Drilled Read online

  I fly into motion, not pausing to think about what I’m doing, just operating on pure blind instinct. Lingerie, a lacy, racy bright crimson set purchased at Fredrick’s of Hollywood the last time I was in LA for a trainer’s conference. I rarely wear it, but I look damned incredible in it, a fact I verify by taking a quick gander at myself in the mirror before putting on the rest of my outfit. My tits are high and huge and firm—all natural, baby, and still pretty much perfect despite my descent into middle age. My ass pops, a nice taut bubble of athletic roundness. My abs are toned and hard, my thighs are muscular and yet still smooth and feminine.

  I pat myself on the butt, checking it for excess jiggle—nope, firm as a Swiss medicine ball.

  Yeah—I look pretty damned amazing.

  I keep my outfit simple—skinny jeans, chunky black heels, and a black sleeveless V-neck top that shows off both the girls and my arms. Basic makeup—foundation, eyeliner, lipstick, a little color on my cheekbones. Bam—done, and I’ve got two minutes to spare.

  I transfer my phone, wallet, keys, mace, and emergency makeup kit to my favorite clutch, a little black leather thing with rose gold accents that matches well with my heels and top. I want to beat Franco, so I hustle to the elevator; I make it outside just as Franco’s big silver pickup with the matching bedcap pulls up, sliding to a stop at the curb in front of my building. Before I can move from my spot on the steps leading up to the building door, Franco has jumped out, leaving his door open, and moves with unhurried grace around the hood to open the passenger door.

  I eye him suspiciously as I move toward the truck. “Trying to butter me up with good manners, Franco?”

  He takes my hand in his and helps me up into the truck—unnecessary, considering there’s a step and I’m not helpless, but it’s a gesture that leaves me off-balance with its sweetness. “Nope. Just have good manners.”

  I snort as I settle into the pebbled black leather of the seat. “Because ghosting on your partner is good manners.”

  He sighs, an almost inaudible huff of long-suffering as he shuts my door and circles back around to his side. Hopping in and closing his door, he buckles up, turns down the music, and prepares to reverse out of the spot. I take the moment while he’s distracted to check him out: clean, dressy blue jeans, perfectly fit to his lean physique, spotless dark brown leather Red Wing boots with red laces, a gray short sleeve polo French tucked—just the front around his belt buckle tucked in. His hair is brushed back and bound into a neat low ponytail, not a strand out of place. Freshly shaven, smelling of clean male and faint cologne, plus a pungent layer of sawdust that I think is just part of his personal scent.

  God, he’s beautiful. Masculine, vital and vigorous and primal, but just…beautiful. Perfect chiseled jawline, sharp high cheekbones, deep-set icy pale blue eyes. He’s channeling Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall, especially with that long hair. I’m not usually a fan of men with ponytails, but on this guy it just works, and a little too well at that. And the body I know he’s hiding under those clothes?

  Gah.

  My mouth waters, my thighs clench, and my hoo-ha tightens just thinking about that impeccable crossfitter’s body. Every line, every curve, every angle is carved from marble to such perfection that he could be a sculpture by Michelangelo or da Vinci. Being an athlete and trainer myself, I know exactly the kind of dedication it takes to achieve a body like his—not just the hours in the gym, but the devotion to clean, optimal nutrition. For an intensely physical person like me, Franco’s body is a drug, and one I could very easily become addicted to.

  I notice, too, that the interior of his truck is as spotless and perfect as the day he bought it, but I can see the odometer, and it reads over a hundred thousand miles, so it’s definitely not new. A quick twisting glance through the back window into the bed, and I can see his tools and toolboxes, all neatly arranged and tied down and organized.

  His eye catches mine. “What?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Nothing. Just noticing you seem to have a perfectionist streak.”

  “Perfectionist streak?” He snorts a laugh as we pull out onto the main road, heading for Callihan’s. “Try a friggin’ perfectionist highway. Borderline OCD, according to the therapist I saw a few years ago.”

