Forbidden Fling (Wildwood 1)

Pa-chunk. Pa-chunk. Pa-chunk.

She sighed with relief and muttered, “One down, three to go.”

Sliding her finger off the trigger of the nail gun, she rested her forearm on the top of the ladder and winced at the bone-deep burn in her shoulder while glancing over the last section of siding she’d installed.

Looked good, considering how long it had been since she’d done it. That thought brought her mind back to Ethan’s “It makes a difference if you used the affair to get benefits in the job,” and a familiar pain tore at her heart.

She glanced toward the row of warehouses on the adjoining property and found his truck parked at the door of his unit, the lights still on. She didn’t see Ethan, but it was pretty dark; unless he was standing near the headlights, she wouldn’t. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in four days. In some ways that was a blessing—it gave her time and room to still her insides from the spin he created, and it left her free from interference, allowing her to get a lot done in a short amount of time. But in another way his absence generated a new problem—it created an ache that left her feeling hollow and distracted.

She didn’t understand how she could miss him when they’d spent so little time together, and 80 percent of that in bed. But she did. She missed his humor, his intelligent conversation, his compassion. She missed his voice in the dark. The sweet way he treated her.

She closed her eyes at the bittersweet squeeze in her chest, her memory flooded with all those touching moments he’d spent tracing the lines on her palm, kissing trails over different parts of her body.

She’d been with enough men to know a special guy when she found one. And she’d become so jaded she’d begun to believe they didn’t exist for her anymore.

Ethan had changed that.

“This is a good thing,” she reminded herself softly. Ethan was nothing but a bundle of problems. And she already had too many problems.

She took a deep breath and forced the memories away and her mind back to her work.

The light, smoky-green color of the siding would pop against the white trim planned for the windows, doors, and gingerbread. The finished product would not only be beautiful; it would add to Main Street’s appeal while restoring the building’s authentic charm.

She envisioned the end product in her mind, and for the first time since Trace had informed her that Ethan had signed off on the site grading inspection, approving the land excavation and drainage changes she’d made, Delaney experienced a spark of relief. Of excitement. Of . . . pride?

She wasn’t sure, because this pride wasn’t the kind she’d experienced with any project in the past. This pride was far more personal, something that was completely illogical, and something she wasn’t ready or willing to acknowledge.

“Delaney,” Trace called.

She pushed her hard hat off her forehead and squinted down at him.

“It’s almost eight. The crew went home hours ago. And now it’s dark, not dusk,” he said, killing the argument she’d used earlier to keep working. “You’d never let me use a nail gun at night by floodlight. Which means you shouldn’t be using a nail gun at night by floodlight. Get your ass off that ladder.”

“Okay, okay. I’m coming down.”

“Told you she was stubborn.” Phoebe’s voice touched Delaney’s ear as she took one more look toward the warehouse and allowed one more pang of longing to pass, wishing things could be so very different, before climbing down the ladder.

Once she touched the ground, Trace recapped the day’s progress for her while Delaney put away her tools and supplies.

He finished by saying, “We’ve got the HVAC, electrical, and plumbing tied down. We’re set for the inspection tomorrow.”

She dropped the compressor hose into the toolbox and pressed her hands to her knees to help her straighten. She was stiff and sore everywhere. “Fantastic.” That would cut her exposure to Ethan way down. “What time?”

“Eleven a.m.”

“I’ll make sure I have something to do somewhere else. Just call me when he’s gone.”

Trace lifted a brow, puzzled by her evasion. She’d used the old family-feud excuse, but Delaney could tell Trace suspected some other underlying conflict. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

She flashed a grin. “I can try.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Do me a favor and stay off that ladder when no one else is around.”

“Since when am I nobody?” Phoebe asked, hands on hips.

He started toward the crumbling parking lot. “You know what I mean.”

The lights of his truck washed Phoebe in halogen, and Delaney surveyed her aunt’s dirty T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. “How’s the dumpster queen?”