Broken Ground: (Broken Series Book 1) (6 page)

Brant calmly placed the fruit in his mouth and bit down, making a disgusting slurping sound before flipping Spencer the bird.

I cleared my throat and waited for their attention. "We came here to celebrate, boys. I say it's time we get to it." I raised my glass, the ice orb clicking against the side. "To another job well done." They raised their glasses in salute and we took a deep drink to commemorate the occasion.

Spencer added, "To the next job. Well, jobs. May they go just as smoothly as the last."

The pleasant burn of my aged bourbon was somehow tempered by the thought of the upcoming project. Oh, the build would go great despite my intense desire to avoid it. Our work was never anything short of spectacular. That wasn't my vanity talking. It was a fact.

This time, though, no matter the budget, the cost would be a lot higher.

Maybe higher than even I could have predicted.

SUNDAY MORNING FOUND
me and Ali out picking berries before the dew had even evaporated, tasting a few along the way and chatting agreeably. There was no awkwardness, no wary distance. We just fell into step with one another like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was disturbingly exhilarating.

It took three trips to get all the berries in the truck. We settled into a companionable silence as we carried the last batch toward the parking area, each enjoying the morning sun before the heat settled in and made the day miserably hot. As we stood at the rear doors and loaded the berries in the back seat of my rig, Ali reached down and plucked up a handful. Occupied as I was with strapping the flats of fruit in on my side, I was startled when an enormous, blood-red berry was suddenly right in my face, held there by small, delicate fingers. I glanced up at Ali. She grinned at me playfully and held it up for me to taste, almost daring me to eat from her hand.

Challenge accepted.

Not taking my eyes off hers, I wrapped my lips around the plump flesh, slowly biting down and savoring every sun-warmed drop of juice. Her hand shook almost imperceptibly, and I watched with satisfaction as a shudder rippled over her. Still not breaking eye contact, I retrieved a berry from the flat in front of me, holding it to her lips. When she started to drop the hand that she had used to feed me, I took it in my free hand and repositioned it so that I could capture the last bit of fruit.

Watching her intently, I nibbled and sucked the last of the strawberry she'd offered, patiently waiting for her to take a bite. I allowed her hand to drop from my lips but held her wrist in my grip, not wanting her to take it back just yet. She watched me, transfixed for a moment before slowly parting her lips and placing them around my offering. Moving slowly, obviously enjoying both the berry and the moment, she sank her teeth in, her lips nearly brushing the tips of my fingers. The soft sucking sound she made as she captured the juice that threatened to spill over her lips nearly broke my resolve.

Fuck. I wanted to be the one licking that sweet juice from her lips.

I was so close to acting on it that my tongue made an involuntary pass across my lower lip, mirroring her movements and making her eyes widen as she watched me. I could practically taste the sweetness of her lips, the warmth of her skin. What had started out as a playful gesture had turned into a wildly erotic moment, one that I knew held the power to break me, as did she.

My internal struggle raged on. Every cell in my body screamed for me to take this woman, the throbbing erection that strained against my jeans leading the damn charge. My pulse buzzed in my ears as my grip on her wrist tightened fractionally, preparing to pull her in and claim her mouth. I'd half convinced myself that one taste was all I needed, just one fleeting trespass over the line before retreating to a safe distance.

Yeah, right. She eats a goddamn strawberry in front of you and you're ready to jump her right on the spot. You're a pinnacle of self-control. So, what happens when you see her with a banana, fucknut?

It was with the sheer force of will that I managed to release my hold on her. As my fingers released her and skimmed over the skin of her wrist, I saw a flicker of disappointment in her expression followed quickly by a look of relief. She dropped her eyes and the air around me cooled, as if her gaze had been a blanket that was suddenly ripped away, leaving me cold and exposed.

We drove to the diner in relative silence

WHEN WE DROPPED
the berries off at the diner, Ali insisted on treating me to breakfast as payment for my assistance.

As we walked into the diner and out of the heat, I noted the sign on the door that boasted the best fresh strawberry pie in Virginia. Glancing around, I was surprised by the interior. Either someone had paid out the ass for a beautiful retro makeover or this place was the genuine article. The real soda fountain, Wurlitzer jukebox playing softly in the far corner, leather booths, and chromed counter-stools could have been done by most designers and made to look appropriate. There was something about the feel of this place, though.

The lighting, the obviously one-of-a-kind pieces, they made me think it was the real deal. It had a feeling of history, so overwhelming that it was hard to look away, as if ghosts of patrons past were welcoming you to their favorite hangout.

The mouth-watering smells from the kitchen elicited an immediate response from my stomach. The smoky scents coming from the grill mingled together in the air in such a way that after one whiff, I was instantly ravenous.

Ali let me scope the place out for a bit before indicating a table at the back. We took our seats amid the sounds of forks clattering and coffee spoons clicking against ceramic cups.

Our waitress came by and brought us coffee, leaving menus strictly for my benefit since Ali basically helped manage the place. I told the kindly older woman — whose name was Fay according to her nametag — to take her time getting back to us, since I had no idea what I wanted.

Well, I knew but what I had in mind was most definitely not on the menu.

