Out of the Ashes Page 6

  Shaking his head, he smiled. It was so typically female. To care about the unimportant stuff. Reaching for his crutches, he pulled himself up. The chatter in the lobby had increased with the arrival of his foreman, Felix. "Might as well take a quick break, too."

  Rounding his desk, Curt abruptly stopped. She was tracking the mundane and not so mundane life details of his employees. Which wasn't unimportant. In fact, it was pretty damned smart. Four Seasons was a small company. He claimed to be family-oriented- His employees' lives were important to him. He wondered about Dave's baby. How old was he? Hell . . . was it even a he? Dave had worked for the company since the very beginning. It would've been nice to have celebrated with him. To have sent flowers. Bought diapers. Or—a meal to help out. He thought of Travis and MaryJo—juggling three kids. Though his brother had plenty of money—to hire nannies—or order takeout whenever life got crazy, they still had their hands full.

  What was it like for his hourly electricians? For the apprentices who made substantially less? Hell, he'd been one himself when he worked for Felix. Making practically nothing. Learning the craft. With a man who'd given him a chance. Felix had seen something in him. Something worth salvaging from the wreckage of his life.

  Shannon was making an effort. Acknowledging the importance of his employees and the events impacting their lives. It would be helpful for crew leaders to be aware of stressors that might impact their team's safety—like Joe—possibly being distracted by his mother's surgery. But, in a business that demanded fourteen hour days, life's little details usually fell to the bottom of Curt's to-do list. Shannon was attempting to change that.

  Grabbing his mug—an unfamiliar, un-chipped, overly perky yellow one, he mustered interest in yet another cup of coffee. If he were brutally honest, his own caffeine intake had increased significantly in the last two weeks. Not that McCarty needed to know. The difference was—when he passed through the lobby—it was for valid reasons. "Most of the time," he muttered. But, it might be time to switch to decaf in the afternoons.

  "Did you win the game?" Billy's surprised expression as he entered the conversation suggested Curt might be more out of touch than he realized. He should probably make the rounds of a few project sites and catch up with his crews.

  Over Billy's shoulder, he recognized the glint of relief in Shannon's eyes before she drifted back to her desk. Another morsel of information to file away. Either she didn't like baseball, or she thought Billy was becoming a pest. Curt invested another five minutes in the conversation before conjuring an excuse to lure Billy back to the shop so she could get some peace.

  He spent another twenty minutes catching up with Felix. While the subject was still fresh in his mind, Curt suggested riding with his manager the next few days, to review all their projects, discuss the activities that would occur while he was out, and prepare for any of the numerous SNAFUs that might arise. Though he'd be away from the office for several weeks, he'd be able to work extensively by laptop. There would only be a few days where he'd be so doped out on painkillers that he'd be completely useless. But Curt also knew that plans could go awry. It would be safer to prepare for a worst-case scenario.

  When he finally returned to the lobby, Shannon was engrossed in a spreadsheet, her bottom lip caught between even, white teeth. "Any problems?"

  Her smile lit up her eyes. "Not anymore. Thanks for rescuing me."

  Curt nodded toward the shop. "Are they bothering you? Coming up here too much?" He knew it was harmless. None of his guys would ever cross the line—with a client or a staff member. But, he would be out for several weeks. Shannon would have to learn to set her own boundaries.

  "Oh—no. It's nothing like that." Her cheeks heated to a captivating shade of pink. Flustered, she glanced over her shoulder before motioning him closer.

  Intrigued, he rounded her desk. "What's wrong?" Caught off guard when she leaned in, her hair brushed his chin, releasing a cloud of the maddening scent he was fast growing addicted to. He hadn't been this near since the night she'd half-carried him into his house. When amazing, perfect breasts had been pressed against him. This close up, her tawny eyes appeared almost amber, with flecks of gold he hadn't remembered seeing. This close, he re-visited the smile-inducing scatter of freckles he'd seen that first night, across soft, smooth cheekbones. This close—her mouth had his mind racing with thoughts that had nothing to do with spreadsheets.

  "I need your help."

