Authors: Marina Adair
She took him in—all six foot two of chiseled muscle and messy male. “Busy day at the office?”
Cal looked down and shrugged, as though he’d had worse. His work boots were splattered in concrete, his jeans weren’t much better, and his T-shirt clung to his body, defining every one of his ridges. He looked a little sweaty, a little dirty, and a whole lot like the guy in her dream last night—only in her dream he had on a tool belt and nothing else.
He strode over with all the grace and strength of a man who walked across steel beams while balancing two-by-fours for a living and took the seat next to her, setting a red tin lunchbox on the table. He glanced at her legal pad and smiled. “How’s the project coming along?”
“Great,” she said in her confident authority tone that worked on just about everyone she’d ever met. Except, of course, Cal, who reached over and touched the keypad.
Her laptop sprang to life and a dancing paperclip wearing bright yellow shoes and matching scarf appeared on her screen. Cal’s finger hovered over the Play button.
“Don’t.”
But he did and the paperclip pulled out a cane and top hat, while belting out a catchy little show tune about how with perseverance and proper planning, and a bunch of other
P
words that Glory hadn’t managed to master yet, the
can’t
would disappear right out of her
Gantt
.
Cal shot her an amused look, only on him, amused came off as sexy. Hell, anything came off as sexy on Cal McGraw. All it took was those intense blue eyes to fall her way, combined with the slight tilting of those lips, and it was as though the temperature in the room had shot up fifteen degrees.
“According to Professor Paperclip, all I need to do is enter all of these steps into a spreadsheet,” she said primly.
“Professor Paperclip, huh?” Cal opened his lunchbox and pulled out a sandwich, setting it on a folded napkin. Something spicy and hearty filled the air. Next came a bag of BBQ potato chips—her absolute favorite—followed by a chocolate chip cookie and ice-cold can of diet cola. Glory eyed the condensation dripping down the can and felt her mouth water.
Cradling half the sandwich between his big hands, he brought it to his mouth and was about to take a bite when her stomach, picking up on what she’d bet her best boots was meatloaf, growled.
His gaze meet hers over the crust of the bread, and she saw his eyes crinkle and knew that he was smiling—at her. He took a bite and made a huge deal over moaning and savoring the sandwich—the big jerk.
“You want half?” he mumbled, pushing the napkin toward her.
She waved it off. “I have an energy bar.” Which would taste as good as the napkin his sandwich lay on. Actually, the napkin would taste better since little bits of grease and hot mustard had dripped down the side of the bread.
“Take a bite. Just one,” he said with so much authority that she reached out to grab it before even realizing her hand was moving.
She paused. “Did Payton make it?”
“No, it came from the Gravy Train so you’re safe.”
Unable to turn down Skeeter’s meatloaf, Glory picked it up, gave it a quick smell, and took a big bite.
Sweet baby Jesus
, it was the perfect balance of spice, tang, and mouthwatering grease that was like a party in her mouth.
“Oh my God, this is so good,” she said around bits of bun. “So much better than my energy bar.”
“Glad to hear it. Here.” He cracked the cola open with a sizzle and slid it her way. “Wash it down with this.”
“I don’t want to take your drink.” But she so did and he knew it because he smiled—and man, what a smile. It supported number seventeen on
PROJECT GRANNY PANTIES:
ABLE TO SPIKE CORE BODY TEMPERATURE WITH A SINGLE QUIRK
.
“I have another.” He pulled out another cola, equally cold but no
Diet
on the front, along with a second bag of chips and—be still, her heart—a second chocolate chip cookie.
Either he had the appetite of a horse or this was a preplanned, quiet lunch for two—and she wasn’t really sure what that meant or how she felt about it. “Why are you really here, Cal?”
“I had a meeting with the planning department down the hall earlier and heard you having it out with your poor laptop there. Since you were still here, and still screaming up a storm, when I headed out for lunch, I called the Gravy Train and changed my order from one to two and staged an intervention.” His gaze met hers. “Skeeter said the mo shu meatloaf sandwich was your favorite.” He took a gulp of soda. “Funny thing about that, boots, is it’s mine, too.”
