Big Hammer: A Second Chance Romance ((House of Stars- Book 2)) Page 5

  “I think it is. Well, maybe fun isn’t the right word. It’s interesting.” Taylor scrolls a little more. “Isabel asked me to look over these spreadsheets for the club and copy them over to a new Excel document. It’s a lot harder than just copy-paste. Formatting is a bi—well, formatting is complicated.”

  I begin eating to resist the urge to just stare constantly at Taylor. “So, are you from Vegas? Got family around here?”

  Taylor hesitates for a moment. “No family, just my roommate Gemma. What about you?”

  She seems a lot more interested in my answer to the question than her own. “None, except for Rick. He’s my cousin.” Now that the matter has been turned back on me, I can feel the tension centered around the topic. Maybe the family isn’t a good subject to bring up, and I also notice that she didn’t answer my first question.

  “Well, we’re adults, right? We’ve gotta live our lives.”

  Those words are more real for me than she realizes, but I decide to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “So, what are you planning to do with accounting? Do you have a particular job in mind?”

  “For now, I owe Cullen for—just about everything, I guess. I’m not really an accountant yet. Cullen only hired me for this job under the condition that I finish getting my online degree.”

  I look up from my wrap, surprised. “You’re working a full-time job and getting a degree?”

  “Sure.” She doesn’t sound impressed with herself. “It’s better than working nights like I was. I owe Cullen a lot.”

  “We both do,” I agree. Cullen didn’t have to offer me this job. He’d only done it because I was Rick’s cousin and Rick had recommended me. There are many more well-known, better-reviewed electrical contractors than me in Vegas.

  And the only way I’m ever going to compare to those contractors is if I can fix this problem with the screens. I wolf down the rest of my wrap and stand up. “Well, I’ll see you around, Taylor. You’re working, and I should be too.” The stress and unsurety of the day have returned, but I still manage to give her a full smile.

  “I hope you figure it out. Really,” she added, turning away from the laptop to give me her full attention and fill the words with earnestness.

  I thank her, return what’s left of the water bottle to the fridge, and head back to work. The conversation and lunch break revitalized me, and I throw myself back into my investigation with a vengeance.

  If Taylor can work a full-time job and get an online degree, I can definitely figure out this little problem. My determination persists for a few hours before it begins, slowly but surely, to dwindle into frustration. “Two screens. Two screens don’t work. It has to be electrical.”

  But the problem isn’t electrical, at least, not as far as I can ascertain. I have more checks to make, but I’m losing hope that I’ll be able to find the issue.

  “Any luck?” Rick’s voice calls out.

  I shove my multimeter back into my belt and turn around, shaking my head. “I’ve checked most of the obvious solutions and some of the less likely ones, and none of them worked. I’m about to call the original contractors and see if I can get someone in here tomorrow.”

  “Got it. Let me know how it goes.” Rick walks away, looking grave.

  Luckily, when I place a call to the original contractors on the way home, a polite, feminine voice picks up and informs me that someone from the original crew will come to House of Stars around 4:00 PM. That time, of course, is near the end of the day, which means I’ll have to spend most of tomorrow struggling fruitlessly when a simple chat might clear it up later in the day.

  As I pull into the parking garage of my apartment building, I realize that I have one more regret. I didn’t get to see Taylor’s beautiful face on the way out of House of Stars.

  I don’t see her the next morning when I walk in, either, and I quickly realize that I was right last night. A new workday doesn’t dawn with any new insights on the stubborn screen room with its two unoperational screens, and I growl with frustration more than once in my efforts. All I can hope is that the other contractor can clear this up later.

  When the man shows up promptly at four, he shakes my hand with a big, cheerful smile that makes me grit my teeth. “Gulshan,” he introduces himself, his accent as distinctly Indian as his features. “This place is coming along nicely,” he comments, glancing around the club.

  “Except the screen room,” I agree, trying to keep my voice polite.

