The Parent Trap Read online

  “Dell—”

  “Give him a chance, Dee. He’s…he’s not the person he used to be. If you give him a chance, he just might surprise you.”

  “Dell—”

  He grabs his Louis Vuitton satchel off the floor, holding the champagne bottle by the neck, and saunters out of the door without a backward glance at me; he pauses before rounding the corner, but still doesn’t look back at me. “Goodbye, Delia. I…” A shake of his head; he almost looks back at me, head twisted so he could maybe see me out of the corner of his eye—instead, he sighs. “Goodbye.”

  He’s gone. I’m still standing in that lounge, stunned, when I hear jet engines spool up, and then roar and vanish as he takes off.

  Between Thai appearing out of nowhere, owning half my company, and now this from Dell, my world just got turned upside down.

  Problem is, it was already upside down from Daddy dying.

  Turn something upside down, and then upside down again, does that make it upside right? In my case, not even close.

  My head is spinning along a dozen different axes. So, I do what I’ve always done in the face of such emotional tumult: ignore it and go to work.

  Chapter Seven

  Matthais

  I hold my shit together through the rest of the meeting. Barely, and by the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin. Or some shit. I’m not even sure what that’s supposed to mean.

  It means I’m fucking dizzy.

  It means this was a very massively enormously horribly colossally shit-tastic idea.

  Not because I can’t do the job—I can.

  Why?

  Because Delia McKenna pulled one hell of a Longbottom transformation in the decade since I saw her last.

  She was far from ugly, growing up. No matter how much I mocked her—and I was absolutely merciless—she was, by the time we graduated …hot. She was curvier than the blond cheerleader size-nothing bimbos I tended to hook up with. She wasn’t what anyone would call fat or heavy. She was just…curvy. As a kid, she was what you’d have called kinda chunky, and she was seriously self-conscious about it. And I, being the complete tool I was, drilled into that self-consciousness as hard as I could, at every opportunity.

  Then, as she got into middle school and high school and she got taller and went through puberty, that chunkiness translated to thick hips and ass and a more than generous portion of tits. Yeah, I noticed. Still made fun of her and called her shitty names, but I noticed.

  Maybe I even made fun of her because I noticed. It bothered me, that she was so hot, that I noticed. Maybe that was why I was such a jackass to her, why I was so unbelievably mean. God, the things I called her: Donuts Delia, Dino Delia, shit like that. I mean, they weren’t even original or intelligent insults—they were childish as all fuck. Maybe they cut her more deeply because of that. And maybe…maybe I was a classic case of an immature boy mocking someone he actually liked because he didn’t know how to express himself.

  Ten years later, she’s a fully mature woman, and she clearly has worked her ass off to achieve and maintain her body.

  Which is, in a word, fucking incredible. Two words, but whatever.

  Back in high school, there was just this little bit of…extra, I guess. Some padding around the curves.

  Now? All curve, and no extra.

  She’d been wearing a peach sheath dress with a jean jacket, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows, with some seriously killer black heels. Her raven’s wing hair was longer than ever, in a thick, complicated braid and twisted up on top of her head. When she’d stormed out of the board room, it had taken every last particle of willpower I possessed to not stare at that magnificent ass.

  Her eyes were…pure blue fire. Wild and fierce and electric blue. If I were to only see her in a photograph, I’d assume they were Photoshopped to be that hue.

  They sparked, and spat flame, especially when she looked at me.

  Honestly, that fire in her eyes was…hot. Ha ha ha. Pun intended, I guess.

  But it is, though. She’s a challenge.

  One I’m not sure what to do with.

  She hates me, and with good reason.

  She’s so fucking gorgeous now that it was legitimately difficult to be in the room with her and not ogle her like a horny teenager with his first lust.

  She’s dominating—in an in-charge and full of well-earned and -deserved authority. She’s wicked smart. Competent and capable.

  Which is also hot.

  My mind has been wandering during the meeting, so I’m taken by surprise when…what’s his name? Boy? Billy? Boyd? Boyd, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, he adjourns the meeting, and everyone begins filing out. Within a moment, I’m the only one at the table.

  I have to come up with a plan for catching myself up. I need to know not only how THIS business runs, but how the home-building trade works in general.

  I have a lot of work to do.

  Question is, do I start with the trade in general first, or this particular company?

  I consider the problem for a few minutes—It probably looks like I’m sitting on my ass staring into space, but in reality, my mind is spinning in overdrive.

  Finally, I have a workable approach.

  There’s a corner office, the big one with the best view; the door is closed, lights off. The plaque to the right of the doorframe proclaims it to be Delia’s office, naturally. And, just outside the office, an L-shaped desk with two different desktop computers, a phone, a large filing cabinet, an industrial caliber copy machine/printer. Manning this station is what I, in my own head, refer to as a CLT—and cute little thing. Meaning, an attractive young female with whom I enjoy flirting but would never actually go beyond flirting, because my tastes in the bedroom tend to be…um, vigorous. And in my experience, CLTs are just…too delicate. Physically, and mentally. They just can’t keep up.

