Why Her?: May December Romance (Mistaken Identities Book 2) Read online

  I rushed her from the bar and out onto the sidewalk. “It wasn’t like that. And I don’t need to be getting into another fail-lationship, and besides, he wasn’t even interested in me, I’m sure.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  ****

  Morning came way too early for my liking, accompanied by the sound of my alarm wailing like a siren. I searched for my phone amid the rumpled bedding, cursing the thing as the alarm blared on and on. When I finally snatched it from beneath an extra pillow, I jabbed it off instead of hitting snooze, which was what I really wanted to do. Especially with my brain thudding and my mouth so dry it felt like I’d swallowed a wad of lint.

  Too many beers. Too many shots. And one delicious dance with a seriously sexy man.

  After drinking a gallon of water and dousing myself in the shower, I was on the road to becoming human again. But irritation mounted quickly when I discovered my dad had texted me no less than four times while I was in the shower.

  His reminders piled up: the address for the new worksite, the time of my appointment at the new worksite, and the name of the owner at the new worksite.

  Because apparently he thought I was totally untrustworthy.

  I wondered when Dad was gonna treat me like an adult instead of the sixteen-year-old who ran away for a month after Mom died.

  When was he going to take me seriously as part of the family business instead of his youngest child, his only daughter?

  I texted a thumbs-up back to him. He hated emojis.

  Dressing quickly in a no-nonsense sports bra to help keep the girls under control and the sweat at bay on this sure-to-be-hot day with a white tank top and heavy duty cargo shorts, I laced up my boots and grabbed my keys.

  I took a quick detour to Bojangles. Mmmmm. One country ham and egg biscuit and a large sugary coffee later, and I was good to go.

  The drive from my apartment in downtown Charleston to the site of the new project on the Cooper River side of Mt. Pleasant took fifteen minutes, and I arrived with five to spare. I parked my mud-splattered pickup next to a black military-style Merc SUV that probably cost more than my rent for like a billion years.

  I hopped out of my big old GMC and surveyed the house. It was a large, fairly modern-style abode compared to the antebellum and Charleston Single style that dominated the area. Well, at least in the tricounty areas that weren’t being overrun by sprawling subdivisions of prefabs. Neat clean lines adorned the structure, and the only bells and whistles were massive windows and a huge pillar-less porch, which made it look like it was floating on air.

  Pretty fucking fancy in such a simple and understated way, I immediately gave props to the architect. And as for the surrounds . . . I turned in a circle. Any neighbors were screened from the large landscaped plot by huge stands of indigenous trees. Completely private, absolutely gorgeous, and by no means a hovel.

  I gave a low whistle. I’d studied the remodeling plans. In fact, this was a project I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into, the first time my dad was letting me fly solo since I’d gotten my contractor’s license a year and a half ago.

  Slipping my baseball cap on and pulling my ponytail through the back, I checked in the sideview mirror to make sure I didn’t have biscuit and ham chunks stuck in my teeth. I was desperate to make a good first impression.

  I jogged up the steps, crossed the porch, and was just about to knock on the door when it swung open.

  So did my mouth.

  The new client, Mr. Kane Bishop, just happened to be Mr. Hottie Not Quite Silver Fox.

  Oh my God, and . . .

  I am not going to fuck this job up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kane

  I’D BARELY GOTTEN CECILIA out the door to hustle down the road for her bus before my new contractor was due to arrive. I had two hours to go over the remodeling plans, then I was due at my office for an afternoon of working through a new list of demands from Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, the world’s most aggravating clients.

  At the rate they were shelling out money, they could soon be called Mr. and Mrs. Bankrupt. If they didn’t sign off on the new designs at tomorrow’s meeting, I’d have to cut them loose, because I simply wasn’t going to add a gold-plated spiral staircase to the tasteful build I’d spent months drafting and modeling.

  And there’d be no fucking turrets.

