The woman rounded the corner of the house and fired off a barrage of commands that sent the men scurrying back to their jobs, which only confirmed Aaron’s earlier suspicion; the little dynamo headed in his direction was the forewoman.
Stopping a few feet away, she sized him up. He grimaced when her mouth puckered. Obviously, she found him less than acceptable—something he didn’t often encounter with the opposite sex.
“Aaron Smith reporting for duty.” He held out a hand.
Her eyes widened as she stared at their entwined fingers. Then she flung her head back and laughed. The throaty sound surprised him; he’d expected a squeaky noise from such a petite body. “What’s so funny?”
“Jennifer Alvarado, the site foreman,” she said, introducing herself, then quickly added, “and I specifically remember requesting someone with experience.”
“I have experience.” That is, if constructing Lego buildings as a tyke counted as experience.
She removed her hard hat, and a long, inky ponytail fell down her back, stopping a good three inches below her shoulders. She had almond-shaped brown eyes framed by sooty lashes, and a wide generous mouth that showed off bright white teeth. Bold, black brows arched above her eyes, hinting at arrogance. Without a trace of makeup, the lady was more stunning than any female he’d ever dated. And Aaron had to admit that the tool belt around her well-rounded hips made for an intriguing fashion accessory—one every woman ought to add to her wardrobe.
One haughty eyebrow arched higher than the other. “You’ve worked on a construction crew before?”
Sweat popped out across his brow. “Yes,” he lied. He doubted he and his brothers qualified as a crew, but the three had assembled several play forts at their grandfather’s home in Edgartown, Massachusetts, on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. One weekend they’d attempted a whaling boat. At the time it had seemed appropriate, since their grandfather’s house was a fully restored whaling captain’s residence dating back to 1790. The finished craft had resembled a misshapen box and had sunk on its first voyage in the water.
“Doesn’t matter.” She curved her thumbs around her tool belt. “You’re fired.”
“Fired?” Pop’s face flashed before Aaron’s eyes as panic sent his heart banging against his rib cage. “You can’t fire me.”
She checked her watch. “It’s eight o’clock. We start at seven sharp.”
“I got lost. Ask the man at the grocery mart a few blocks from here. He’ll tell you that I stopped for directions.” When her eyes narrowed to mocha-colored slits, he pointed to the corner, where the street name had been torn off the top of the signpost. “This isn’t an easy place to locate.”
“You’re not from around here and—”
“Ma’am, I want this job. Give me a chance to prove myself.” To Aaron’s way of thinking, he’d need a heck of a lot of chances to survive three months on this woman’s crew. Determined to make this work, to prove once and for all that he didn’t need anyone to rescue him, Aaron held steady under the forewoman’s assessing glare.
She thrust her chin forward, no doubt hoping to add another inch to her height. “No.”
He admired the way she kept eye contact with him—not a simple task when the top of her head barely met his shoulder. At six-one, he towered over her.
“First, I’m the only person who speaks fluent English. Second, I’m not always at the site the entire day.” She counted off on her fingers—fingers unadorned with rings or acrylic nails and polish. “And third, I can’t afford any mess-ups because of miscommunication.”
“The language barrier won’t be a problem.” Hell, when it came to building homes, Aaron was clueless in any language.
“Sorry. You’re fired.”
Now what?
Although the crew appeared to be working, each man was keeping a watchful eye on the boss lady, convincing him that this forewoman had more than earned the group’s respect and loyalty.
Time to pull out the big guns. “If you fire me, I’ll sue your organization for discrimination.”
“¡Está loco!”
“You called me crazy, didn’t you?” When her expressive brown eyes widened, he grinned. “I understand more than you think.”
“If you need this job as badly as you claim, then I doubt you have the means to pay for a lawyer.”
“There are plenty of free legal clinics in the city.”
“You’re bluffing, Mr. Smith.”
Lowering his voice, he asked, “Are you willing to put your job on the line to find out, Ms. Alvarado?”
She settled her hand over the hammer dangling from her tool belt. He suspected she’d like to pound his head with it. The boss lady was one-hundred-percent miffed female.
“How about a second chance?” He pressed his lips together to keep from chuckling at the dark flush stealing across her cheekbones.
“On one condition.”
Conditions, again? His grandfather. Now her. “What?”
“Finish installing the wallboard in the living room and entryway by the end of the day.”
“Or else…?”
“Or else you’re unemployed.”
Chapter Two
Jennifer strolled past the corner of the house, then collapsed on a stack of roofing shingles. She breathed deeply, hoping to settle her rising frustration—if she could call the jittery feeling in her stomach frustration.
The new crew member, Mr. Smith, hadn’t fooled her. A construction worker…yeah, right. And she was a runway model. If his brand-new jeans, sparkling-clean work boots and the absence of a tool belt and hard hat hadn’t given him away, his hands would have. Clean, well-manicured nails and slight calluses—the kind a person gets from working out at the gym. The guy was a fraud. A heck of a handsome one, but a fraud nonetheless.
Barrio Amigo usually employed only local Latino men. Why would her boss send her someone who—she’d bet her best Bosch drill on this—had never even driven through Santa Angelita before today? And why hadn’t Louisa, Barrio Amigo’s secretary, notified her that the new replacement would be starting this morning?
She’d been hoping for a man with more experience, one who could do the work of two men each day. Due to the unusually rainy weather, the crew had fallen two weeks behind schedule on Mrs. Benitos’s home. Jennifer had promised the older woman she could move in by the end of May and today was April first.
April Fool’s Day. She smacked her open palm against her forehead. Louisa had sent Aaron Smith as an April Fool’s Day joke. I wish. Louisa was too flighty and self-absorbed to carry out such a scheme.
“Who’s the new anglo?” Juan, Jennifer’s second-in-command, shimmied down the ladder propped against the back of the house. He spoke fairly good English—when he wished to—and supervised the crew if she had to leave the site.
“His name is Aaron Smith. Ricardo’s replacement.” Ricardo had slipped a disc in his lower back a week ago and had gone out on medical leave.
“Doesn’t look like a construction worker.”
“I doubt he’ll last the day.” She peered around the corner just in time to witness the new employee stagger under a thirty-five-pound sheet of wall-board. Returning her attention to Juan, she asked, “Will