  “Two screens stopped working, three still work,” he mused. “Let’s take a look, and I’ll walk you through the installation.”

  I know—I really do—that he means the installation job his company did. But, all I can hear is a tone in his voice, imaginary or not, that’s smug about walking me through the installation process in general, like I would never know how to do that.

  “Sure,” I say instead, leading the way so he won’t see my sour expression.

  Gulshan’s insight into the original job and our combined electrical knowledge come up short for almost two hours, then—

  “Wait,” I say slowly, tracing a line on a plan Gulshan is showing me. “If we’ve already checked these here, then what if….”

  Gulshan sees what I’m seeing, and in his typical, excited manner leads the way to test our—my—theory.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gulshan says jovially after the two screens finally flare to life, lit with the same picture of a peaceful forest as the other three. “Good thinking there. Don’t know if I would have caught that myself.”

  The man’s admission and the sheer relief of success make me immediately regret the coarse attitude I adopted with him earlier. “Thank you,” I say, and this time the words are genuine as I hold out my hand.

  “No problem.” We shake, and Gulshan gathers his tools and leaves the room.

  I still have some small things to do to finish up for the day, but I put myself to work with a good will this time. Glancing at my watch as I return my tools to my belt, I realize that it’s late enough that most of the staff has probably headed out by now.

  As I exit the room and make my way past the bar toward the parking garage doors, I stop short when I see that Taylor is still here, talking to one of the owners and the senior accountant, Isabel.

  My success with the screens has left me elated and relieved, but I still feel the stress of the importance of this job tugging at the back of my mind. Watching Taylor absorbed in conversation, all I want to do is talk to her too, listen to her wry comments and sarcastic remarks, and feel the delight of her very presence drain away today’s complications.

  By the time she finishes her conversation, I’ve managed to talk myself into what I intend to do next. After all, I just want to talk to her. She’s a fascinating woman, and I have some excess energy because I haven’t had time to visit the gym in a few days. A simple request could hurt neither her nor me, so I’m going to ask—

  “Taylor,” I call, jogging a few steps after her as she begins to tap away. She turns questioningly. “Would you like to go out for drinks? I got those screens fixed, so I’m in a celebratory mood,” I explain, not wanting her to read too far into this and ask questions I might not know how to answer, even for myself.

  “Oh, I—” Taylor bites her lip in a gesture of hesitancy that makes me reevaluate giving in to this much temptation.

  I harden my resolve. “I’m buying,” I add to the offer.

  “Sure,” she decides with a shy smile. “As long as you’re driving too.” I nod, thrilled that she accepted. “Then let me just text Gemma and tell her I don’t need a ride.”

  I’ve never seen or even imagined ‘shy’ on this girl’s face. It’s adorable.

  Drinks, I remind myself. Just drinks. What’s the harm in a simple chat over drinks?

  Chapter Seven: Taylor

  I follow Brandon out of House of Stars. I get in his truck. I make polite conversation on the way the bar. But the entire time, I’m on autopilot because there’s
a big question I’m trying to answer.

  Is this a date?

  I smile at something he says. By the tone of his voice, I can tell it’s a statement, so I’m not too concerned that I’m too busy watching the chiseled perfection that is his jaw to hear what he’s saying. I have to be reading way too much into this. Brandon worked late. I worked late, Brandon saw me and asked if a coworker wanted to have drinks, I said yes. Simple as that.

  Except it isn’t as simple as that. I’ve caught Brandon’s stares, felt his eyes lingering for longer than they should. Gemma said I should give Brandon a chance, and I decided to do what she suggested—put on my sexiest business outfits and try to get to know new Brandon better.

  I don’t know if I’m even trying to seduce him, really—more like… get his attention. Either way, I can’t tell if what I’m doing is working. Sometimes I’m positive Brandon is into me, and other times I don’t know because he doesn’t make moves I expect.