  I heard the low growl of an old truck gun down the driveway. Striding through the family room—what used to be Cecilia’s playroom and now would be opened up to the living room—I peered outside. The contractor parked a big old GMC complete with rust, dings, and ladder racks right next to my Mercedes.

  At the door before a knock sounded, I pulled it open.

  Then my jaw dropped.

  Her?

  I stepped back, brow furrowing as a pink stain colored the young woman’s cheeks. The young woman from the bar last night. The woman I’d danced with, held in my arms, and come so close to kissing I hadn’t known whether to be relieved or regretful when she’d dashed away from me after I’d made a complete cock-up of the situation.

  And speaking of cock, mine had surged to rigid hardness in her presence. That throbbing ache had stayed with me, hours later, until I’d jerked off to the memory of her flirty smile and her firm body.

  Barring her entry, I braced an arm across the doorway. “How’d you figure out where I live?”

  “I . . . um . . . this is the Bishop residence, right?” she stuttered, clasping an iPad stacked on top of a clipboard.

  “Are you one of those stalkers or something?”

  Her laugh bold and smoky-toned, she nearly dropped the iPad and clipboard. A laugh that made her youth even more apparent, the slim neck, the plump lips, the swell of her breasts.

  This morning, she looked one hundred and eighty degrees different from the woman I’d shared a dance with last night. The woman I’d nearly kissed last night. The woman I’d fucked my fist to last night.

  I hadn’t been looking for anyone, looking at anyone until Gwen mentioned, “She’s still checking you out.”

  She was like no one I’d ever been with before, that was for certain. Edgy and sexy, with a large vibrant peacock tattoo on one arm and a row of earrings pierced all the way to the cartilage and shining summer brown-blonde hair. Stunning blue eyes and honey-gold skin.

  When she’d asked me to dance, I’d almost choked on my whiskey. She’d been ballsy, confident, possibly a bit drunk, and somehow endearing. Unconventionally beautiful, and young. Very very young.

  Now she stood in front of me dressed in rugged cargo shorts, a white tank top, professional work boots nothing like the high heels last night. She’d pulled her long hair through the back of a Keller Construction baseball cap . . . carrying a clipboard . . .

  “I’m not a stalker. I promise.” Taking off her sunglasses, she tucked them into the neck of her tank top.

  Keller Construction.

  She couldn’t be . . .

  “You’re Stevie Keller?” My hand slipped off the doorframe.

  “One and only.” She gave me a brilliant smile.

  “I was expecting a guy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You and everyone else.”

  “Well, you don’t exactly look like a Stevie. At least, not last night.” I gave her an appreciative glance before I could stop myself.

  Jesus. The woman even made Wolverine boots look hot.

  “I never was much of a Stefanie.” All business, she shoved a pencil behind her ear where the many piercings glistened.

  Stevie.

  We stood poised on two sides of the threshold just as we’d stood, poised to kiss on the dance floor last night.

  Drawing back, I rubbed a hand across my jaw. “Why don’t you have any photos of yourself on the Keller website?

  “Men don’t hire women who work in the building trade.” She shoved up the bill of her baseball cap, peering at me with striking blue eyes. “Ya know?”

  I knew. One of the reasons my draftsman w
as a draftswoman, Gwen.

  “I’m surprised you’re not hungover.” I made an awkward stab at acknowledging our previous meeting.

  “Me too.” Nonplussed, Stevie angled her head to see beyond me. “So can I come in?”

  This was going to turn out to be a very bad idea, but I hadn’t felt this alive—interested and invested—in two years.

  If I could get more of her on a daily basis, I’d demolish the damn house myself and hire her to rebuild it from scratch.

  I was going to have to keep a bottle of lotion and a box of tissues beside my bed from now on if last night’s session was anything to go by.

  Once inside, Stevie wasted no time sauntering from room to room then starting back at the beginning.

  Undeniable attraction caught me low in the groin—another unexpected hit—and I paid attention to every move Stevie made.

  She seemed very sure of herself, snapping out her tape measure and taking notes. Frowning then humming then nodding to herself.

