Authors: Lauren Blakely
A
nother conundrum confronts
us several days later when Hector sleeps late again and misses work.
Natalie tries a few other guys, but they’re all busy. Since I haven’t expanded yet, or hired anyone regularly after the failed Vegas gig, it’s all me once more, and the clock’s ticking. I head uptown to Violet’s home, eager to finish her remodel on time.
With a laser focus, I do nothing but work all morning. Drill hinges. Adjust doors. Hang cabinets. For her Upper East Side penthouse apartment ultra-modern kitchen redo, Violet ordered an exotic wood that looks stunning in her home and must be treated with extra care. That’s precisely how I do treat it, making sure every single part lines up perfectly without a nick, scratch, or dent.
Then again, that’s my job, and that’s what I aim to do every time for every client.
But midway through the morning, an on-time finish appears exceedingly unlikely. There’s just too much to do. I barely have time for a lunch break, but my stomach rumbles, and a bead of sweat slides down my chest from all the lifting and hammering. I need fuel in my line of work, so as I head out of Violet’s building into the midday crowds and bright sun, I follow my stomach in the direction of the closest bodega. As I walk along the tree-lined, brownstone-laden block, I ring Natalie.
“Hey,” I say, and I can feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Hey you.” The sweet sound of her voice makes the grin spread all the way across my face, makes my heart flip-flop.
We’re coworkers, but right now we don’t sound like it. We sound like lovers. Like a boyfriend and a girlfriend. Like this is how we talk to each other when we call for no reason. And hell if I even know why I called her. Maybe just to hear her say
hey you
.
Feels like enough of a reason, and that’s what I want—to be able to talk to her like this, to call her any time and chat about our days without all the other stuff hanging over us.
I drop my shades over my eyes and hoof it to the store on the corner to grab a sandwich. “How’s it going at headquarters?”
“Everything’s good here in the Bat Cave,” she says, then tells me what’s cooking, and it’s yet another day of her managing my company like a champ. This woman is invaluable to me. “And I checked in with the courts. Everything is on track with the divorce, too,” she tells me, but I don’t feel like talking about the end of our union, and it turns out I don’t have to, since she segues into the next item. “I got a call today from Harper’s friend Abby. The guy she works for is investing in a new restaurant, and he wants to talk to you about doing some of the cabinetry.”
“Interesting,” I say since I don’t usually handle commercial work. But she tells me more about the job and it sounds doable. “Can you stop by after Violet’s to do an estimate? I can meet you there. It’s in the Village.”
My chest does that wild flop again, knowing I’ll see her later. Which is ridiculous, since I see her nearly every day. But I like seeing her so much. “Yeah, sounds great,” I say as I turn into the bodega, grab a bag of chips and a diet soda, and get in line at the deli counter.
“So.” She takes a beat. “You called. Is everything okay?”
Right. The reason for my call. What the hell was it? I stare at the glass case of the counter, hoping to find the answer in the ham. But honestly, I’ve never cared for ham, so that doesn’t help. Then I remember why I’m on a quickie lunch break. “I don’t think I can finish Violet’s job today. Any chance you can track someone down for the afternoon? I just need another set of hands for a few hours.”
“Why don’t I come join you?”
“You sure?” I try not to sound too enthusiastic.
“We did it before at Lila’s. We can do it again. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“You’re a ninja, and a goddess, and the mistress extraordinaire of the Manhattan carpentry business. Can I get you a sandwich? The turkey here looks good.”
“Thanks, but I already ate. A poisoned ciabatta. I should be dead shortly.”
A little later she joins me, and we set to work. Glancing over at her, carefully hammering in a nail, I’m struck once again with the realization of all she does for my business—she saves the day.
As we work, she’s quiet and focused, and so am I. Around five o’clock, she takes a short bathroom break and returns quickly. I set down the tools to pour a glass of water. Natalie’s working on the ladder in the kitchen, wiping the wood on a cupboard above the stove, making sure it shines. But her shoulders shake like something is terribly wrong.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she mutters with a gulp as she moves down a rung.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine.”
I place a hand on her lower back. “Hey, tell me. What’s wrong?”