  I eye him, trying to decipher the various bombs he just dropped—he’s seen a therapist? Borderline OCD? Where do I start? Why would he admit this to me, someone he barely knows?

  “Borderline OCD?”

  He nods, checking his mirror as he changes lanes to get around a slower-moving car. “Yep. Meaning I don’t have the compulsion to, like, wash my hands eight times every hour, or turn my locks in a specific order, but I am borderline obsessive about things like being neat and orderly and perfect. It makes me a great carpenter because I can’t consider a project finished until it’s as absolutely perfect as it can get, but I tend to work slower than someone with less of a compulsion for perfection.” He glances at me. “Is that an issue for you, me being a perfectionist?”

  I shrug and shake my head. “No, of course not. Just noticing. I’m guessing you’ve owned this truck from new, and it has a hundred thousand miles on it, but the interior is literally like new. Plus your tools in the back are so organized its mind-boggling.”

  He laughs at this. “You should see my workshop at home if you think that’s organized.”

  Am I supposed to care why he saw a therapist? I shouldn’t. It’s none of my business. This isn’t a date—it’s a meeting to discuss why he ghosted on me.

  So why does my mouth betray my curiosity? “Why did you see a therapist?” I glance at him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  He rubs his jaw. “Eh…just life. You know?” He pulls to a stop at a left turn light. “Why?”

  “Just curious. Most men I’ve ever met would never see a therapist, let alone admit it to someone they’re hooking up with.”

  “Yeah, well, life is messy. None of us get through life without some kind of damage. Personally, I think every single person should go through a few months of regular talk therapy with a licensed psychologist just as part of mental and emotional self-care.” His phone is in a hands-free holder suctioned to his windshield, and he taps at it, changing the song from a twangy country ballad to a newer, pop-bro country tune. “You ever see a therapist?”

  I laugh. “I probably should, but no.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I dunno. I just never did. God knows I haven’t gotten to this point in my life without some damage, like you said, but…I guess I feel like I’m coping well enough on my own.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Franco says. “Until I talked to someone.”

  I laugh trying to make this less weird. “So you’re saying I need to see a therapist?”

  “No—well, yes. I’m saying everyone does.” A pause. “This is a weird conversation for a first date.” He makes a face, glancing at me. “But then, it’s not a first date, is it?”

  “Is it even a date?”

  “You’re wearing heels and makeup, and I picked you up at your place.” He shrugs. “Kinda feels like one.”

  I sigh. “I know. But it wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “You just wanted to yell at me for leaving like I did, is that it?”

  “Pretty much,” I admit.

  “Coulda done that over the phone. Shit, you could’ve sent me a text about it.” His smirk is galling. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here, why you agreed to let me pick you up, and why you went to the trouble to make yourself look so good.”

  I huff. “It took me literally ten minutes to get dressed. I didn’t put in that much effort, honestly. I just don’t like looking like a scrub when I go out.”

  “I’m calling bullshit,” Franco says, still smirking.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pulls into the parking lot of Callihan’s—a place that feels like a traditional Irish pub crossed with a fancy steakhouse. “Well, just that you showed up at the Waverl
ey site with Imogen the other day clearly having just come from work, or a workout. You’d obviously been sweaty at some point in the day, your hair was all over the place, you weren’t wearing any makeup I could see, and you were wearing workout gear. Not exactly the ensemble of someone who cares what people think of her.”

  “And?” I dare him to make a bigger deal of that.

  “And nothing. I happen to personally find that look sexy as fuck. I’m just calling bullshit on your claim that you don’t like looking like a scrub when you go out.”

  “That was different. I wasn’t going out—I was tagging along with my friend as moral support.” I gesture at my top and jeans. “This is going-out attire—meaning, I’m knowingly going out in public where I’ll be seen by more than just a few incidental strangers. There’s a difference.”

  “You can’t just admit you made even a tiny effort into looking good for me?”

