Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance by Hazel Parker (sad books to read txt) 📕

“I guess,” she concedes. “Are you glowing? I think you may be glowing.”

“You flatter me. I think it’s just perspiration. It’s really warm in here.”

She jumps up and twiddles the thermostat.

“You need anything else?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“All right,” she says, disappointed and sitting back down again. She waits for a few beats, then asks, almost casually, “So, have you been talking with Trent? With any regularity, I mean?”

“Every day.”

It’s true. He calls me every evening, and sometimes in the mornings as well. So far, he’s refrained from calling during the day, as he says he knows what a blender of activity I’m undoubtedly caught up in. He does text me, though, also regularly.

“And he’s still being closed-mouthed about what he’s doing right now?”

I shrug. “He won’t budge on that topic. Says it’s a secret.”

“A billionaire’s secret,” Tira muses. “That is a rare gem indeed.” She thinks a moment, then her face lights up. “Maybe he’s having a house built for you!”

“Why would he do that? It’s my business that went up in smoke, not my apartment.”

She pouts some more. “Sometimes you are no fun at all, Steph. Would it kill you to join me in a little flight of fancy every now and then?”

“Okay, okay…maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s having a three-story mansion hand-carved for me out of some expensive European wood.”

“Now you’re just trying to annoy me,” Tira says, but she’s smiling good-naturedly. “You really have no idea what he’s up to, do you?”

“Not the foggiest,” I tell her.

“Well, whatever it is,” she says, “I have no doubt about one thing.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“That it’ll be romantic.” She returns her attention to the little outfits. “Now, which do you prefer, the dress or the suit?”

A week into construction and things are proceeding at a breakneck speed. It’s almost like a sped-up time-lapse film, watching the floor regenerate and the walls being reframed. The crew of workers on the job is enormous, easily two dozen of them all hammering and sawing away.

It’s so crowded that I feel very conscious that I’m in the way. After a couple of days, I stop going into the place, partly so that I’m not a further obstruction, and partly because I don’t want to be accidentally walled up by a hasty carpenter.

I communicate with the job’s foreman daily through multiple texts. He’s exceedingly patient with me, even going so far as to send me photos to keep me updated on how things are rolling along.

The photos are a sweet thought, but I have to lay eyes on the place for myself at least once a day. As a compromise with Kevin, the foreman, I only come in after five, after everyone has packed up and gone home for the day.

One early evening, I make my way down to the restaurant site and catch Kevin just as he is getting into his truck to leave.

“Hi, Kevin,” I greet him. “It’s me again.”

“Hi, Ms. White,” he replies, not at all irritated by my presence, for which I’m glad. “Come down to take a peek at progress?”

“If that’s okay.”

He waves a hand expansively. “Hey, it’s your building. You can come whenever you want, look as long as you like, far as I’m concerned.”

“Thanks, Kevin. Your crew all gone?”

He gets a funny look, but he chuckles just the same. “All except the night crew,” he comments.

“Night crew?” I ask, confused. I didn’t think you had any guys who were willing to work nights.”

He chuckles again. “It’s a small crew. One guy. He comes in every day at the end of the day, and I do mean every day, even Saturdays and Sundays. Stays on after all the other guys have gone home. Works until one, two, three o’clock in the morning.”

“Is he here now?” I want to know.

“Sure. He’s in the back. You want me to go in with you?”

“No, that’s okay, Kevin; I know you’re ready to get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep,” he says, waving out his window at me. “Tomorrow.”

The floor has finished being replaced, so I’m able to walk along with no trouble.

In the kitchen area, there’s a lone figure hammering a wall stud into place. Even from a distance, I can recognize him.

“Hi,” I say to Trent.

He jumps a little, then straightens, dropping his hammer into the loop of his tool belt.

“Hi,” he says back.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, stopping a few feet away from him.

He touches his hammer. “Uh, nailing, mostly. Although I do some sawing from time to time.”

“Really?”

He holds up his hands, palms out. “Got the splinters to prove it.”

“Is this what you had to do before you could see me again?” I say.

He shakes his head. “Had to learn my way around the tools first. I took what I guess you’d call a crash course. Did some work for Habitat for Humanity for about a week, earning my wings, and then I came here. Kevin’s a friend of a friend of a friend. He agreed to take me on.” He pauses. “I didn’t buy my way onto the site, Steph. Don’t think that. Kevin’s the boss here. If he doesn’t like what I’m doing, he makes me tear it out and do it over again.”

“Have you—” I’m having a hard time speaking around the lump that’s formed in my throat. “Have you had to do that very often?”

Trent grins a little. “The first couple of days, I tore down more than I built, but I’ve been getting better.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been doing this and I had no idea,” I say, incredulous.

“That’s the reason I work nights,” he replies. “Well, that and so