  She framed views with her hands, almost like a photographer, and mostly ignored me except when she pinged questions in my direction.

  “Any wood rot?”

  “No.” I lounged just behind her, trying not to enjoy the view of her ass I wanted to frame in my hands.

  “Excellent. Foundations are good, right?” She looked back over her shoulder.

  And I shifted my gaze out the window instead of leering at her rear end. “Yes.”

  Standing, she wore a glimmer of a grin on her lips I’d almost kissed. Passing by me, she knocked on the wall right next to my chest. “Sound support beams too.”

  I cocked my head, slightly amused. “Built to last.”

  She hummed again. “I’ll bet.”

  Damn, she was flirting again. And just that small hum made me crave the taste of her mouth beneath mine.

  For the next half hour, Stevie impressed me with her knowledge of vital structures and the new possibilities I’d already planned.

  She unsettled me with the growing attraction dancing between us—tame for the moment, but just waiting to be fully unleashed.

  More than once, I’d had to clear the hoarseness from my voice, fold my hands over my lap, curl my fingers instead of reaching out.

  Then she started to piss me right off.

  “Great. So, I love the idea of knocking the family room right into the living room to open up the area, and I was thinking maybe why not go whole hog and expand the master bathroom too. It looks—I dunno—a little dated with that ugly old-fashioned double sink console. At least in the renderings I saw.” She halted, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against her plush pink bottom lip. “Your bedroom. If you’ll lead the way?”

  “After you.” I pointed her upstairs and followed the bossy little upstart with her rear bouncing in front of my face.

  Old-fashioned? Ugly?

  She swept inside my bedroom, and I felt a sizzling heat—a forgotten base need to fuck—with her in the room. Her gaze halted at the bed, the tablet next to it, the one dented pillow in the center, and then cruised to the tie rack on the open closet door.

  Folding the clipboard/iPad combo against her chest, Stevie glanced at me. “I think I got a little ahead of myself.”

  “It’s just a bedroom.”

  “It’s your bedroom.” Her voice came out no more than a whisper.

  “And all we shared was a dance.” That was a big fucking lie.

  Tugging down the bill of her baseball cap, she shaded her eyes, placed her iPad on my bed, and flipped a page on her clipboard. She started sizing up the room in relation to the bathroom, talking about plans I hadn’t drafted or even envisioned.

  My eyebrows ratcheted higher and higher.

  “I’ve seen this really cool corner window that would look amazing on a house like this! Two windows, actually, that meet at a right angle and slide back from both sides to basically open up the entire corner.” She looked outside to the creek. “Imagine the breeze on a beautiful fall day.”

  Stevie carried on some more, drifting a hand over my dresser. “I’m not sure the architect sees the full possibilities. This is such a great space and with just a few additional touches, not that I want to add to your budget—”

  “I’m the architect.”

  Her eyes flipped wide. “Oooh. My bad.” A tiny frown marred her forehead. “So don’t you have a go-to contractor?”

  “I do, but he’s the one who built this house when I designed it for my wife.” And the remodel was meant to be a way to move forward, start living again.

  “Your wife? Damn, I really shouldn’t have come on to you last night.” Stevie blushed, her eyes cast down.

  Roaming next to her, I turned a framed photograph in her direction. “Alice. She passed away two years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bishop. She was very pretty.”

  “She was,” I agreed quietly.

  Stevie looked closer at the next picture. “And is this your daughter?”

  I nodded. Cecilia in her field hockey gear grinned ferociously with the much-hated braces she needed for at least another six months.

  “Yeah. We don’t really look like we’re in the same age range.” Stevie hooked a thumb at the photo.

  “I may have exaggerated a bit. Cecilia’s fourteen.”

  “Field hockey’s pretty aggressive. She must have some serious balls.”

  I chuckled. “She’s no shy flower, that’s for sure.”

  “About last night—”

  “You don’t need to apologize.”