That he took the time to find out what her favorite dish was caught her completely off guard. That his ridiculous nickname made her feel all girly and breathless did not bode well for
PROJECT GRANNY PANTIES
.
“I meant what I said last night.”
Last night
being the key components of that statement. In the light of day, with him looking like sex with a tool belt, she wasn’t so sure.
She wanted to be more, so much more it scared her. So did he; she could see it in the way he watched her. Too bad their ideas of
more
didn’t match up.
“So did I.” He smiled but it wasn’t full of charming or nefarious intent; it was soft and warm. “Now tell me, what seems to be the problem?”
“I think Excel and I are breaking up,” she admitted, popping a chip in her mouth. “He doesn’t listen, constantly points out my shortcomings, and refuses to give me what I need.”
“That’s a pretty big problem.” Cal’s grin widened until Glory was certain her core body temperature was well in the danger zone. “You’re in luck since your needs are a constant concern of mine.” Just when Glory’s heartbeat was becoming totally erratic, Cal gave a sly grin and whispered, “We’re co-chairs after all. Best to help each other however we can.”
His gaze slid down her body, then made a lazy trail back to settle on her eyes once more, Glory was ready to toss her sense, and her
PROJECT GRANNY PANTIES
list, out the door.
“I also happen to be an Excel ninja with a black belt in Gantt charts.” Cal laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles over his head. “Now, do you already have a spreadsheet?”
And there it was, the ice water of reality Cal seemed to throw right after he made her entire body buzz with heat.
With a deep breath, she worked to refocus on the matter at hand: her proposal. Not Cal. Tell that to her “granny panties,” which were now a bit damp.
Cal used the trackpad to move the cursor down to the spreadsheet tab, which had taken her all morning to create, and Glory smacked his hand away. “Yes, I have a spreadsheet. I’m not an idiot.”
“Spreadsheet formatted, got it.”
“Well, kind of. It keeps giving me a circular error, which isn’t a big deal since I can’t figure out what the steps are to put them in order yet,” she said in a rush because she hated admitting she wasn’t competent in something. It was almost as bad as admitting she was wrong.
Cal took her legal pad and tore off the front sheet, exposing her secret list below. All he had to do was glance down and he’d see every embarrassing detail of her crush.
“That’s for school.” She reached for the list but he held it over his head. “Give it back.”
He looked up and read, “‘Project Granny Panties: ACM’? What class would that be?”
She leveled him with a look, one that displayed just how serious she was as she lied her granny panties right off. “It’s for my geriatric theory class.”
“So ‘buns of steel’ would refer to?”
“The importance of glute strength in the aging.” She leapt out of her chair, snatched the pad back, zipped it up in her backpack, and stuffed it under her chair to be safe.
“Ah-huh.” He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was busy taking her proposal task list, which she’d spend the better part of a day on, and tearing it into little strips.
“What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, just continued to make paper ribbons out of her hard work. Then with confidence, and a surprising amount of grace for a man with hands his size, he fanned out the strips and organized them into an efficient line. Minus a few gaps, which appeared to be intentionally placed, it created a perfect timeline. “How did you do that?”
“I have to do this all the time for projects.” He was leaning back now, proud of his handiwork. “Think of it like building a house.”
“Which would be a brilliant suggestion,” she deadpanned. “If I had ever built a house.”
“Well, lucky you that you know someone who has. And he’s good. Better than good.”
“Lucky me.”
“That’s the attitude.” He reached into his Marry Poppins lunchbox and pulled out a stack of three-by-five cards and took her pen. “Pretend we’re decorating a room. Your room.” He snapped his fingers. “Your
bed
room.”
“How did we go from charts to discussing my bedroom?”
His dimples flashed and he said, “Sweetheart, any conversation with you always ends up with me thinking about your bedroom.”
“Do you spend a lot of time thinking about your friends’ bedrooms?”
“Nope, just yours.” He clicked the pen. “What would your dream room look like?” She eyed him skeptically. “Well, I can tell you what my dream bedroom of yours would look like, but this is your dream, not mine.”