  Her whispered voice ruffled against his throat, sending a jolt of sexual awareness straight to his groin. What the hell? His heartbeat accelerating, he fought the sudden urge to touch the silky, sun-streaked hair falling in her eyes. Glancing away, he wrestled for control. Hands down, she was the sexiest woman he'd ever met.

  "What is it?" His voice strained, Curt fisted his hands around the crutch handles. He could only hope his sudden tension wasn't obvious. Raising her gaze to his, her lashes fluttered in genuine confusion.

  "I'm in trouble," she confessed.

  Though his gut flared in warning, his chest tightened with the urge to assist a beautiful woman. Brain cells fought to band together: You've only known her two weeks. Whatever it is, don't fall for it. His scent-drugged nose chimed in: Whatever it is, we have to help her. Groin: We want to see her naked. "What kind of trouble?"

  "I was being polite . . . but now-" Earnest, velvet eyes stared back at him. "I need to know what 'hitting for the cycle' is."

  CURTIS HAD A NICE LAUGH. Though he was cracking up over something she'd said in complete seriousness, Shannon didn't hold it against him. He didn't strike her as a man who found much to laugh about. His smile, though rare, was so damned appealing. It made him appear younger. Less troubled. "Once you've finished laughing at me, I'd still appreciate an answer."

  "I'm sorry, Shan. You just . . . caught me off guard." He smothered his laughter, his shoulders still shaking.

  "It's embarrassing," she admitted. "I pretended to know what he was talking about." Her admission seemed to make him laugh even harder. "Seriously—he's going to come in here every day expecting me to be able to talk intelligently about baseball."

  "I was imagining something completely different."

  "Like what?" She frowned. "Hitting you up for money?" Her sigh exasperated, she waited for him to regain control. Needing something to do with her hands, she snatched the pencil from her legal pad. "Never mind," she muttered. Glaring at him, she drummed the pencil absently. "I'll just Google it."

  Raking a hand through the surfer streaked hair, Curt released a deep breath. His mouth still twitching with a grin, he finally spoke. "Have a seat. This will take a few minutes." While she complied, he dragged a chair over. "Do you know anything about baseball?"

  "Clearly, I know enough to get me in trouble."

  His eyes sparking with amusement, he launched into a detailed explanation of 'the cycle'. Shannon tried to pay attention. But, concentration was proving difficult when he was sitting so close. His plaid shirt was open at the throat. The faint, earthy scent of sandalwood drifted between them. If she leaned in, she could—what? Plant her nose there? Sniff him? Get drunk on the smell?

  Unable to maintain eye contact, she dropped her gaze to his hands. Sleeves rolled up, his tanned forearms were muscled. Capable hands that exerted a minimum of motion as he talked about hitting. When one of them reached for hers, she stiffened, before glancing up.

  "I've noticed you're very fidgety." His expression deadpan, he stared at her. "Are you paying attention? Because there's gonna be a quiz."

  Smothering her laughter, her gaze traveled back to the warm hand covering hers. "Another of my faults. I have trouble sitting still."

  An eyebrow raised over her confession. "Bossy and fidgety. Are there any other qualities I should know about?"

  "Tons." Unable to contain her smile, she shrugged. "But, I'm maintaining an air of mystery. You'll have to wait to find out."

  "Okay—back to the cycle." Giving her fingers a squeeze, Curt released her hand
. She liked the sound of his voice . . . rough and gentle at the same time. Raspy. Sensual. Sliding over her senses, leaving her restless in her skin. Her pulse tripping, she imagined that voice in a darkened room. Commanding, yet sexy—as she slowly unbuttoned those shirt buttons and slid it from amazingly broad shoulders-

  Good Lord, what was wrong with her? Definitely not appropriate visions to be having about one's boss. Startled by her thoughts—insane thoughts, she shook free of them. Raising her gaze, she discovered him studying her. "What?"

  "What did I just say?"

  Cheeks heating to what was likely a fierce shade of fire engine red, Shannon hesitated. "Something about . . . hitting one for each base, right? Like . . . a homerun and-" Avoiding his gaze, which she suspected was mocking her, she fixed her attention on the front window. Which still needed cleaning. "A triple, right?"

