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No. No. No! There would be no lying in bed with Sawyer. It was bad enough they had to share the same work space for the next four weeks. She didn’t want to be anywhere near a bed when Sawyer was around.
Okay, so that was a lie, but she was prepared to tell herself whatever was necessary to get through these next four weeks with her sanity intact.
Four weeks! Good God, how would she survive being confined to a tiny conference room with that man for an entire month?
She clutched her stomach with one hand in an attempt to combat the anxiety rioting through her belly. She’d faced some tough challenges in her thirty-seven years, but Paxton had a feeling this would be one of the toughest yet.
* * *
“Fine, you win.”
Sawyer Robertson tossed the package of fancy adhesive strips on the table and looked around for some good old-fashioned Scotch tape. Detesting the thought of admitting defeat, he quickly picked up the adhesive strips again, his fingers aching from the strain of twisting the heavy cardboard and plastic back and forth.
He dropped his head back and sighed. “Scissors, you idiot.”
Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he walked out of the Gauthier Law Firm’s small conference room and over to office manager Carmen Mitchell’s desk.
“Hey, Carmen, can I borrow a pair of scissors?” Sawyer asked. “I swear they don’t want you to get into this thing.”
“Give me that,” Carmen said. She plucked the package from his hands, poked a hole in the cardboard with a letter opener and sliced it open, then handed it to him.
She snorted, shaking her head. “And to think you were considered one of the smart ones.”
Sawyer couldn’t help but laugh. He’d attended Gauthier High School with the law practice’s longtime secretary. Nice to see she was as smart-mouthed as ever.
“Trust me. Advanced calculus is ten times easier than opening this package,” Sawyer said.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Carmen waved him off. She motioned to the small table in the corner that held a coffeepot. “There’s fresh coffee over there, but it’s decaf.”
“In other words, there’s fresh brown water over there.”
“You sound like Matt,” she said. “And just like I tell him, you can buy one of those nice single-serve coffee machines with the individual coffee pods, or you drink what I make.”
“Or I can just walk across the street to the Jazzy Bean for my caffeine fix,” Sawyer said.
“That, too. But I still want the fancy coffeemaker.” She looked up from her computer and nodded in the direction of the conference room. “You need any help setting up in there?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it from here.” Sawyer turned back toward the conference room but then pivoted on his heel. “Hey, Carmen. The project manager should have been here already. Can you point him to the conference room whenever he gets in?”
“Sure, but you know the project manager is—” The phone rang. Carmen held up a finger. “Gauthier Law Firm.”
Sawyer held up the pack of adhesive strips and mouthed, “Thanks again,” before returning to the conference room and closing the door behind him so that he wouldn’t disturb Carmen any more than he already had this morning.
The room was on the smallish side. An eight-foot well-worn, but polished, wooden table took up a vast majority of the space. There were two makeshift desks on either side of the room—small folding tables, each with a table lamp and a chair. A two-drawer filing cabinet stood next to the table on the opposite end of the room from the one he’d chosen. His desk sat underneath a window overlooking Heritage Park.
It was one of the perks of being the first to arrive. If P. Jones wanted a say in which desk he would work at for the next four weeks, he should have shown up for work on time.
Someone, probably Carmen, had placed a yellow legal pad, a pack of pens and a box of paper clips on each desk. All in all it was pretty bare-bones, but that wouldn’t last for long. If the past projects he’d worked on were any indication, by the end of the week every surface in this room would be covered with modeling charts, cost estimates and reams of paper covered in specs.
Sawyer unrolled the preliminary diagram of the flood control structure that had been proposed by Bolt-Myer Engineering, the Arkansas-based firm that had won the bid for this project. The company was smart enough to have several Louisiana branches; the state legislature was known for awarding contracts to local companies.
Using the adhesive strips, he tacked the design up to the conference room’s paneled walls.