She decided to play along. “I would want it to feel relaxing, like the day spa at Joie’s inn. So green walls.” He scribbled down something on a flash card and then looked at her to go on. “Dark furniture with orange and white accents, and a comfy bed with a big wooden slatted headboard—”
“I imagined a big headboard, too, but mine would have bedposts to attach—”
“Curtains.” She tapped the next flash card and he got back to writing. “Sheer gauzy curtains, lots of plants, and maybe some pretty artwork to hang over the bed…are you writing this down?”
“Sorry, you said
bed
again. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.” He went back to his cards. “Vegetation and artwork, got it.” He scribbled down a few thoughts of his own and then made quick work of fanning them out. “I like to start at the end and work backward. So the last card is?”
“Hang artwork over four-poster bed,” she read.
He smiled. “I took some artistic license since I am the professional here.”
Didn’t she know it.
“We can’t hang the artwork until the bed is centered and the rest of the furniture is arranged, right?”
She nodded; this was actually making since. “And I couldn’t arrange the furniture until it is delivered, which means I need to add a task to go shopping and buy new furniture and the artwork.”
“Right. And green paint. You have to tape, primer, and paint the walls so they can dry before the
four
-poster bed is delivered and placed against the wall.” He sat back, hands laced behind his head, his big, long legs stretched out, looking awfully smug.
“And here I wasted all that time with Professor Paperclip.”
“Boots, when showing your spreadsheet to a man, make sure he’s got more in his tool belt than a cane and top hat. You want a guy who comes equipped to get the job done.”
Glory has seen Cal’s tool belt, and she had no doubt that he not only came properly equipped, but knew how to use each and every tool in his belt to get the job done.
“So what is the end goal?”
“What?” Glory’s eyes flew to his face, and she realized that she’d been trying to get a glimpse of his equipment. Cal knew, too, because he smiled.
“Of your project? Where do you want it to lead?”
“Right.” Glory cleared her throat. This was the easy part. Glory knew exactly what kind of program she wanted to run, the kind of kids she wanted to reach out to, and the opportunities she could facilitate.
“I want to create a volunteer program that connects high school kids looking for a place to make a difference with children who need a champion in their corner. Which, I know, sounds like every other candy-striper program. But I want this to be a kind of internship, where students can earn school credits toward their senior project and an hourly wage that will accrue over their time at the hospital and can be applied toward their college fees.”
Mr. Excel ninja didn’t so much as bat an eye, didn’t interrupt or point out that it was too big of a project for her to take on. He just leaned in and gave her all of his attention. And being on the receiving end of that kind of intensity, and what she thought looked a lot like respect, made her heart do this funny little flutter in her chest.
“I want to start with seniors, but over the next few years open it up to sophomores so that they can work their way up into positions with more responsibility. Also, it would help with turnover so patients who are here for longer stays will have a buddy to go through the entire process with.”
When he still didn’t say a word, just kept staring at her, she felt a rush of insecurity come back. She knew that convincing the board to hire teenagers was going to be tough; getting them insured as employees was going to be even harder. But giving kids the chance to experience a life outside Sugar, a life that might not be possible without additional funding like the one her program could provide, was the heart of her mission.
“You know, give them something stable in the middle of all the craziness.”
To everyone, her mission statement would come off like a way to help and inspire local teens. But the kids she was hoping to help were kids like her. This proposal was her life in a series of charts and spreadsheets, right there for anyone to see if they knew what to look for. And Cal was looking and suddenly she was terrified of what he’d see.
“Well? What do you think?”
“That the hospital would be lucky to have you,” he said with a quiet smile, and her heart gave a soft bump. “And that Brett’s right. You, Glory Mann, are amazing.”
Then a not so soft bump. And because Cal was looking at her as though she were amazing, she began to
feel
amazing…more than amazing. He made her feel adored.
Then his smile faded, and so did hers, because she was aware of just how close they sat, and how badly she wanted him to lean over and kiss her. Cal’s eyes seemed to say he was on board.