1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Brody
I step out of the truck, the crunch of gravel under my boots barely audible over the hum of traffic in the surrounding streets.
The sun’s out, but the sky is heavy with clouds, and there’s a chill in the August air that hints at fall creeping closer.
I pull my hard hat over my head, adjusting it as I glance around the cleared lot. It’s hard to believe that in a few months, this space will be home to a forty-story skyscraper. It’s our latest project, and one of the biggest we’ve ever taken on.
Josh is already out, unrolling the blueprints on the hood of the truck, his brows furrowed in concentration.
I see a lot of myself in him: the focus, the way he sets his jaw when he’s deep in thought. I taught him everything I know, but he’s got a knack for this business that goes beyond just following orders.
“Steel delivery’s set for next week,” Josh says, tapping a section of the blueprint with his finger. “But I’m thinking we should double-check the supplier’s estimate. The last thing we need is a delay because of a shortage.”
I nod, scanning the documents in front of me, following along with his train of thought. “Agreed. And make sure the rebar’s good quality, not that cheap crap they tried to send us last time. I’ll handle the permits; you focus on coordinating with the crew.”
We’re surrounded by stacks of construction materials, everything from pipes to bags of cement, and a few excavators rumble nearby, preparing the ground. It’s a mess now, but I can already envision it—the clean lines, steel and glass gleaming in the sunlight, another landmark for the city.
As we go over the logistics, Josh’s face lights up with a grin. “Hey, did I tell you? Gemma got the book deal she was after.”
I glance up from the blueprint, and I can feel my eyebrows raise. “The children’s book? The one she’s been working on for a year?”
He nods, excitement spreading across his tanned face, and I can’t help but chuckle, shaking my head. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s impressive. She’s got some serious talent, your Gemma. You picked a good wife, you know that? Bright, young, talented, beautiful. You’re lucky, son. Don’t take her for granted.”
Josh’s expression softens. He’s twenty-three years old, but he still looks boyish. “I know, Dad. I really do. And it means a lot, hearing you say that.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then he adds, “You know, you could be just as lucky if you got out there and dated.”
The suggestion catches me off-guard, but I can see he’s serious, his sky-blue eyes steady as he looks at me. I almost laugh at the idea of me, in my late forties, starting over in the dating world. But there’s a warmth in Josh’s gaze, the kind that says he’s not just poking fun, he’s hoping for something more for me.
“Not everyone’s as smooth as you, kid.” I brush his words off, giving him a crooked smile.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a glint of amusement brewing beneath the surface. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t hurt to try.”
I let out a laugh, waving my hand dismissively in the air. “No woman wants this old piece of leather,” I joke, but I can tell from the way Josh’s expression shifts that he’s not buying it.
“In all seriousness, son, I don’t want the stress. Running this company is a twenty-four-seven gig, and I don’t think a woman would deal with the hours a construction CEO puts in. Besides, it’s not like there are many good women out there to begin with. What makes you think I’d find one at this late date?”
Josh crosses his arms, leaning back against the truck. “Dad, you sound like a grumpy old man set in his ways.”
“I am a grumpy old man set in my ways.”
He snorts. “Seriously, though, Dad. It’s a shame you think that. You’re smart, successful…hell, you’re not bad-looking for a guy your age. You’ve got a lot to offer.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not bad-looking, huh? Thanks, kid. That’s a real confidence boost.”
Josh grins, but there’s still that note of sincerity under the teasing. “I’m just saying, don’t count yourself out. Gemma always says there’s someone for everyone, you know? It’d be nice to see you happy. And who knows, maybe you’d be surprised.”
“Maybe,” I reply, “but it’s not like I’ve got a lot of time to figure that out.”
Letting a silence fall between us, I glance down at the blueprints again.
He’s got a point, but life’s not that simple.
Nothing is ever simple.
Josh shakes his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth. “If you say so.”
We spend the next hour or so reviewing more documents before we both go our separate ways for the day.
I steer my truck onto the highway, the city lights fading behind me as I head west, out toward the countryside. The sun’s already dipped below the skyline, leaving the sky streaked with deep purples and navy blues. It’s that in-between hour where the world seems to hold its breath.
Out here, away from the city, it’s quieter, darker. The headlights cut through the growing shadows, illuminating the open road ahead.
As I drive, the scenery shifts from concrete and steel, to fields and pastures stretching out on either side of the road. Cornstalks, tall and golden, sway gently in the wind, and further out, I can see rows of soybeans, their leaves rustling like whispers.
The landscape is flat and endless, just the way I like it. No skyscrapers, no crowded streets; just open space and the occasional farmstead lit up like a beacon in the distance. It’s a long drive, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think, to let the day roll off my shoulders.
By the time I pull up to my place, it’s pitch black except for the soft glow of the barn lights.
My sprawling property is quiet, the perfect kind of quiet, and I park the truck next to the old wooden fence where the cows are grazing.