  I glare. “I made an effort, yes—just not specifically for you. I’d have made the same effort if I was going out with Imogen or anyone else.” I hesitate. “Why does it matter?”

  He shrugs and laughs. “It doesn’t. I’m just messing with you.”

  “Well…don’t.”

  “Why not?” He gets out and has my door open before I realize his intent and, once again, his hand wraps around mine, providing a firm hold as I step down from the truck.

  “Because we’re not there yet, Franco,” I snap, walking with him to the entrance of the restaurant.

  “Where?”

  “The place where we mess with each other.” I snatch my hand from his as we reach the entrance, only belatedly realizing I’d held it the entire way across the parking lot—and Franco parked near the back, in an empty corner. “And this isn’t a date.”

  “No?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.” At least, I sound resolute.

  “Fine. Call it what you want.” He holds the restaurant door for me, letting me precede him into the dark, low-ceilinged interior of Callihan’s, and then stands a little too close to me as he waits for the hostess to get off the phone and greet us.

  “Hi, can I help you?” She’s young, pretty, and wearing a dress that doesn’t quite fit in all the right places—and her eyes are all over Franco despite the obvious age gap and the fact that he’s here with me.

  “Yeah, hi—I have a reservation for two. Morrissey.”

  She taps at a tablet, and then smiles a little too brightly. “Ah, yes, hi, Mr. Morrissey. Your table is ready. Right this way, please.” She leads us to the back of the restaurant, threading a path between tables and booths—I notice, too, that she’s putting a little too much sway in her step, for Franco’s benefit I imagine.

  Bitch.

  I mentally rear back at my own unexpected vitriol—this isn’t a date, I said so myself. I have no reason to react like that. For god’s sake, let her steal him from me, see if I care. He probably bangs twenty-one-year-old hostesses all the time. Good for him.

  She seats us in a booth in the back corner, promises us that our server will be right with us, and then sway/prances away, with only one wistful backward glance.

  “That hostess couldn’t take her eyes off you,” I hear myself remarking.

  Gahh—stupid. Obvious.

  Franco’s eyebrow arches. “Hadn’t noticed. And so what, anyway? She’s barely twenty if she’s a day, and I’m not here for her.”

  I shrug. “She was putting a hell of a lot of bounce in her step for your sake. Wouldn’t be surprised if she slipped you her number while I’m in the bathroom.”

  “Again, hadn’t noticed.” He stares me down. “I did notice the way your ass looks in those jeans, though.”

  I can’t help a grin, which I quickly stomp down. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I definitely noticed that.”

  “What was it you noticed?”

  “Fishing for compliments, Audra?” he asks with another of those annoyingly sexy, knowing smirks.

  “Yep.” I match his smirk with my own, determined to reset the equilibrium between us.

  He laughs. “I noticed that your ass is the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen.” He pauses for effect. “Or felt.”

  “Thank you.” I’m glad it’s dark in here so he won’t notice my pleased, flattered, aroused blush. “I appreciate that. I do work really hard to keep my ass looking the way it does.”

  “Your hard work has definitely paid off.”

  At that moment, an older gentleman in a suit appears at our table, greeting Franco by name and with an effusive handshake. “Mr. Morrissey—how wonderful to see you again!” He reaches behind him to take a bottle of wine proffered by a server. “May I offer you and your lovely companion a bottle of our finest wine, on the house?”

  “That’s not necessary, Harry, but I’ll take it if you’re offering.”

  The man, clearly either the owner or manager, or both, laughs. “I’m not just offering, Franco, I’m insisting. I can’t tell you how many compliments we’ve received on our woodwork after the restoration. Consider it a token of eternal gratitude for a job impeccably well-executed.”

  After Harry goes through the bottle opening and tasting ceremony and pours us each a glass of a deep, rich, expensive red wine, he leaves us with the server, who takes our order—two ribeye steaks, medium, extra veggies, no potatoes, and side salads to start.

  When we’re alone, I take a sip of the wine. “Wow. This is amazing. He wasn’t kidding when he said it was a bottle of his finest.” I eye Franco. “So what was that about?”