She sucks in a deep breath and meets my gaze. Words spill from her mouth like raindrops falling. “Mrs. McKeon said she doesn’t need me to teach anymore.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“She texted me earlier. I just saw her note when I was in the bathroom.” Her voice catches. “She said the mats weren’t in good shape after that night. I think she knows what we did there. I’m so embarrassed.”
She climbs down the ladder, drops her face into her hands, and lets the tears fall. I wrap my arms around her. I don’t know what to say, since it’s my fault, too, so I just hold her in my arms as she cries quietly. I brush her hair away from her cheek while another tear slides down. She’s a quiet crier. No sobs from her—just a steady trickle down her face. Even so, I can feel all the sadness in her, and all the shame she shouldn’t have to feel.
“I don’t want to be the black sheep,” she whispers into my shirt.
“You’re not, sweetheart,” I say, gently. “I swear you’re not.”
“But I am. I was the wild child in high school. Maybe then I was taking my dad’s car for a late-night ride, but look at me. I’m doing it again.” She pushes on my chest half-heartedly. “Taking you for a late-night ride.”
I manage a small laugh at her effort to make fun of herself. “Hey. Pot, meet the kettle. Besides, neither one of your so-called sins are that bad.”
“I know, but I loved that dojo. I was starting to build a reputation there.”
I stroke her hair. “And your reputation will remain intact because you’re amazing at what you do. We’ll find another dojo. You still have your self-defense classes at the other studio, right?”
She nods against me. “It’s just one class a week. The one Lila is taking.”
I rest my chin on the top of her head. “That’s cool that Lila’s in your class.”
“She’s a sweet lady. Every time I see her she says she’s working on getting the Vegas job restarted. She said it’s looking good. But Wyatt, I just feel like a fuck-up.”
I pull back from her and tuck a finger under her chin. “You’re not. I’m just as guilty.”
She slugs me lightly. “I should fire you, then.”
“I wish I could take it for you. I would. I swear I would. I hate that this happened.”
She swallows and takes a deep breath. It seems to center her. “We need to figure out what we’re doing.”
“I know,” I say, desperation coloring my tone because I wish I had the answer to having it all. I want to keep working with her, and I want to be with her, and I want to erase our Vegas mistake and just move forward like a normal man and woman dating in Manhattan would do. But whenever we take a step, we meet a roadblock.
All I know is when she tilts her chin and looks up at me, having her in my arms feels so right. But everything goes wrong when I touch her. The botched annulment, our fight, and now her losing a karate gig.
“Wyatt,” she whispers, “I want to kiss you right now, but each time I do, I feel like something foolish happens.”
“Add mind-reader to your skill set, because I was thinking the same thing,” I say as I gather her in my arms once more. Her back is pressed against the ladder as I leave a soft kiss on her forehead. “No making out then,” I whisper, with a gentle brush of my lips on her eyelids. “Just this.”
She nods against me, a soft sigh escaping her mouth. I dust my lips over her cheeks, her chin, her jaw, then hover oh so temptingly close to her lips.
“We’ll be good,” I tell her in the faintest voice. “For real. Let’s get our divorce, and if we still feel this way, then we can figure out how the hell an ex-husband can date his ex-wife.”
“Who’s also his employee,” she adds with a smile, and I’m putty in her hands. Because . . . that smile . . . those lips . . .
Her.
“We’ll figure it all out,” I say, even though the prospect of
how
feels like advanced calculus. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I just hope the next few weeks till she’s my ex fly by. Never would I have thought I’d want to date my ex-wife so badly. But I do. I really fucking do. Maybe that sounds crazy. Maybe it is. But I want to start over with her in a normal way. A clean slate with this woman I’m crazy for? That seems like a perfect way to begin again.
I clasp her cheeks and drop one more quick kiss on her forehead.
She parks a hand on my chest and lightly pushes. “If you keep kissing me like that, we’re going to wind up doing it on this ladder, and God knows with my luck, I’ll break a leg.”
I stroke my chin. “The ladder, you say?”
“Don’t get any funny ideas.”
“Now I have one,” I say, and drop to my knees and press her against the wood, my hand on her stomach. “I would love to do this to you right now.” I run my hands up her legs, kissing her through the denim. “But I’m going to show you how good I can be.” I wrap my hands around her ass, squeeze, and press a kiss between her legs, even though she’s fully clothed. “I can be so good,” I moan, as I kiss her once more through the fabric of her clothes.
