“You look awful,” Caleb said.
Sam stopped in front of him. His throat worked as if trying to speak. His voice was a threadbare sound. “We’re real sick, boss. All of us.”
His team swayed on their feet. “I think we ate a batch of bad oysters,” Mike said. “We all ordered them last night.”
Caleb cursed, then looked at Morgan. He wasn’t a monster, but damned if he wouldn’t be screwed by a loss of a whole day’s work. “It’s okay, Cal,” Morgan said. She addressed his men. “If y’all don’t feel well, please go home and rest up. We’ll work something out.”
Knowing it cost her a lot to say that, he turned to his team. “What’d you wash them down with?” he asked.
Yep. They all shared a guilty look. “Some tequila,” Frank finally said.
Caleb gave them a hard look.
Sam spoke up. “Come on, guys, we can do this. Sorry, boss.”
They slowly trudged in, each of them taking various spots and beginning to work. With every bang of the hammer, it looked as if they wanted to shriek in horror. Caleb shook his head. “That never happens on my watch. They must’ve been celebrating something.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen it happen,” she said. Her eyes glinted with amusement. “I’ve celebrated with them, and they usually recover fine. You have a good team.”
Pride rushed in. “Thanks. They’ve been with me a long time, and other than an occasional screwup, they’re solid guys. Talented. And in this business, a lot more dependable than other teams I’ve been with.”
The words were floating like a cartoon bubble out of his lips when it happened.
Above the screech of guitars and hammers, a familiar retching noise cut through the air. Tools clattered to the floor, and groans of disgust peppered his ears.
Oh. No.
Frank vomited all over the floor. Clutching his stomach, he rolled himself back and forth in an effort to stop, but it only made it worse. Seconds later, Sam followed, his retching sounding like a baby monster who’d eaten an animal that disagreed with him. Jason hurried down the ladder, backing up from the two men with his hands in front.
“Ah, stop it! I’m a sympathetic vomiter!” Jason shouted.
Morgan took a step back, and Caleb watched in horror as the short story from Stand by Me, one of his favorite King tales, came to life—the disgusting scene about a pie-eating contest gone horribly wrong.
“Help!” Jason bent over and let loose. Then it was game on.
Mike turned the color of avocado and puked from the top of the ladder, and the last two guys surrendered. The sound of retching and groaning and male misery rose to a crescendo, and all Caleb could do was watch the nightmare unfold.
Finally a terrible silence descended.
The song ended and the boom box clicked off.
Caleb turned from the horrific scene and sighed. “All of you. Get the hell out of here.”
One by one, the men left, heads hung in misery. He stood for a while, thinking about the long, terrible day stretching ahead. Then she spoke.
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me. Let’s get to work.”
Morgan quickly switched gears and walked back to her car. Popping the trunk, she took out her hard hat and work boots, setting her mind to the task at hand. Sure, they’d still be a bit delayed, but if they worked all day with few breaks, they might be able to make up some time. She donned her boots and hat and stood.
When she looked up, Cal was staring at her.
It was hard not to laugh at his expression. He was a dynamic, puzzling man who consistently surprised her. If he said something crappy, he apologized and looked directly into her eyes. And meant it. He gave her respect on the job and always made sure she was treated like a business partner, listening to every suggestion and not openly pacifying her like so many other crews before him. He worked harder than anyone on his team and seemed to give every part of his life to the job. And the man was so sexy, it was as if a fire burned below on a constant basis. One she desperately wanted to slake.
The image of pleasuring herself to the thought of his kiss brought a flush to her cheeks. She’d been cool and distant in the past two weeks, giving him a clear indication she needed to reset their relationship back to work only. He took her lead with grace, but sometimes she’d catch him studying her with a banked fire in his eyes. Her body practically wept with the need for him to make good, but so far she’d been able to keep herself tightly under control.
Right now, hip cocked, dust in his hair, jeans riding low on his hips, and the symbol of construction hotness—the tool belt—wrapped tight around his waist, he was stripperworthy. His damp T-shirt clung to his chest from good old-fashioned sweat, outlining the mass of carved muscles. Looking from his corded arms and bunched biceps to the sexy stubble clinging to his jaw and smoky charcoal eyes burning into hers, she was, simply, toast.
She did her usual, though. Fought her dampening girly parts with the fierceness of a woman on the edge. And, of course, kept her defenses firmly up. Morgan made sure to present him with the person he believed she was. A woman who read Austen, had every part of her life ruthlessly organized, and never missed a beat. Yes, skinny-dipping and kissing him in the moonlight had given him a hint of what was beneath, but she’d built back his original impression of the woman he thought she was. A woman he could never be interested in for a delicious, sexy, naked tumble. Because she knew one tumble would lead to another, and the last thing they needed was a personal relationship mucking up a perfectly good business one.