti Brothers was behind schedule because of the show.Good work, on time, and under budgetwas their motto for a reason. If the show killed their reputation, what was the point? Brick upon brick, the wall of her annoyance rose taller, blocking her in.
“So, what do you need?” Irritation sharpened her tone. Jake held up a finger as he slugged down what had to be his eighth cup of coffee, judging by the height of the sun in the sky. Frankie fumed.
Just another fucking delay. Was this some stupid power play? She crossed her arms and tapped her foot as he drank the hot coffee like water, her eyes involuntarily resting on his bobbing Adam’s apple. He looked like a fucking coffee model. Was that a thing?
His short dark hair framed his face, fading into the perfect balance of facial hair. Not short enough for a five o’clock shadow, which would hurt during a lip-lock, but not a burly lumberjack beard that would catch food either. Just a soft, sexy beard that highlighted his ridiculous cheekbones and a dimple. A fucking dimple! On a grown man!Unfair advantage, she groused. Even his bared forearm was perfectly muscled and lightly hairy.
She half expected a wind machine to crank up and theme music to start playing. She looked around to see if Trina was filming this. The man was a walking advertisement for drinking your weight in coffee every day. She couldn’t explain why, but his unrelenting perfection made her want to muss him up. She clenched her fingers against the desire to crinkle his shirt in her fists. And when he licked his lips after the last swallow, her own felt dry. Why was she paying attention to his lips?
The man treated her like a child, giving orders, talking over her with Dom, assuming she would jump to do his bidding. How could she hate the things that came out of that mouth, but still be obsessed with its shape and texture? She deliberately stretched her fingers out and shoved them in her back pockets out of harm's way. Uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts, she did what she always did: she fell back on sarcasm and bluffed her way past it.
“If you’re done caffeinating, I have a house that needs work. What did you need?”
“I need you to change clothes and run over to the Rancho project,” he said while he refilled his coffee mug.
“But I’m in the middle of demo here.”
“I’m aware.” He raked his eyes from her head to her toes. “That’s why I asked you to change.”
She growled, and he continued.
“The crew here can handle this without you. Adrian is here to do his walk-throughs. There was a glitch with the cameras, and we need to reshoot the final walk-through with the inspector. He’s giving me half an hour. Get over there, and do something about your hair.”
Frankie felt her cheeks flush hot as she raised a hand to her habitual ponytail and dusty particles of plaster fell to her shoulders.
He’d managed to waste her time, dismiss her importance on the jobsite, and insult her appearance in under two minutes. The man was a management marvel. “What did that half hour cost you?”
“A bottle of eighteen-year-old scotch.”
“Why can’t Adrian cover it?”
“Because I need you to make this funny.”
Of course he did. Not because he needed her building skill or her project lead ability. He needed her to be the class clown, because that was all he valued her for. And didn't that just burn her up inside. But she'd use that fire to push forward. She would prove her worth if it was the last thing she did, just so she could rub his nose in it.
“Damn. Okay, let me go over the plan with Rico, and I’ll head over.”
“I’d go now.” Jake turned his wrist to check a watch worth more than her monthly salary. “He’ll be there in twenty.”
It was a fifteen-minute drive.
“Nothing like cutting it close,” she muttered as she fished her keys out of her pocket.
“I’m not stupid. If I’d told you earlier, I’d have had to listen to you complain about it longer. Besides, you don’t need time to primp. Just change your shirt and brush the dust out of your hair.”
His detached assessment slapped at her feminine pride. Her temper flashed to the tip of her tongue, but he was already walking away.