  This particular CLT secretary/assistant is the brunette version. She probably wears PINK brand thongs, drinks fruity mixed drinks with names like Sunrise Bahama Blast, and her idea of spicing it up in the bedroom is probably some gentle spanking. She’s wearing a denim miniskirt with a frayed hem and a baby doll shirt. Her hair is loose and artfully wavy, and she probably gets a blowout at least once a week.

  How do I know these things? I pay attention. Know thy prey, or something like that. Not that this cute little thing is my prey, mind you. For one thing, I can tell just by the way she watches my approach that I could snap my fingers and grin and have her wrapped around my…finger. And where’s the challenge in that? Plus, I learned the hard way to not hunt where I work.

  I lean a hip against her desk, one hand in my slacks pocket. Give her the smile, the look. “Hey. I’m Thai. I’m new around here, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”

  Her eyes blink a mile a minute, and she swallows hard. “Hi, um. I’m Jamie. I’m new here, too. Just started last week, actually.” Her puppy dog brown eyes flit from my lips to my jawline to my shoulders. She licks her lips. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, Jamie. I need some information. A lot of information, actually.”

  Her eyes fix on my shoulders and stay there, only briefly flitting to meet my gaze. “What kind of information?”

  “I need to know about our current projects. Estimated overhead, projected profit, who our suppliers are, subcontractors, things like that. Oh, and staffing information—how many employees we have, the pay rate, churn, all that good stuff.”

  She licks her lips again. “So…everything?” This is accompanied by a little giggle, as if this is a great joke.

  “Yeah, basically. Everything you can get me about McKenna.”

  She frowns. “That’s a lot. I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Hey, whatever you can get me will be great.” I smile at her again and run my fingers through my hair—that always gets ’em. “Thanks, Jamie.”

  “No problem…Thai.” And, as I leave, there’s the sigh.

  Sorry babe, but sharks can’t survive on minnows, if you kn
ow what I mean.

  Jamie comes through—by the end of the day, I have a three-inch binder stuffed with reports and printouts and such. It’s a ton of dry, dense material, but I’ve discovered I have a pretty voracious capacity for absorbing this kind of stuff.

  I take it home with me—home is a brand-new condo in downtown River Gulch, a short walk from the McKenna headquarters. Not as lux as I tend to go for, but in a nowhere town like River Gulch, this is fine living indeed. Two bedrooms, an office-library, massive master suite with a nice bathroom and closet, plus the building has a decent 24-hour gym and lap pool.

  I put something mindless on TV—one of the Fast and Furious movies—pour myself a glass of Glenmorangie and start going through my materials. Hours later, I’m bingeing a not-great sci-fi series, I’m only a quarter of the way through the reports, and my eyes are burning. But it’s my first day, so I can’t expect to be able to cram everything about the whole company into my skull in one night.

  When I finally call it for the day, it’s almost two in the morning, and my head is swimming with facts and numbers.

  Yet, when I lie down and close my eyes, it’s Delia keeping me from falling asleep.

  Those eyes.

  That body.

  That attitude. It was always the attitude that got me. As a punk kid, her fiery spirit intimidated me, and I responded by trying to cut her down. As an adult? Her wild, uncontainable ferocity and stubbornness is complemented by a confidence she didn’t have back then.

  And that gives me a hell of a hard-on.

  “…and on either side of a doorway or a window, you double or triple the uprights,” Cal is saying.

  Cal is the head project foreman, the top dog out in the actual field, in charge of the day-to-day details of construction across all projects. “There are standard specific dimensions for everything, obviously. Studs are usually sixteen inches apart, stair riser standard is seven inches high by eleven deep.” He points up, at the ceiling framing. “Same thing up there. You have standard angles, distances, all that. It’s all been calculated and engineered, and it’s all covered under building codes. Before you can sell a house you’ve built, you have to have it certified by a code inspector, right, who checks to make sure everything follows all the rules. Keeps folks safe.”

  “And you know all this off the top of your head?” I ask.

  Cal nods. He’s short and broad, powerfully built, and radiates easygoing competence. Graying blond hair, short, neat goatee, with a plug of chewing tobacco between his teeth and lower lip. “Sure. Been doing this for damn near thirty years. My pops was a builder, and I grew up on-site with him, just like Delia with the Old Man, God rest him. I was framing by sixteen, supervising by twenty, and I’ve been lead project foreman for McKenna for the last twenty years. Do something every day for that long, you just remember that shit. Plus, it’s my job to know it.”

  I nod, and we move on through the partially framed shell that will be a house. Right now, it’s a handful of walls kept upright with bracers, and a poured concrete foundation.

  I spent the first week in the office, getting to know the HQ staff, learning their filing system, payroll, scheduling, accounting, all that. Now, halfway through my second week, I’m tagging along with Cal and trying to learn the basics of how to build a house. He’s been taking me from a site that’s just a hole in the dirt through the various stages, until Friday when I finally tour a completed, ready-to-sell spec home.

