Her job.
The office was quiet, with only a few lights flickering, but the scent of brewed coffee drifted in the air. She sucked in a breath like a druggie smelling weed, quickly heading to her office to drop her stuff before darting toward the kitchen in a hunt for sanity.
Or at least some clarity.
The kitchen was high-tech, from the stainless steel refrigerator to the cappuccino maker, soda machine, and various vending booths. She grabbed her fave Muppets mug and filled it up, already mentally clicking her way through the day’s activities. Brady needed to deliver the final architectural plans for the house on Tree Lane, and Dalton needed to get her invoices on the deck project so she could calculate the final-quarter profits. Numbers flashed in her mind in a precise, neat little row, and she muttered under her breath, wondering if they’d break last year’s profit margin, which would prove they were finally back on top. If only—
“I brought in some blueberry muffins.”
She jerked at the deep, cultured voice spilling into her thoughts. Coffee splashed over the edge of her mug onto her apple-green business suit. Cursing, she swiveled her head, her gaze crashing into whiskey-colored eyes that were as familiar as her own beating heart. Familiar yet deadly, to both her past and present. Why did he have to be the one who was here early?
Anyone else would’ve brought a smile and cheerful “good morning.” But Tristan Pierce didn’t talk to her. Not really. Oh, he lectured, and demanded, and judged, but he refused to actually have a conversation with her. Not that she cared. It was better for both of them to keep their distance.
“You scared me,” she accused. “Why don’t you ever make any noise when you walk into a room?”
Those carved lips twitched with the need to smile. Unfortunately, her presence rarely allowed the man to connect with any of his softer emotions, so he kept his expression grim. They’d been dancing around each other for over a year now and still struggled with discomfort when they were together. Well, he experienced discomfort in the form of awkwardness.
She experienced discomfort in the form of sexual torture.
“I’ll work on it. Need help?”
“I got it.” Her body wept at the thought of him touching her, even for a moment. Down, girl. She grabbed a napkin and ran it under water, then dabbed at her suit jacket. “Why are you here so early?”
“Working on a real estate flip. Can’t seem to figure out if I should tear down the porch and turn it into a ranch, or fix it to keep it as a colonial. Been going over the plans but I may need to talk to Brady.”
She swiped at the stain with the expertise of a mom used to last-minute disasters. “What’s the address?”
“Rose Lane. Right outside of Harrington.”
Her memory brought up the city street and its residents. Lots of rentals. Old architecture. It was a street once known for drug problems, but was slowly being rejuvenated by renovated houses and young families moving in.
“Take down the porch. A ranch fits better with the new population they’re trying to attract. They’ll want to keep their kids off the front of the property since it faces a main road. Build them a nice deck instead so they can hang out as a family in the back.”
His face flickered with grudging admiration, which quickly vanished. Tristan didn’t believe in complimenting her. Most of the time he barely tolerated her presence, and his only nice actions revolved around one strong emotion.
Guilt.
“I’ll check into it.”