Forbidden Fling (Wildwood 1)

“Baby, you’re the one who’s not thinking straight.” When her eyes opened, searching his, he added, “Maybe that will give you a little better perspective.”

And he stroked his fingers gently down her face one last time before turning and walking out of the bar.

SIX

Delaney adjusted her sweaty grip on the sledgehammer’s handle and swung another wide arc. The metal head plowed through old drywall, and white powder puffed into the air. She swung again. And again. And the remaining gypsum board broke away from the studs.

“Finally,” she muttered, dropping the hammer to the floor with a clunk. She dragged off her filtration mask and used her hands to pry the smaller pieces away from the opening. Over the last two years, she’d spent more time bossing other people around than actually working, and she wasn’t nearly as efficient as she used to be.

Before she’d taken a more managerial role at Pacific Coast’s Finest, she would have been able to tear through this wall in seconds and move on to the next. Her crew had dubbed her Demolition Delaney. They’d developed an amazing system where she tore shit down, and they got out of her way and cleaned up her mess.

Still panting, Delaney swiped the flashlight from the floor and poked her head through the new opening. She shone the light upward first, checking the condition of the timber at the corner of the room where the roof met the wall.

“Dammit.” The wood was shredded. If she tapped it with a stick, sawdust would rain down. Prepared for the worst, she turned her light down toward the floor and found the thick layer of rodent feces she’d expected, but she still groaned.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

The male voice behind her wasn’t the one she craved, but it still brought relief. She straightened and turned with a smile for Trace Hutton, the man she’d chosen to consult with on this possible job for a couple of reasons, one of the main ones being price. If she couldn’t afford to hire Trace as her right hand in this project, she couldn’t afford anyone. She was pretty sure Trace was the contractor Ethan had considered recommending for demolition. But Delaney knew Trace was capable of so much more.

She worked up a smile for him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He didn’t look near as pleased, his expression pained as his gaze roamed up the wall, over the ceiling, and back down. “Why? Because misery loves company?”

“Oh my God, stop. You’re supposed to be in savior mode. Did I forget to mention that?” She set the flashlight on a table nearby, lifted her safety glasses to the top of her head, and walked into his arms, giving him a bear hug. “Good to see you.”

Trace was a throwback to Delaney’s wild-child years. Almost a decade older, he’d wandered in and out of the biker drug scene where Delaney had lived on the fringe. But he hadn’t been there by choice, and Delaney had felt a twisted kind of kinship with him, both of them seeking something they couldn’t find within normal societal boundaries.

He released her, still looking around the place with an expression of pain. “Delaney, Delaney, Delaney. Why do you always have to take the roughest roads in life?”

“You’re one to talk.” She planted her hands at her hips. “Keep it up, and you’re going to have a hysterical female on your hands.”

“You? Hysterical? That will be the day I can retire to a Tahitian beach with my harem.”

She smiled and took a good look at him—a six-foot wall of muscled, dark Irishman. That jet-black hair and those striking blue eyes had gotten him in a hell of a lot of trouble growing up—a dicey childhood spent jumping between a sick mom and a druggie dad, dumped with his grandmother in Wildwood when both his parents hit bottom at the same time. She’d only discovered during a recent conversation with Phoebe that Trace had gone to prison on drug charges several years ago.

“Good God, look at you,” she said. “From what I’d heard, I expected a little more wear and tear. Hell, Trace, you look like you’ve been living at a damn spa.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He laughed the words, but his voice was filled with you-have-no-idea seriousness. “Folsom State Prison ain’t no spa. And I’ve been out awhile.”

Delaney laughed. It was nice to have someone to chat with. Someone who wasn’t perfect. Someone who’d made a few wrong turns along the way and lived to tell about it. Someone who didn’t judge others quite as quickly or as harshly.

His expression shifted from wry to sheepish, and he glanced away, shifted on his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets. “About my conviction . . . I—”

“Trace, we can talk about why and how you ended up there sometime if you want to, but, honestly, there are only a few things that matter to me here and now.”

His whole body relaxed, and the shame cleared from his eyes. “Okay, shoot.”

“One, you still have a contractor’s license in good standing.”

“Check.”

That told Delaney he hadn’t been convicted of a felony. “Two, you’ve left your past in the past, and you’re willing to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, no messing around, no bullshit, no excuses.”

He chuckled. “I like your take-no-prisoners attitude. Check.”

“Three, you’re going to give

me a great deal in trade for a great reference.”