  It’s eye-opening. You get this idea that building a house is complicated, but until you see it firsthand, you really have no clue whatsoever.

  There are a million and a half moving parts, and just as many codes and requirements to keep track of, plus the manpower and subcontractors and their codes and their staffing and supply chain…

  My head is spinning.

  I’ve been avoiding Delia, truth be told. I want to be able to impress her with my knowledge of the business, next time I see her—

  Next time I have to engage in the verbal sparring contest that is having a conversation with that woman.

  The days go by quickly, and I’m on my feet more than ever.

  My loafers are filthy, and the interior of my McLaren is…hard to think about.

  By the end of the day, I’m ready for a beer and my bed.

  Cal walks me to my car, and whistles when he sees it. “Man, that is one sweet ride.”

  I nod. “Sure is.” I run my finger through the thick layer of dust on the windshield. “Not sure it’s practical for this environment, though.”

  Cal cackles. “Hell no, it ain’t. You’re gonna spend any time on-site, you need a truck. Or an SUV, even, if pickups aren’t your thing. But that sexy little rocket there? One of these days, we’re gonna get a load of fill gravel and you’re gonna be paying for dent removal and repainting, if not a new windshield as well.” He points at his truck, a two- or three-year-old silver F-150, and it does indeed sport some pretty sizable dents, as well as a spiderwebbing chip in the windshield.

  The thought of that happening to my McLaren makes my stomach hurt. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna go pick up a truck.”

  He digs his wallet out of his back pocket, pokes through it, and removes a business card. “My cousin runs the Ford dealership in town. Tell him Cal sent you, and he’ll hook you up.” He points at the neon yellow hardhat on my head. “Ask Jamie in the office, and she’ll get you your own hardhat with your name on it. Keep it in your truck—wearing one on-site is a nonnegotiable. And it’s not just for safety code, either. Someone up in the roof joists drops his hammer on your head and you’re not wearing one, you’ll be a vegetable.”

  I hadn’t considered that—I’d assumed it was mainly meant to satisfy a safety code, as he said. “Will do.” I shake his hand. “Thanks, Cal. See you tomorrow.”

  As I get into my car, I watch him head back to the site—the guys have knocked off for the day, yet there goes Cal, doing one last walk-through for forgotten tools, checking this, that, and the other thing.

  He takes the job seriously, he’s good at it, and he genuinely seems to take pride in what he does.

  It’s a good feeling, knowing I’m a part of it.

  Chapter Eight

  Delia

  On-site at a nearly finished home, just past dawn. Our guys usually start around eight, and Cal is normally on-site around seven thirty. When I do site checks, I like to do them early, before anyone is there. Especially now that I’m the big boss—I’m young, I’m not ugly, and I’m in charge…and a construction site is all horny and rambunctious men. It’s easier, some days, to just not deal with all that. I can, and do, I just don’t always want to, and seeing as I’m the boss, it’s my prerogative.

  So imagine my surprise when a big black pickup rolls up right as I shut off the engine of my vintage Bronco—it’s a resto-mod, and was the last gift Daddy ever gave me. It’s got some kind of ding-resistant paint, a new sound system, and a spray-out interior. The truck next to me isn’t brand, brand-new, but it’s pimped out. Tinted windows, lift kit, massive knobby off-road tires, custom exhaust, the works.

  My Spidey-sense tingles. New truck, and a blingy one that somehow manages to stop just short of looking like the owner is compensating for something.

  The door opens, and out steps Thai.

  My breath catches.

  His hair is still damp, and he’s dressed casually in light wash jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt, with tan Timberland boots. And, fuck me—the jeans are just tight enough to cling to thick, powerful legs without being too tight. The shirt is like a second skin, wrapped around broad, hard shoulders and a wide, tapered torso. He didn’t shave today, so his jaw is stubbled with a blond dusting of fine scruff.

  It’s not right. No one person should be allowed to be THAT good-looking.

  Especially someone who’s as much of a bastard as he is. He sees me in my truck, gives me a friendly smile and a two-finger salute, and heads toward the worksite.

  What’s he doing?

>   I stay in my Bronco and watch.

  The equipment trailer is locked of course, but he pulls a keyring out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hauls out a circular saw, a bucket of screws and a screw gun, a tape measure, and a few other odds and ends.

  Curious. I really wouldn’t have thought he even knew what a circular saw is. There’s a pile of scrap lumber just inside the shell of the partially framed house, and he sorts through it for a selection of pieces. Once he has what he wants, he brings it over to his work area.

  Consults something on his phone—watching a video, it looks like. Then he nods, shoves the phone in his back pocket, and begins measuring and marking. And he does in fact measure not just twice but three times before making his cuts. I’m not sure what he’s attempting to build just yet. He measures, marks, cuts, and after he’s made his cuts he measures again, and finally seems satisfied. Then, he begins assembling.

  After a few minutes, I understand what he’s building: a trunk with a lid. He must have brought his own set of hinges, since that’s not something we typically have just laying around worksites. When he’s done, he looks up at me for the first time, and gives a lopsided grin. Waves.