After a few minutes, the silence between us was beginning to get uncomfortable. Deciding to break the ice a bit, I turned to Ali. "I noticed the size of your book collection earlier. That bookshelf is packed. Did you bring them all here from D.C.?"

Ali and Talia's Denson domicile was a small apartment over a dry cleaning business that looked to have been closed down for quite some time. When I'd picked her up that morning, I'd briefly stepped into the apartment and noticed that the only personal touches — at least in the area I'd seen — were several canvases stacked against one wall and a huge collection of books. They were stacked tightly on a book shelf, on the coffee table, everywhere. I'd known instantly whose they were.

She visibly relaxed for the first time since what happened at the strawberry farm. "No, I didn't bring any of them from home. I've collected them all these last few weeks." She smiled softly as she spoke, a far-away look in her eye, her body there with me in the diner, but her mind wandering in some distant place. "There's a used book store two streets over from the office. I stumbled across it a few days after I came to town. Mismatched shelves from floor to ceiling and the smell of dusty old pages, it's my favorite place to spend time when Talia is in D.C.. I sneak over there during my lunch hour and dig through the stacks sometimes. There's a sitting area in the back where I'll sit and read while I nibble on a sandwich. I eat lunch at the diner when Talia is here but the noise in there keeps me from enjoying a book, too much distraction. While she's away, I have lunch with the books."

"Why not just bring them back to the office to read? It's pretty quiet there most of the time, right?"

She hesitated, her brow pinching in thought. "For some reason the quiet in that bookstore is different from the quiet everywhere else. Most of the time silence is the absence of something and it feels lonely. But in there, the silence seems to be caused by the presence of something, something extra that only exists in that room. Like all those books are a barrier to the noise, even the noise in your own head, holding the world at bay so you can enjoy their stories in peace."

I'd never been one to read for pleasure, never found the joy in it that so many people did, but hearing her talk about it and how it felt in that store made me wonder. Lately, I needed a little help with the noise in my head. Maybe it was worth looking into.

She studied me for a moment with a curious expression, absently fiddling with her locket. "Enough about my bookish tendencies. What do you do for fun? Any hobbies?"

Since I was trying to avoid any more sexually charged moments, talking about my
favorite
hobby was out of the question. "I'm not sure I'd call it a hobby, exactly, but I do spend a lot of time working on custom design elements using salvaged materials. Furnishings, structural pieces, decorative pieces, whatever my mind will churn out." I shrugged. "Primarily, CBD builds houses. Some of our projects have been featured on
MTV Cribs
and some would have looked great in
Gone with the Wind
, just depends on what the client is looking for. I like designing the homes from the ground up, alternating ideas with Brant and trying to one-up each other with our creativity, but I still spend most of my non-working hours in my workshop making pieces that incorporate salvaged materials. No blueprints, no straight lines, just a sketch pad and a few tools."

Ali's soft smile returned as she asked, "So, is the work you do outside of the company's projects totally separate or do you build things to go in the houses, too?"

"Some of our clients request personalized pieces but I do the majority of the designs with no particular buyer in mind." I scrolled through photos on my phone, handing it to her and motioning for her to scroll through the album. "That first pic is a massive chandelier that went in one of the houses. I used old copper pipe and stained glass the client salvaged from his grandfather's estate. Several of the items in that album were sold at auction, pieces made out of old car parts and reclaimed wood. You'd be surprised at the amount of interest they get."

Ali took her time inspecting the photos, her soft smile radiant when she handed back the phone. "As excited as I am to find out you're an artist too, I'm kind of intimidated now. Those pieces are phenomenal."

I waved her off. "Don't even try it. I saw the paintings in your living room this morning. You're a pretty kick-ass artist yourself. I didn't mean to snoop but I couldn't look away, they were so beautiful."

A blush crept up her neck, slow like a heated caress. She cleared her throat and muttered her thanks, embarrassed by the praise. Instead of talking about her art, she turned the conversation back to me. "So, I guess being out here means you won't be getting much artwork done, huh?"

"I'll probably tinker a bit on my days off. Nothing major. I should probably take the time off to recharge anyway. There's a chance I'll need to be at full creative capacity in a few months."

She perked up at the insinuation, leaning forward in anticipation. "For what? A work thing or an art thing?"

I couldn't help smiling at her enthusiasm. "It's definitely an art thing. Recently, I was offered a contract to build several dozen pieces for a large theme park. They're devoting a whole section to the park to a set of rides built around a post-apocalyptic rise-of-the-machines kind of thing, and they want me to build decorative elements. Mostly sculptures, figures made of twisted metal that look like they are coming to life and scaling the buildings or, in some cases, they might be the buildings themselves come to life. They're already gathering supplies, but I'm still debating whether or not to accept the contract."

She looked impressed. "Do you use salvaged materials as a 'green' statement?"

Our server stopped by to take our orders before scurrying off to the kitchen. I wasn't even sure what I'd asked for, my focus was solely on my companion.

I picked absently at the pink packets of artificial sweetener from the small tray on the table. "No, nothing as politically correct as that." Pausing, I considered how to best explain it. "I like using materials — whether it's an old wooden chair or a rusted out car — that no one would think of as valuable. I like taking something weathered or broken and turning it into something of worth. I've been doing it in one form or another since I was a kid, long before the perilous state of the environment was ever realized."