  It’s confusing, but I’ll take any chance Brandon would give me to listen to his deep, strong voice, meet his beautiful blue-gray eyes, and watch his muscles flex as he did extremely simple things like pick up a water bottle or move a chair.

  After all, I haven’t yet decided if I even truly want Brandon to be into me. The lie makes me fiddle with the seat belt. I do want Brandon to like me and want me. I want that more than most things; that scares me. I have a job and classes to think about. Two words float around in my brain: ‘want’ and ‘need.’ What I need eclipses what I want, and I don’t know if I can have both.

  We arrive at the bar, walk beneath the small sign that reads ‘Spinner’s Bar,’ and head inside—sort of. I think I left my heart outside when Brandon held the door open for me, the brightly lit sign outside illuminating his smile.

  I’ve been in a few bars, and this one isn’t particularly more or less impressive than any others I’ve seen. The lights don’t do much to illuminate the place, but the dimness matches the dark wood tables and chairs scattered about the place. The smell of alcohol permeates everything, but I doubt anyone here notices— they’re all contributing to it. Tall stools creep around the length of the bar, and the mix of people occupying them is fascinating— morose, silent, drown-your-sorrows types, rowdy, raucous merrymakers, men and women absorbed in quiet conversation with their lovers. As far as I can see, this bar has something to offer for everyone from the casual drinker to the firm regular.

  I wonder what kind of bargoer Brandon is.

  We take two free seats at the bar. I feel a little overdressed. I left my formal jacket in the truck and changed from stilettos to some more comfortable, dressy flats, but most of the women in this bar went for cute or sexy, not dressy. We aren’t here for the same reasons, though. Those girls wear what they wear to impress. I’m here because I was asked and I feel like doing a little unwinding after the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days.

  “So, what do you drink?” Brandon asks, waving a bartender over.

  “Wine, mostly,” I muse, trying not to seem as out of my element as I am. “I don’t go to bars much,” I admit, deciding honesty is better than embarrassment. “Hard to enjoy evenings when you’re working a night gig like I was before House of Stars.” My eyes run over the list of cocktails mixes, and in-house beers. “Maybe a margarita?” Can’t hurt to try something new.

  “Margarita is a good choice.” I assume Brandon orders me one of those along with whatever he’s ordering himself, but I can’t hear the words that pass between him and the bartender because a table behind us just burst into hearty laughter.

  “Do you come here often?” I ask after Brandon turns back to me.

  “Once a week, maybe two weeks. I like this bar, and I guess you could say I’m a regular here, but not… a regular regular.”

  I hide my relief. I’ve been friends with and dated regulars at bars, and they seemed to throw all the money they make immediately down a bar’s filthy drains. “It’s not a bad place,” I say, glancing around with almost a bit of fondness, now that I know Brandon isn’t like that man a distance away sitting at a four-person table, chugging beer by the tankard, and singing softly to himself.

  “It’s not quiet, but it’s not sleazy, either,” he agrees.

  “No one goes to a bar for quiet.” The bartender pushes a cocktail glass toward me, and I take it, gingerly raising it to my lips and giving it a sniff. It smells like tequila and lime, which is probably exactly what it is.

  I take a sip. The sour lime and salty rim hit my tongue first, then the tequila ignites it all into a delicious cold burn on my tongue, then in the back of my throat as I swallow.

  Brandon is watching me, waiting for a reaction. “It’s good.” I swirl the glass lightly. “Really good.”

  “Like I said, a good choice.” He takes a sip of his own drink.

  “So, electrical contractor.” Time to learn more about Brandon. “Did you go to a college or a trade school after high school?” I listen with bated breath. There’s a reason I added ‘after high school.’

  “Not right after high school, but a few years ago, I did. I had a choice between a college and a trade school, and I picked the trade school.”

  “Not right after high school?” I do my best to look curious and confused. “Did you have a different major in mind then?”

  “Not a major. I wanted to join the Navy.” Brandon twists his glass in his hands, contemplating the liquid inside.