  "And?" His lips were twitching again, fighting to maintain a straight face.

  Stalling, she picked up the pencil again, rapping out a beat on the pad. "You know—the first base one. And . . ."

  His gaze never leaving her face, Curt nodded. "One more, Shan—what's left?" Again, his hand reached for hers, his eyes hopeful. "What's the hit to second called?"

  Shan. Coming from his sexy lips, she liked the sound of it. Her fingers fluttered against his, unaccustomed to being imprisoned. "A double?" Her mouth curved, as she suddenly knew she was right. "A double," she confirmed. "So, hitting for the cycle is when you get four hits . . . one to every base."

  "Not bad, McCarty." He gently thumped her shoulder. "If you're gonna fake it with Billy for his entire softball season, you should consider watching a few games on TV."

  She released a satisfied breath. "Maybe I will." As he rose to move the chair back, she had a sudden worry. "Wait—Curt." Her hand shot out to stop him. "What about when you're gone?"

  "You could always fess up that you don't give a rat's ass about baseball."

  "That would be mean," she protested.

  "And—you'd have to admit you lied," he pointed out the obvious.

  "I only lied because I want them all to like me."

  "Fine." The sexy grin returned. "Just text me. If I'm not too looped on pain meds, I'll walk you through it."

  A plan. Everything worked better with a plan. Even stuff she knew nothing about. Nodding, she returned to her spreadsheet. "That works."

  She thought he'd returned to his office when his head reappeared around the doorframe. "Hey, McCarty?"

  Already engrossed in her columns of numbers, she glanced up, distracted. "Yeah?" She should've been warned by the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

  "Billy plays flag football in the fall. Hunting, too," he added.

  "No," she cried. "Shooting animals?" She suppressed a shiver.

  "A bunch of them do." He shrugged. "Of course . . . there's basketball in the winter. Eight or nine of them play in a league."

  Not basketball. There were like—a million rules. Her shoulders slumping, she stared at him. "Seriously?"

  His voice was muffled as he headed for his desk. "I guess you'd better start studying."

  DAY TWENTY-SEVEN HAD finally arrived. Curt reviewed his still-to-do list. "Even an all-nighter won't help you now," he admitted. Then again, his unfinished list had included more like three months’ worth of tasks he'd hoped to accomplish. Tossing it to the desk, he sighed. It would have to be enough. When his office door creaked, he glanced up.

  "Do you need anything? Something else I can do before I leave?"

  Shannon leaned against the doorframe, concern reflected in her expressive eyes. She'd been coming in on Saturdays. Working late with him every night, as though sensing his need to pass along as much information about Four Seasons as possible before he left for—God only knew how long. Felix had done the same on the operations side. They were both logging serious overtime to reassure him everything would be okay.

  "I think we're ready." Whether he'd reached an epiphany, or it was because they were officially out of time, Curt suddenly experienced a vibe of well-being. Everything will be okay. Because Felix and Shannon would bust their butts to make sure nothing went wrong. "Are you heading out?"

  Pushing off the doorframe, she approached his desk. "I can stay longer-"

  "No. It's after eight. You've been amazing to help so much, but it's time to lock up. I've still got a few things to get ready at home, too."

  She took a step toward his desk. "Do you need help? I can follow you."

  Surprised by his increasing sense of calm, Curt smiled. Shannon had been the perfect choice for office manager. Side by side for the past four weeks, she'd worked harder than anyone. "I'll be fine. Thanks to you and Felix, Four Seasons will be fine." When she would've interrupted, he raised a hand. "We've done enough to get you prepared. Now, it's time to stop."

  Rounding the desk, she surprised him when she impulsively leaned in to hug him. "Everything will go well tomorrow," she whispered. "I'm sure of it. So, you shouldn't worry." Time seemed to suspend when her arms tightened around him. A dozen thoughts flooded his head, the most surprising being the realization that holding her felt natural. As though they'd done it a hundred times before. When she finally pulled away, her smile was one of reassurance, though her eyes suggested a different story. She looked sort of . . . emotional. Hell, was she gonna cry?

  "Shan—you okay?"