  Franco takes a sip and nods appreciatively. “That wine is really good.” He runs a hand down the side of the half-wall separating one booth from the other. “I did all of the woodwork in this place. An employee accidentally set a fire a few years ago, and the place basically burned down. They took the opportunity to totally remodel, and that included having me custom make all the booths, tables, chairs, wine racks, doorframes, everything.”

  I take a long look around, whistling. “Wow. Everything?”

  “Every last scrap of wood in here was handcrafted exclusively by me.” He says this with no small amount of pride.

  As with the wine rack, everything is not just functional, but a work of art. The more I look around, the more impressed I am. “This had to have been an absolutely enormous job.”

  He nods. “Sure was. Over a year of working nights and weekends.”

  I boggle. “Wait, nights and weekends?”

  He nods. “I do jobs like this on the side—my main job, obviously, is working for James. This was a really massive order, obviously, and well beyond what I usually do.”

  “You did all this in your spare time?”

  He nods. “Yep. It’s all reclaimed wood, too. There was an old hospital just outside downtown Chicago being torn down a few years ago and I claimed all the wood. I’ve got a big backyard, and I dumped it back there to use on future projects. The booths all came from old doors, the tables from old desks…the doorframes are from old floorboards, and the wine racks I pieced together from all over the place. Harry, the owner and manager, takes a lot of pride in being able to say each booth and table is totally unique.” He shrugs. “It was a hell of a fun project, and it paid off my mortgage ten years early.”

  “That’s really amazing, Franco. You’re an amazing craftsman and artist.”

  “Thanks,” he says, with a warm, proud grin. “Of course, I could’ve finished in half the time had I used modern tools, but Harry wasn’t in a rush so I had all the time I needed.”

  “What do you mean, used modern tools?”

  Our salads arrive then, and we spend a few minutes in silence eating before he answers. “Professionally, I use all the newest, highest-tech power equipment, because on a construction site, time is money. But when I’m crafting furniture, I exclusively use old, low-tech tools. I’m talking antique stuff that my grandfather’s grandfather would have used.”

  I’m even more amazed. “Really?”

  He nods, and hi
s expression is bright and open as he discusses this. “Yep. All my woodworking tools I use at home are antiques, some of which I found through antique dealers, or online and fixed up myself, and others which I inherited from my grandfather.”

  “Why do you use old-fashioned tools? Like you said, wouldn’t it be twice as fast to use modern tools?”

  He shrugs. “Oh, more than twice as fast. If I use power tools I can make a really beautiful, functional table or whatever in a few hours, whereas the old way takes me half a day of work.”

  “So why do it the old way? Are you, like, a secret hipster or something?”

  He laughs. “God no.” A thoughtful sigh. “Um…? It’s hard to explain.”

  “Hard to explain, or you think I won’t get it?”

  He swirls the wine in the glass. “A little of both, I guess.” Another thoughtful pause. “So, my grandfather taught me carpentry. I didn’t have the most peaceful home growing up, so going to Grandpa’s was a way of escaping, and Grandpa had all these old tools, right? But he had them because that’s just what he could afford. He had a drill—that same one you currently have, as a matter of fact—and a table saw and some other things, but mostly, he worked old-fashioned, so that’s how I learned. I went to a tech school in high school and got an apprenticeship in my junior year, so I was working full-time as a carpenter by the time I graduated. I learned all the modern techniques, and how to use the modern tools and such professionally, but I’ve always just found it…therapeutic, I guess, to work the wood with my hands, the way Grandpa taught me. It’s calming. I’ve been making furniture and stuff in my spare time since Gramps first showed me how to make a rocking chair when I was…ten? Twelve? And I’ve just always used the old stuff. It feels…authentic. It connects me to Grandpa, and to his grandfather, and to all the thousands of years of human history where men have been crafting things from wood, using largely the same tools the entire time. Even modern power tools work in the same basic way as the oldest tools, they’re just…faster.”