  He’s apparently not entirely comfortable with this subject, but I decide to press a little harder. “Did you end up not enlisting?”

  He leans his elbows on the bar with a sigh. “I did enlist, but it was one of those things… well, I guess where everyone—family, friends—” He takes a sip of his drink. “—girlfriends—expect something from you, and you can’t keep up with their expectations.”

  Then, Brandon had never even wanted to join the Navy? I know that Anaja’s father was some big-wig general or something in the Navy and that he, his daughter, and Brandon’s family had all expected him to enlist, but any time I heard him talking about the Navy SEALs in high school, he had sounded and looked genuinely excited.

  More of Brandon’s past remains hidden behind his stormy eyes, but the sad, reminiscent expression on his face as he stares into his drink completely melts my heart. “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I take a sip of my drink while he watches me questioningly. “You told me you have no family here except for Rick. You’ve left those expectations back in—” I stop myself from blurting the name of the high school just in time. “Back in the past.”

  “I suppose.” He doesn’t sound so sure. “So, how about you? What are your plans for life?” Brandon’s eyes fall to my empty glass, and he signals the bartender for another.

  “Well, since you asked,” I start, my determination flaring once more at the chance to share it, “I want to support myself. Make those hours of staring at bills and putting my math skills to work on making ends meet a thing of the past, you know?”

  “Do you want to live alone?” Brandon regards me curiously.

  “Like have my own apartment?” My hand freezes on the stem of the new glass. I’ve never even contemplated the idea of making enough money to live alone. Has Gemma? “I don’t know.” I stifle the immediate ‘no’ that wants to escape my lips. “I guess I’m just so used to having a roomie that it would be weird to live alone now.” That no, had it formed, would have been so emphatic. Why am I so averse to the idea?

  “It took me a while to get used to living alone.” The stuck-in-the-past look grips Brandon’s features again.

  My reply is interrupted by a ringtone. Brandon pulls a phone out of his pocket and glances at the caller ID. “It’s Rick. Give me like five minutes?” His eyes plead for me to forgive the interruption.

  Throughout this whole conversation, I’ve managed to forget that Brandon is the hottest guy ever to walk the planet and that a single look from him can knock me off a stool at a bar a hundred times over. �
��S-sure,” I stutter. Damn men with the puppy-dog face down pat.

  He grins and jogs to the door of the bar, probably seeking some quiet. I take a sip of my second drink. I’ve nearly finished it, and I barely even noticed I was drinking at all. Maybe this is the real reason people drink—to hide the real cause of blushing and stuttering.

  Someone sits down next to me. I glance over, far enough to look down the bar but not far enough to look at the man’s face. There are so many empty seats, some in groups of three or more between those already sitting on stools. This guy could have so easily sat in a chair that isn’t next to anyone.

  “Looks like you could use another drink,” the man comments, his voice a tiny bit too loud for his close proximity to me. “Let me—”

  “No,” I shoot him down immediately, not in the mood to be polite. “I’m here with someone.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that,” the man complains. I shrink away as he tries to touch my shoulder. “Let me get you another one. You haven’t had enough to drink yet! C’mon, this is Vegas.” He draws out the word for an obnoxiously long time.

  “And you’ve had too much.” Two strong hands grab the man by the back of the shirt, drag him off the stool, and shove him away. “Flirt with someone else,” Brandon growls.

  For a second, I can see the danger in his eyes—why isn’t he a Navy SEAL?—then it’s gone, replaced by concern as the man shrugs and leaves. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, but I think I should go. It’s getting late, and we do have work tomorrow,” I point out, the volume of the bar and the people in it suddenly grating and coarse. They mask the sounds Brandon makes and the things he does. I don’t want to have to deal with these other distractions when who I really want to be distracted by is Brandon.

  “You’re probably right.” Brandon pays the tab, once again holds the door open for me, and leads the way back to his truck. “I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?”