“Much better,” Sawyer said as he gave each twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch printout a cursory glance. He would still need at least another day or so to pore over all the documents he’d received from his supervisor at the Army Corps of Engineers, where he’d worked since returning to Louisiana seven months ago.
He had only been assigned to this project this past Thursday, after his former colleague, Raymond Burrell, abruptly left for a more lucrative position in the private sector. Sawyer couldn’t really blame the guy. Ray had a wife and three kids; he had to do what he had to do in order to provide for his family.
Sawyer had missed Friday’s kickoff meeting with the project manager from Bolt-Myer. He’d flown out to Los Angeles to be with his aunt Lydia who’d celebrated her sixtieth birthday with a party at her new home in Chatsworth. Sawyer knew it was something his father would have wanted him to do, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d flown out there to surprise her. Lydia had been somewhat of a surrogate mother to him ever since his own mother had died more than two decades ago, back when he was still in high school.
But now that his family obligations were fulfilled, Sawyer was ready to get to work. He’d wanted on this project from the very beginning, but he’d been too busy finishing the levee surveying study around Lake Pontchartrain. He put his heart and soul into every job he worked on, but this one was different.
This was Gauthier.
Ray’s departure had opened the door for Sawyer to work on something that was close to his heart—saving his hometown from potential disaster.
Once he was done hanging the computer-assisted-design drawings on the walls, he went over to his desk, taking a moment to appreciate the brilliant view of Heritage Park. It was just one of the things he’d missed about Gauthier in the three years that he lived in Chicago.
Sawyer tried not to think about that time for a number of reasons, his ill-fated marriage being only one of them. But of the things he regretted during his short stint in Illinois, the awkward farce of a relationship with Angelique wasn’t even at the top of the list.
That spot was reserved for another disaster, one that Sawyer would not allow to happen here in Gauthier.
His complacency back in his old job had cost business owners their livelihoods. It cost some people their homes. Some even lost their pets. All because he hadn’t spoken up sooner when his gut told him that something wasn’t right.
This was his chance to make up for those past mistakes. He would not remain silent this time.
Would it change what happened in Illinois? No. Nothing would make up for what his inability to speak up had caused, but at least he knew better now. He wouldn’t allow the catastrophe that had happened on his last project to happen here.
This town—the place where his mother was born and raised, the place his father had quickly adopted as his own—meant too much to him to let anything happen to it. He wasn’t doing this just for the people of Gauthier. He was doing it for his mom and dad. He would take care of the town they both loved so much.
He would make sure this P. Jones person understood that from the very beginning. When it came to Gauthier’s flood protection system, there would be no cutting corners.
Sawyer checked his watch—the silver Seiko his father had given him as a gift years ago—and cursed underneath his breath. He’d always considered punctuality to be the most telling sign of a professional. Apparently, he wasn’t dealing with a professional here.
He sat behind his makeshift desk and lifted the plans for the proposed reservoir; then he heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the conference room door. He recognized Matthew Gauthier’s voice. Matt’s family had founded the town of Gauthier and had owned this law firm for generations. There was a feminine laugh. Sawyer figured the other voice must belong to Carmen. But then the conference room door opened. And his heart stopped.
Paxton Jones plopped a hand on her hip and said, “Well, hell.”
Chapter 2
“Paxton? What are you doing here?”
The shock on Sawyer Robertson’s face was laughable. If this were a laughing matter.
It was not. There was nothing even remotely funny about this.
The moment her eyes popped open that morning, Paxton knew she would live to regret not checking her phone to make sure she’d set the alarm. She and Belinda had stayed out at the bar much later than originally planned, getting the last bit of odds and ends done before tonight’s reopening. By the time she fell face-first onto her pillow, Paxton could barely move, let alone check the alarm on her phone. When her mother knocked on the door of her childhood bedroom that morning, Paxton discovered that she’d overslept by more than an hour.
To make matters worse, there was only one bathroom in the single-wide trailer where she’d grown up, and, as per usual, she had to fight Belinda over bathroom time.
