The scowl deepened. “I don’t have time to check on every damn detail you change. The flood last week put us back a few days. Next time you find a pretty trinket that changes dimensions, you may wanna run it past me.”
She treated him to a matching scowl and blew out a breath. Since she knelt in a pile of sawdust, a dusty cloud rose up to block her view. “Next time you start cutting into the frame, you may want to check with your business partners to confirm the status. Maybe a conference call or meeting now and then could be helpful, so when I buy a new trinket, you stay on deadline.”
A snicker drifted in the air. Jason gave her a huge grin, awarding her the point in this current round. Heaven knew, they’d both gotten in a few solid jabs these past weeks, but the trophy was still up for grabs. The men seemed to get off on their encounters, picking sides to win and even having a betting pool for the big ones.
As usual, Cal didn’t go down easy. “We’ll keep our deadline fine as long as you don’t keep changing your mind. You signed off on those measurements.”
She raised her chin up. Her voice dripped icicles. “And my change was approved by Tristan. And vetted through Brady to make sure it wouldn’t affect the weight-bearing beam.”
Tension tightened around them. Unfortunately, it also swirled with a strange sensual undertone she was still fighting off. “Anything else I don’t know about, princess? Wanna add a pretty skylight in here? French doors? A private terrace?”
She cocked her head and studied him. “Are we cranky today, Charming?” she asked pleasantly. “Tell you what. Let’s just stick with the stained-glass window, and if there’s anything extra I want to throw in, I’ll be sure to tell Tristan or Dalton.”
A smothered laugh rang out.
She had to give him credit. Cal could take a jab as well as give one. He muttered something under his breath but backed off. “I need the measurements.”
“Which I happen to have right here.” She gave a sunny smile as if being hot, dirty, and sore was a daily occurrence. Her back protested when she unfurled herself from the awkward position and walked over. Grabbing her phone, she recited the numbers while Cal marked it off with the tape. He stretched out, and the soft denim stretched and clung to his ass like a gift from the gods.
Darn the man.
Morgan swore to hang on to her irritation and not let some hot male body ruin her right to be right. She’d discovered Cal did not share well with others. Though he was the head of the project, he was consistently yanking specific jobs from his brothers and refusing to check in. There was definitely an underlying tension in the family, and she gathered that the main problem was Cal’s inability to step aside and let them do their job.
They were deep into framing, and she’d decided to take a day to work with the men. In her experience, respect was earned, and nothing worked faster than seeing a woman building beside the crew. Morgan was used to the stunned silence she usually received when first showing up, and today was no different.
She owned a custom-made pink hard hat with matching work boots. Her personal hammer was built for a smaller hand and was also pink. As much as she preferred white, pink showed less of the dirt kicked up on a job site.
When she marched past the crew and announced her intention to work the site, their mouths fell open like a school of guppies’. A few hours later, they shut up. She knew her stuff, never complained, and worked harder than they did.
The pounding strains of some heavy metal band blared over the speakers. Not again. If she had to hear one more screaming guitar solo, she’d lose it. Marching over to her Michael Kors backpack, she fished around and grabbed a CD. “Sorry, boys,” she called out. “My turn.”
A combined groan rose in the air. “I can’t work to girly music!” Sam yelled. The foreman stopped hammering to give her a beseeching look. “Don’t torture us, Morgan.”
She gave an evil laugh and hit PLAY. “Y’all are seriously undereducated in music. Besides, I’m cramped up like a pretzel doing the trim, and I let you do the fun part. You owe me.”
Cal climbed down the ladder and grabbed his water. A begrudging look of respect crossed the harsh lines of his face. “She’s right. She gets her turn.”
Taylor Swift belted out the strains of “Shake It Off,” and Morgan ignored the crew’s taunting remarks. “Keep it up. By the end, you’ll be agreeing she has talent and you like her music. Trust me. You’re not the first site I’ve converted to my way of thinking.”
“Would be better if the song was called ‘Take It Off’!” Mike yelled.
Everyone laughed.
“I gotta get something from the truck,” Cal said. “Need anything?”
“A bucket of ice water. It’s frickin’ one hundred degrees today,” Jason grumbled. “Why can’t we build houses in Alaska?”
“Oh, yeah, ice huts. Fun,” Mike quipped.
Cal rolled his eyes and replaced the tape in his tool belt. Took another slug of water. Then peeled off his shirt.
Morgan stared.
His gaze flicked to hers. “You need anything?” he asked.
She tried to answer. She really did. But nothing came out of her mouth—not even a squeak. Her vision was blurred by the perfect male specimen before her that was every female fantasy of a construction worker.
He was . . . perfect. Defined pecs and tight biceps. Endless toasty-brown skin gleaming with sweat. A perfect swirl of lighter hair dusting his chest and traveling down washboard abs. He had an actual eight-pack. Not six. Eight.