  Tucking her pencil back behind her ear, Stevie sauntered up to me. “Oh, I wasn’t gonna apologize, Kane.”

  I stood strong in front of her although every primal instinct compelled me to haul her to me, draw her closer, crash my lips to hers.

  She halted a mere step away, wearing a teasing grin. “I just want to let you know I’m not really a party girl.”

  I wanted to touch her so much I balled my fists. For the first time, Alice’s ghost wasn’t in the bedroom because Stevie took over every single impulse.

  But she was young. Too young.

  I was skeptical. And old. Too old.

  “You do know you’re already hired, right?” I held out my hand.

  She took it in a firm shake.

  I wanted to pin her against the wall, push my body against hers, get her naked, and wrap her hair in my fist so I could guide her mouth up and down my cock.

  Dirty things I’d never done to Alice, never even considered with her.

  Sliding her palm from mine, Stevie wandered into the hallway while I rubbed a hand down my face.

  “And I’ll never try to pick you up again,” she called back.

  We’ll see about that.

  I joined her on the first floor, holding the door open.

  “Can’t wait to get started.” Stevie hopped down the steps then sent a negligent wave in my direction. “I’m gonna remodel the shit outta this house.”

  ****

  “It’s her.” I entered my office building, stalked past Gwen, backtracked to her drafting table, and rapped my knuckles right next to her latest architectural model.

  Gwen finished dotting wood glue on a tiny sliver of balsa wood she carefully arched into a graceful curve.

  She pushed back her ergonomic chair, spun toward me, and hit the brakes. “No idea what you’re talking about. Start at the beginning and speak slowly because the pregnancy is sucking away all my brain cells.”

  “The girl from last night.” I leaned against the window ledge across from her. “She’s the new contractor.”

  “Woo hoo! I couldn’t have planned this better myself.” Gwen began texting on her phone, muttering, “So winning this bet with Jason.”

  “What bet?”

  “That naughty hottie with the peacock tat. You want some of that. And Lord, she’s a contractor? Holy shit, Kane. Match made in architectural heaven much?” Rubbing her belly like it was a genie’s magic bottle, Gwen leaned forward,
blowing gentle breaths across the balsa wood curve.

  My eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a friend.”

  “I’m your employee. And your friend. And it’s about damn time someone shook you up, Mr. Morose.”

  “Stevie’s changing my plans, dammit!”

  “It’s your house. You have the last say. Isn’t that what you always tell your clients.”

  Before I could utter a word, Gwen held up a finger, adding, “Except for the Bancrofts.”

  “Bankrupts,” I grumbled. “I don’t want her touching Alice’s things.”

  “What’s really stuck in your craw, Kane?”

  “Stuck in my craw?”

  “Well? Isn’t that how you old fogies talk?”

  “I’m not that old.” Glaring, I folded my arms across my chest.

  “Like I keep trying to tell you.”

  “I’m only thirty-nine. And I was twenty-two when I married Alice. One day . . . one day after meeting Stevie, and I . . .” I drew my knuckles along my jaw. “I shouldn’t want her. I shouldn’t want anyone else.”

  Unusual tears dampened Gwen’s eyes, and she reached over to touch my arm. “You’re not dead.”

  “Alice is.”

  “So you’re going to suffer forever?”

  “I don’t know that I deserve more. I’m scared of forgetting her.” Pulling in a deep breath, I drew up. I inspected Gwen’s model at close range, noting certain suspicious similarities. “Is that my house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Changed.”

  “Stevie Keller had some ideas. I for one think they’re pretty damn good.”

  “You have her on speed dial now?”

  “It’s called a contacts’ list, boss. And I didn’t know the Stevie Keller was the girl from the bar until you told me.”

  Straightening my cuffs, I headed to my office. “She’s right about the updates. And don’t ever tell her I said that.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stevie

  “NO WAY!” CARMEN SHOUTED so loudly over the phone I held it a foot away from my ear.

  “Yes way.”

  “Kane Bishop?” She screeched some more. “Silver Fox from the bar?”