Why did she allow her mother to talk her into staying at home instead of at Belle Maison? Not only was the quaint bed-and-breakfast closer to the Gauthier Law Firm, but Bolt-Myer would have footed the bill for it. Instead, Paxton had to make the twenty-minute drive in from Landreaux, which didn’t help with getting in to work on time.
Not the best way to make a first impression.
Paxton gestured to Sawyer’s desk. “I wanted that table,” she said. Then, remembering that she had to share this space with him for the next four weeks, she added in a more amiable tone, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replied. He stared at her for a moment before his eyes widened. “Wait.” He picked up one of the documents from his desk and, pointing at it, said, “You’re P. Jones?”
“Since birth,” Paxton answered.
The combination of bafflement and amusement remained on his face as he tossed the papers back on the tabletop and rose from his chair. It was downright mystifying how this man could make a simple pair of gray slacks and a plain white button-down look so good. The unassuming clothes fit his tall, solid frame to perfection, the sleeves of his shirt folded back at the cuff, giving the barest glimpse of his powerful forearms.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sauntered toward her.
Paxton braced herself for the onslaught of longing that never failed to pummel her whenever she was around him.
Breathe through it, girl.
“This is a surprise,” Sawyer said, a hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I knew you worked for Bolt-Myer, but I never put two and two together. I assumed the P stood for Paul or Patrick.”
“Oh, wow! Really?” she asked with exaggerated exuberance. “Your 1950s mentality makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
He held his hands up. “The only thing the paperwork had on it was P. Jones, which you have to admit is a pretty common name. But I shouldn’t have automatically assumed it was male. If it makes you feel better, I’ll burn a couple of bras to make up for it.”
She flat-out refused to smile at his quip.
Sawyer crossed his arms over his chest, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. She had a thing for arms, and could remember all too well what it felt like to have his wrapped around her.
He leaned his hip against the larger conference room table. The way the material pulled across his firm thigh made Paxton want to bend over and bite it. She resisted. Barely.
“Now I understand why Bolt-Myer chose to send someone from their Little Rock offices instead of picking a project manager from Baton Rouge,” Sawyer said, completely unaware of her vampiric thoughts. “You probably know this area better than anyone in the entire company.”
“Hmm.” Paxton did her best impersonation of Rodin’s The Thinker, dipping her head and fitting her fist strategically underneath her chin. “You know, there’s actually a chance that they chose me because I’m one of the best project managers they have.”
“Come on, Paxton. I apologize, okay?”
“And what are you apologizing for? Assuming I was a guy, or for insinuating that I’m here because it’s convenient instead of my skill to get the job done?”
“For both,” he said. “Can’t you find it in your heart to give me a break?”
“I’ll give you a break when you get out of my spot.”
She set her briefcase on the larger conference table next to his leg. Which, yes, she still wanted to take a bite out of. Dammit.
“How is this your spot?” Sawyer’s voice oozed incredulousness. “I was here first.”
“No, I was here first. I claimed that spot on Friday when Carmen and I set up this conference room.”
He looked over his shoulder at the folding table, then turned back to her, one corner of his mouth tipping upward in a self-satisfied grin. “Maybe you should have left a sign on it,” he said.
Oh, how she wished she didn’t find the smugness on his face attractive as hell. Seriously, who in their right mind was turned on by cockiness?
Anyone who encountered a cocky Sawyer Robertson.
“Just think of how much confusion could have been avoided,” he continued. “I would have known that the P in P. Jones stood for Paxton. I wouldn’t have been surprised with the Queen of the Tardy Slip showing up late on the first day of the job. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to fall in love with this desk and its perfect view of the park.” He leaned forward, as if getting ready to impart a deep, dark secret. “I have to be honest, Pax. It really is the perfect view. You’ll be sorry you didn’t get here early enough to claim it.”