She gasps, lacing her hands into my hair. I stay like that. On my knees. My lips on her jeans. Teasing her. Leaving her with very clear instructions on what I’ll be doing when this moratorium ends.
“
Wyatt
,” she murmurs, her grip on my hair tightening.
I push my face closer, inhaling her scent, then bite at the denim before I stand and plant a quick kiss on her forehead. “See? Wasn’t I so sweet?”
Her lips curve into a grin. “You are a unicorn.”
I glance down at the tent in my jeans. “I’m absolutely a unicorn right now.”
She laughs then tugs me close for a tight hug. When we pull apart, we resume our work and finish the job. A little later, Violet unlocks the door, strides in, and beams. Her sleek black hair is twisted high on her head, and a slash of peach lipstick covers her mouth.
“The kitchen looks great.”
“And it’s done on time,” Natalie declares.
Violet shakes her head in amazement. “I’m thrilled. Completely thrilled.” She shifts her gaze from me to Natalie, then back. “You two are quite a team. I’m so impressed with all you’ve done.”
When we leave to load up the tools and ladder in my truck, it occurs to me there’s something terribly unjust about what just happened. Natalie was busted at the karate studio. I got off scot-free at a client’s home. Fine, we weren’t naked and getting it on at Violet’s house, but we were intimate in a whole other way. Is what we shared on the ladder so much “safer” than what we did on the mat? Maybe. At the same time, though, I can’t help but feel even closer to Natalie now, and I wish I could protect her. Keep her from getting hurt. Save her from any sort of sadness.
Regardless of what we were doing, the fact remains that she’s taking the hit for what’s happening between us, and I’m not. I don’t know how to change the score, or if I can. All I know is I want to, and I need to figure out how.
But right now, we’ve got another gig, so we head to the Village to the restaurant site for the estimate. Natalie introduces me to a big strapping dude with huge arms. He’s the restaurant investor, and looks like one of the Hemsworth brothers.
“Simon Travers,” he says, and holds out a hand. He’s got a deep voice, too.
“Wyatt Hammer. Nice to meet you.”
“And you. I hear great things about your work.”
He walks us through the plans for the eatery while Natalie takes notes on the computer. As we stand at one of the unfinished counters, she shows the schematic to him on her laptop, and everything about this moment is perfectly normal, nothing special, nothing strange until a cute blonde opens the door, and walks in. Harper’s friend Abby. She’s holding the hand of a girl who’s maybe in kindergarten. Abby works for Simon; she’s his daughter’s nanny, Harper told me.
The little one runs over to Simon and throws her arms around him. “Daddy! My lesson was so fun.”
He scoops her up in his arms and beams, just fucking beams at his kid. “That’s great, sweet pea. Will you tell me all about it the second I’m done?”
She nods and smacks her lips to his cheek, then rests her head against his, content in his arms.
I glance at Abby and say hi. She says hi to me. We’ve hung out a couple times, with Harper and Nick. Abby has curly blond hair and honey-colored eyes, and she’s younger than Simon by maybe eight or ten years. For some reason I can’t take my eyes off them. Maybe because Natalie watches them, too. There’s just something about this man and this woman. Hard to say what it is, and they’re not even touching.
“Hey, Abby,” Simon says, and his voice reminds me of someone.
She can’t seem to stop smiling as she meets his gaze. “Hi, Simon.”
“How was everything today?”
“Hayden was great. We had an amazing time at the museum, and then at her lesson. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. See you in the morning. Same time?”
“Same time.”
Abby walks over to the little girl and ruffles her hair. “Bye, little sweet thing.” Then she says good-bye to Natalie and me before she leaves. My potential client watches her the whole time. As she walks to the door. As she pushes it open. As she steps outside. As she waves one last time.
And I know what’s in his eyes. In his voice. But I’ve got no room in my head to face that right now, so I do my best to zone in on work, only work, as we review the plans.
When we leave, Natalie and I stroll into the dusk of an early June evening in New York. We’re both quiet for half a block or so, until she breaks the silence.