Leveling With the Contractor

Chapter 1

Dakota

“What the hell are you doing here?” There’s no way Cam Briggs is standing on my front stoop with a toolbelt looking like he’s ready to come into my house.

“I’m here to do your basement.”

“Like hell you are.” I plant my feet more than shoulder width apart even though it’s absolutely ridiculous to think that I could stop this former football player from going anywhere that he wanted to go.

“Oh, that’s right.” He digs into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and hands me a wad of cash.

“What the hell is this?” Yes. I know I’ve said hell every time I’ve opened my mouth, but I can’t stop myself. I’m just grateful I’m not saying anything worse. Like, really, I’m actually holding it together. All things considered.

“It’s…uh” —he picks through the bills and counts them— “first month’s rent.”

“What the—”

“Before you say what you’re going to say, which we both know by now, can we just skip the dramatics, Koty?”

“Who the—”

“Please?” He steps inside, taking advantage of my floundering state. Then he kicks off his shoes—which I’d give him credit for if I ever felt inclined to give the beast any credit at all, which I don’t. Then, like he owns the place, he opens the basement door and heads down there.

A low whistle beckons me to follow. And no, not a whistle like hey baby because really, that would never be coming out of his mouth directed at me. It was more like an, oh shit, what did I get myself into? whistle.

“Nice basement.”

“Thanks.” I don’t know why I say that. He’s obviously being sarcastic. There’s nothing down here except ripped plastic holding insulation haphazardly against the wall and cracked cement posing as the floor.

“Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“What the—” I stop myself this time. “What are you talking about, Cam?”

It almost looks like he winces when I say his name, which has me confused.

“I’m here to do your basement. Ford said you needed someone—”

“And I told Ford that I’d rather go bankrupt than have you here.”

Under his breath, I hear him mutter, “That’s not exactly how he phrased it.”

“Doesn’t matter what you heard, Cam.” There.

He winced again. Weird. I guess we’re never this close to each other.

Anymore. Not since…that time. “Just get out. I’ll figure it out on my own.

” I’ve always done things on my own, and even though I’m down a roommate and down a large lump sum of money thanks to my scheming ex, I’m sure I’ll come up with something.

“I hear mortgage interest rates are rising. When are you up for renewal?”

He asks this obviously knowing the answer from my BFF—ex-BFF—Holly, so I grumble out, “Next month.”

“You need me.”

“I do not need you. And I never will.”

He puts his hands up in mock defense. “I’m just saying—”

“Wait. Why are you pushing this?” And that’s when I see his cool as a cucumber—yes, I say shit like cool as a cucumber—demeanor ebb.

He hedges. Takes a step back. “I’ve got my reasons.”

So I just stare at him. He needs me. Scratch that. He needs this job. And I really do actually need him. Scratch that. I need someone to do this job. And he’s…willing. And paying me. What the fuck did Ford say to convince his brother to do this job for me?

“There’s no shower here for you.” Because I am one hundred percent not sharing my sacred space with this douche canoe.

“I’ll make do.”

“For several weeks? Maybe months?”

“Why don’t you let me figure that part out, Koty?” I do not like that he refers to me by that nickname. It’s reserved for people I like. And who like me. Neither of those attributes can be ascribed to him.

“You’re not using my bathroom when I’m not home.”

He scoffs. “I’d never.”

Not sure if I believe him, but he looks genuinely—albeit mildly—offended. “Fine.” I let my eyes leave his steely grey eyes for the first time. With relief. “And there’s no bed for you.”

“What? You’re not sharing yours?”

I’m aiming for a scoff to mimic his from earlier, but a rather awkward choking sound comes out instead. “No. Definitely not.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve slept on worse,” he says, eyeing the ground.

“Y-you’re staying here?”

“Ya.” He cants his head toward the bills still in my hand. “Hence the rent money, doll.”

And before I can splutter out a Don’t call me doll because ugh, who calls someone doll, he plows on.

“Right. Now that that’s settled. You wanna tell me your plans for the space?”

No. No, I do not. I do not want him here. Not anywhere near me. Never mind living, working, and breathing in my space for the next few months.

He’s the bad boy of the Briggs family. Always has been. And he has always gotten away with it. From the way he goes through women, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to settle down. And after what he did to me? I’ll never forgive him.

So no, I do not want him here.

But hell, he’s the only one willing, and dammit I do need him.