She bit the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling. She’d prepared herself for this. She would not allow Sawyer’s teasing to throw her off her game. Because Lord knew if any man could fluster her, it was this one.
“Don’t call me Pax,” she said.
His brow arched. “So, it’s like that?”
“Yes, it’s like that.” she said. She couldn’t handle him calling her by her nickname. It brought up too many memories of the numerous times he’d whispered it throughout that night they’d shared three years ago.
Don’t think about that, Paxton silently chastised herself.
“And bringing up that Queen of the Tardy Slip thing is just wrong,” she said.
She’d earned that title back in high school, when she would routinely show up late for homeroom. Unlike most of her classmates who had the luxury of going to bed at a decent hour on school nights, she was often helping Belinda out at Harlon’s. It made her chances of getting to school before that 7:10 a.m. bell nearly impossible.
Her best friend, Shayla Kirkland, used to joke, saying that the snooze button was Paxton’s real best friend.
“No need to get upset,” Sawyer said. “It’s just nice to see that you’re still living up to your name.”
Paxton let out an aggravated sigh. “Why did Ray Burrell have to quit?”
He slapped a hand to his chest, his dark brown eyes wounded. “I’ll try to pretend that doesn’t hurt.”
She gave him some serious side-eye action before walking over to the other desk, the one that faced a wall. A wall. Why hadn’t she set her alarm?
Sawyer followed her. Great.
He assumed the position he’d taken on the other side of the long conference table, crossing his arms over his chest and perching himself on the edge of it.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were the project manager?” Sawyer asked.
“When would I have gotten the chance to tell you? I only came into town a few days ago. Besides, I didn’t think I had to. I figured you would have run across it while you were reviewing the information you were given when they transferred you to this project.”
“I haven’t had much time to review the materials. I was out of town this weekend. A family thing.”
“That’s what I was told during the meeting on Friday,” she said.
“It was a party for my aunt Lydia,” he explained. He paused for a moment before continuing in a slightly lower tone. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard or not, but I’m no longer married.”
Paxton put her hand up. “Not my business.”
His head jerked back a bit. “So it really is like that?”
“Look, Sawyer, it’s not my business where you spend your free time or who you spend your time with.” She moved her briefcase to the desk and turned to him. Mimicking his pose, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, “As long as you understand that between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m., your time is my time.”
He made a production of looking at his watch. “Is that the case even when you come in at eight forty-five?”
She’d placed the ball squarely on the tee for that one.
Doing her best to maintain a calm, professional air, she said, “I apologize for being late. As project manager I should be the one setting the example.”
“I was only joking, Pax.” She continued to stare at him. Waiting. “I mean Paxton,” he corrected himself with a pinch of annoyance.
“Thank you.”
The laugh he huffed out was devoid of all humor, but Paxton would not allow it to affect her. The only way she would get through these next four weeks with her sanity intact was if she stayed within the boundaries she’d laid out in her head the minute she had learned Sawyer would be replacing Ray Burrell as the state’s civil engineer on this project. Allowing Sawyer to speak to her in such familiar terms crossed those boundaries.
“I’m just trying to be professional here,” she explained.
“Yeah, I get it,” he said, pushing himself up from the table. The traces of humor that had colored his voice earlier were nowhere to be found. “I would, however, appreciate a call if you know you’re running late. Just, you know, as a professional courtesy.”
Paxton acknowledged the slight sting from his words. She guessed she deserved that.
“I agree,” she said. “But I don’t have your number.”
The moment the words left her mouth the mood in the room shifted. Sawyer’s gaze caught hers and held. Her admission was almost laughable, considering their history. She had knowledge of his body in the most primitive, elemental way, yet she didn’t even know his phone number.
“I guess that’s something we’ll have to rectify,” Sawyer said.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. Nodded. “I’ll need your number in case I need to get in touch with you about something for the project.”
His gaze remained on her. Probing. Penetrating. It took everything she had within her not to squirm.
One brow peaked over his dark brown eyes. “Is that the only reason?”