Hopping out, I grab a bucket of feed and make my way to the pasture. The cows lift their heads, lumbering over as I pour the grain out for them, the familiar sounds of snuffling and lowing filling the night. I pet each of them, giving each one my undivided attention to show them I care about them.
People don’t realize it, but cows are very affectionate farm animals. Once they’re fed and penned up in the red barn, I head toward the house, the crunch of gravel under my boots the only noise as I walk across the grassy yard.
My house feels cool and still when I step inside, my boots echoing on the tile floor as I drop my work bag by the door. My stomach rumbles with an insistent growl, but there’s one last thing I need to check on before I can call it a night.
I make my way through the hallway to the back of the house, where the sunroom doubles as a makeshift nursery. The second I push the door open, I’m greeted by a happy, wagging tail and a pair of bright, eager eyes.
Penny, my Australian shepherd, looks up at me from her spot in the corner, and I feel my heart swell at the sight of her. Her ears are pinned back, and her tongue is flicking out in quick, excited licks as I crouch down beside her, my hands melting into her soft, luscious fur.
She’s surrounded by a pile of squirming, tiny pups—six of them total. They’ve got her same speckled coat, all covered with patches of white and gray and flecks of black. They’re all jostling for space, tumbling over each other in their clumsy, wobbly way.
They’re all bundled up in a kiddie pool I’d lined with blankets and towels, a safe haven to keep them corralled until they get big enough to take over the entire sunroom.
Penny looks tired, but proud as she licks a few of her little brood of babies.
“Hey, girl,” I murmur, rubbing her head, and she nudges my hand with her cold nose, grateful for the attention.
I give the pups a quick pat, letting them sniff at my fingers and yawn widely, before I urge Penny to go eat, guiding her toward her food and water bowls. She gently trots over, lapping up water and taking some nibbles of dry kibble before I open the back door to let her out for a bathroom break.
She’s got a doggie door that leads to the fenced-in yard, but I figure she’ll appreciate the chance for a quick run under the bright stars.
After Penny’s had her fill of fresh air, I lead her back inside and watch as she curls up with her babies, licking and sniffing them all one by one.
I head for the kitchen, my stomach reminding me again that I haven’t eaten since lunch. Tacos it is, quick, easy, and just enough to take the edge off of my rumbling stomach.
I pull out the ingredients, laying them on the counter: wheat tortillas, onions, peppers, cheese, ground beef, and taco seasoning. The hiss and sizzle of the pan fills the kitchen as I chop up the onions and peppers, their sharp, tangy scent filling the air.
While the veggies cook down, I grab my phone, scrolling through emails with one hand, while flipping the beef in the pan with the other. Most of it’s the usual: updates from Josh, contractor requests, a couple of proposals I need to review.
But then I see a notification from HR, and my thumb pauses over the screen.
The applications for the new receptionist role.
I tap it open, scrolling through the list of names and resumes that have come in.
I’m halfway through a bland cover letter when one application catches my eye: Tasha Daniels. I open her file, skimming through the details.
She’s young, with a standard resume, mostly customer service. I scroll down to her picture and blink. She’s striking, in a way that makes you stop and take a second look. Light, caramel brown hair, clover-colored eyes, a smile that’s a little shy but bright enough to catch your attention.
I stir the beef and vegetable mixture, dumping a decent amount of seasoning into the pan, followed by a few tablespoons of water. I’m trying not to think too much about how a receptionist doesn’t typically look like they belong on a magazine cover.
I find myself studying Tasha’s resume longer than I meant to as I’m plating up my tacos.
This girl should be on the cover of Sports Illustrated, not in an office answering phones.
She’s young, sure, but there’s something about the way she’s presented herself that doesn’t just catch my interest, but holds it.
A lot of service industry work, mostly waitressing.
Waitressing is not exactly the kind of experience you’d expect for a receptionist, but then again, there’s something to be said about the skills that the job demands. Handling demanding customers face to face, staying on your feet for long shifts, balancing orders and requests without missing a beat; hell, that’s more multitasking than some of my project managers handle on a good day.
I weigh the options, still cutting the vegetables, thinking about what I’m really looking for in this position: someone who can handle chaos, keep things running smoothly, and do it all with a smile and a chipper attitude.
I know from experience that waitresses have a certain kind of poise and work ethic that you can’t just teach.
Still, I can’t help but hesitate, wondering if bringing in an inexperienced beauty will be more of a distraction than a solution.
The last thing I need is a bunch of contractors getting distracted every time they walk by the front desk.
There’s something intriguing about her, I can’t lie. Maybe she’s just trying to get out of that waitress rut. I can’t fault her for that.
I sit down at the small table in the corner of my kitchen, locking my phone screen and digging into my tacos.
I’ll reach out to her tomorrow, set up an interview. Maybe she’s got more to her than meets the eye.
She could be exactly what I’m looking for.