  "I've got your brother's number." Ignoring his question, she bolted around his desk like a frightened rabbit, as though realizing she'd revealed more than intended. "I'm going to call him tomorrow afternoon to see how the surgery goes-" She cleared her throat. "So—I can . . . tell Felix."

  Still a little floored by her reaction, he nodded. Was she—worried for him? "It's always gone fine." Maybe it was because she was a nurse. More than anyone—she knew his surgery would be pretty routine. The recovery—not so much. Dr. Sullivan had beaten it into him that recovery would be a bitch.

  "If anything comes up that needs your attention, I can . . . swing by after work to review it with you." She backed away, edging for the door. "Any papers to sign . . . any issues Felix or I aren't sure about." Still not looking at him, her voice trailed off.

  "I'm sure between the two of you, you'll take care of everything," he said. "But, please feel free to come by." Unsure what he should be doing with his hands after the spontaneous hug, he crossed them over his chest. Still awkward. He picked up a pencil from his desk. "You'll know where to find me, that's for sure."

  "What about meals?" When she was finally able to look at him again, warm, brown eyes reflected concern.

  "MaryJo—that's my brother Travis' wife . . . she made a few meals I just have to microwave." He shrugged. "If it's like all the other times, I'm typically not hungry for a few days after surgery."

  "Curt . . . that's not good," she objected. "You need to eat. The pain meds will be worse on an empty stomach." He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes as she frowned. "And liquids. You need to stay hydrated. Ice chips. Popsicles. Clear broth," she ticked off on her fingers. "And—lots of water-"

  "Okay, Shan," he cut her off. Nurse McCarty was starting to get worked up. If the conversation went on much longer, he'd find himself agreeing to live-in help. "I've taken care of all that," he lied. "I've been through this before and survived it."

  "This is a big surgery, Curtis." Refusing to back down as he walked her back to the lobby, he nodded frequently while she lectured him over her shoulder. "And ice. Lots of ice. Keep it elevated and iced—like 24/7."

  Shannon was sure as hell animated when it was a subject she felt passionately about. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed. Hair slipping free of the clip she'd shoved in hours earlier. That hair— was so damned distracting. He wanted to slide his fingers through it—mess it up. Feel how soft he'd imagined it would be. She was so damned pretty. Those eyes. He loved brown—not that hers were just brown. Hers seemed to have a dozen different shades—depending on her moods- When she thumped him in the arm, he startled, scrambli
ng to refocus. "What?"

  "Are you even listening to me?"

  He smiled over her waspish tone. "Most of it. Ice. Elevation. Food. Water."

  It was a toss-up whether she was genuinely worried over his fate or pissed at him for not listening to her laundry list of post-op requirements. But her earnest, save-the-world expression somehow got to him—perhaps because it was so unfamiliar. And—directed at him? Other than Travis—and now MaryJo, he hadn't seen that look in anyone's eyes in . . . ever?

  "Seriously, Curt-"

  He captured her flailing hands. "Can we call a truce? I promise I'll follow the rules. I will memorize the directions from my surgeon. I'll drink lots of water. I have broth in the cabinet," he lied. "I'll elevate the hell out of my knee." He really would do that one. At her surprised chuckle, he squeezed her fingers. "I'll . . . ice the shit out of it. Okay? Are we square?"

  Smothering her laughter, her lips twitched with a smile. "Okay, we're square. But, I'm still going to be checking."

  When she left a few minutes later, Curt stood back from the window, watching her drive away. His chest felt odd—in a way he had trouble pinpointing. It wasn't pain. Or fear. Or nerves over the surgery. He was more a block-it-out type of person. The accident had taught him that. Prison had brought it home even more.

  Once he'd analyzed a situation from every angle—with the perspective of everything that could go wrong, he simply prepared for the worst. And then—he quit worrying. Because there was nothing more he could do. Before that March night thirteen years earlier, he sure as hell hadn't been in the habit of planning—anything. But that night had gone horribly wrong. The worst had happened. He'd been responsible for a death. He'd survived the punishment—both physical and mental. Pain. Grief. Guilt. The fear of what prison would be like—and the confirmation of it.