“Yes,” Paxton said. “That is the only reason I will need your number.”
He released another of those irritated breaths, running a hand down his face before assaulting her once again with that intense stare.
“Trying to pretend it didn’t happen doesn’t erase the fact that it did, Paxton. You know that, don’t you?”
The subtle drop in pitch of his already decadently deep voice caused a million butterflies to take flight in her belly. Her body reacted to the mere memory of hearing that voice. She could still feel it on her skin, the goose bumps that rose as he whispered the sexiest words imaginable into her ear as his body slowly entered hers.
Paxton sucked in a deep breath. She could not do this to herself. Would not.
There was too much at stake to get distracted by Sawyer and his seductive voice, or the subtle dip in his chin that begged for her tongue to lick at it, or those deep brown bedroom eyes that saw too much. She needed to remain focused. She had a coworker back in Little Rock who tried to show her up every chance he got. Clay Ridgely was on a mission to take Paxton’s spot as the leading project manager, and she’d be damned if she let him do it.
That’s why she was determined to ignore the hormones spinning around inside her. She had too much riding on this project to allow anything to get in the way of it, especially an out-of-control libido.
With a will she didn’t realize she possessed, Paxton reined in her body’s reaction to him and focused on the myriad reasons why it was important they keep things strictly professional.
“It’s obvious I will have to set some ground rules on how things will work over these next four weeks,” she said.
“Ground rules?”
“Yes,” Paxton answered. “We are here to do a job, and that’s the only thing I plan to discuss while we’re here. This conference room is small enough. We don’t have any room for our personal lives to invade it. Are we clear?”
“No,” he said.
Her head jerked back. “Excuse me?”
“I disagree. I think it would be better for both of us if we tackled this issue head-on instead of allowing it to hover over us.” He shrugged. “Like you said, this place is small. We don’t have room for that eight-hundred-pound gorilla you refuse to talk about.”
Just the knowledge that they were both thinking about those hours they spent together caused a tingling sensation to travel up and down her back.
This would be a long four weeks.
But she would get through it. There was no way she would allow that one ridiculously delicious indiscretion she’d succumbed to one night several years ago to derail her plans.
“I’m here to do a job, Sawyer,” Paxton repeated. “And so are you. Unless it has something to do with this project, I have no intentions of discussing it. End of story.” She straightened her spine and lifted her chin just a touch. “Now, I’ll ask you again. Are we clear?”
His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that made her breathless. Finally, thankfully, he relented. Hunching his shoulders, he said, “Fine. You’re the boss.”
Those words, coming from his mouth, set off a different reaction within her, one of pride.
She was the boss. Her. Little Paxton Jones from the wrong side of Landreaux Creek.
What she wouldn’t give to go back in time, to return to that reticent, unsure girl she was twenty years ago. The girl who’d secretly longed for the man standing across from her, just as every other girl had. Back when he was the star quarterback, student body president and the most handsome human being to grace the hallways of Gauthier High School.
Paxton wondered what that girl’s reaction would be if she told her that she would one day be the boss of Sawyer Robertson. Her teenage self would likely laugh and give her a snide get real sneer.
But that’s okay. Because this Paxton knew better.
“Good,” she said to Sawyer with a curt nod. “Now that we’ve established that, would you please consider switching desks with me? I really want that spot by the window.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s only fair that I get to keep it. If you knew you wanted a certain desk, you should have gotten here early enough to claim it.”
She stopped just short of growling, but Paxton decided not to push him on it. This was a battle not worth fighting. In fact, it was probably for the best. Without the beautiful view of Heritage Park to distract her she would be more inclined to keep her head down and work harder. This phase of the flood protection project was slated to last for four weeks, but the quicker they worked, the quicker it would be over.
And the quicker she could get away from all this temptation.
As she went about setting her things out on the table that sat underneath a portrait of an old patriarch of the Gauthier family, Paxton laid out the ground rules.