Shock poured through him. "I'm not afraid of being left. I've always broken up with women, not the other way around. Is it wrong to accept the truth about myself? I'm not meant for long-term or serious relationships. I'm not built that way."
Nate looked up and stared at him with serious eyes. "Connor, I need you to listen to me, man. You were left in the most devastating way possible. Mom left you. Oh, you always talked about how hard it was on me, but you're the one who got stuck with all the crap. You watched Dad take off and had to raise me. You had to be the parent in the relationship, and you never got the answers of why. Then you got this stupid idea that you had no brains, like the intelligence was distributed only to one family member, and you limited yourself."
His stomach lurched at the mention of Mom. He hated thinking about it, but Nate held his attention and he knew it was important to listen.
"I think you built this whole image of yourself because it was easier. Women flocked to you, so you gave them what they expected, and along the way, you lost who you really are. Dude, you're graduating with honors from college. You work on the fucking Tappan Zee Bridge, you're a master in construction, and now management hired you for their team. I saw you with Luke. He adores you, and that doesn't surprise me in the least. You're great with kids, and you'd be the best father in the world."
Raw emotion cut at him like tiny paper cuts. He wanted to duck his head, walk away, and not deal with his brother's speech, but he kept still and let himself really hear his brother for the first time.
"Ella sees everything in you that we all see, except for you. The only reason you let yourself make a move on her wasn't because she suddenly appeared in a skirt and heels. It was because you finally gave yourself permission. You took a chance. But then you spooked and backed off and tried to make yourself think it was better this way. It's not, Connor. You love Ella. You love Luke. Just let yourself love them, man, and take a shot. What do you really have to lose? A life of loneliness? A life filled with shallow encounters that never scratch the surface? You're worth more than that."
As his brother's words washed over him, his body came to life. The shaking started deep inside and spread throughout his body until the most ridiculous thing began to happen.
Tears stung his eyes.
Oh, fuck no. Not here. He absolutely refused to cry like a pussy in front of his brother in a bar.
Instead, he rubbed his face, took another swig of beer, and cleared his throat. "Okay."
Nate nodded and sipped at his god-awful feminine cocktail. "Okay."
A mixture of peace and acceptance flowed through him. His brother was right. He'd made a mistake, but it wasn't too late yet. He owed them both a chance to fix the wrongs and fight for something he wanted.
He sat with his brother in companionable silence and drank.
Chapter Fourteen
"...who shall measure the heat and violence of a poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?"--Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own
Ella clasped her hands on top of her desk and swept her gaze over the classroom. Students scribbled furiously, occasionally sneaking glances at the clock. The familiar sounds of low mutters, chairs creaking, and deep sighs echoed in the air. Final exams stressed everyone out, but she was positive she'd done her job and every single student would pass.
Even Connor Dunkle.
Her gaze settled on him for a heart-stopping instant. Those golden locks spilled over his forehead, and his brow was creased in concentration. He wrote in a frenzy, fingers gripped around his pen like a vise, concentration evident in the tight lines of his face.
It had been a week since their night together. Each day was painful, but Ella reminded herself it was better to heal now. At least Luke never got attached to the concept of them as a couple. At least she was the only casualty this time.
A sigh shuddered through her. After the anger passed, only a dull resignation settled in like a bad bruise. Connor had never pretended to be different. He hadn't promised her a future or even a tomorrow. Oh, she knew he cared about her, but he hadn't tumbled into love like she had. Eventually, she'd heal and hopefully they could remain friends. Maybe, with time, she'd be able to look into his face without craving to touch him.
Maybe not.
One by one, students finished their exam and dropped it off at her desk, gathered up their stuff and left. The end of the semester was always bittersweet. It reminded her of the passing of time, the growth of her students, and the hope she'd made a slight difference. Her love of literature was a part of her, and if she'd converted just one more person to recognize the beauty of the authors she taught, Ella considered it a life well lived.
"Time's up," she announced. Four students remained. She waited while they trudged over, dropping their papers, saying good-bye, and then leaving.
Connor remained behind.
Ella prayed he'd let her be. She was still too raw, like an oozing, open wound refusing to scab. Slowly, he unfurled his length from the chair and walked to her desk. Laid the exam in front of her. Then handed her a stack of papers neatly bound in a folder.
"I finished my extra credit project."
She nodded, her throat thick with emotion. "Congratulations. I'll grade it quickly and make sure I send the Registrar your grade so you can prepare for graduation. I have no doubt you did well on the final. You've been working hard."
"Ella. There's so much I want to say to you."
"Don't." Her voice broke and she let out a small laugh. "You don't, you don't need to say anything."
"I'm asking you to do one thing for me. Read my paper when you get home tonight. I need your feedback."
"Connor, I'm sure you did a great job."
"Read it. Tonight. Promise me?"
She gave a jerky nod, unable to speak. Those ocean-blue eyes raked over her face and down her body in a caress, blazing with intensity that made her shake. Then he was gone.
Ella buried her face in her hands. At least she didn't have to see him in class any longer. That would help.
She picked up the folder and skimmed through it. Neatly typed, with a full bibliography and references, it looked to be perfectly acceptable. She tossed it in the pile and got ready for her next class.
Hours later, she drove home, made dinner, and climbed into her pajamas. Luke had been in a good mood, chattering about school and his two new friends, and she savored his happiness, allowing it to fill her up and soothe her pain. He went upstairs to shower and get ready for bed, and Ella decided to make a cup of tea and curl up on the sofa with a book.
As she made her tea, her gaze fell on her briefcase. Why was Connor so insistent she read his paper tonight? Was he really worried she wouldn't pass him? A tingle of awareness flowed through her. With a sigh, she retrieved his paper, a red pen, and sat down with her tea. Better to read it now and let him know or he'd worry.
Time ticked. She flipped pages, jotting down notes and growing more impressed by the depth of the work. It was obvious he wasn't crazy about To the Lighthouse, but he seemed to embrace Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. A smile rested on her lips. He was a closet romantic and didn't realize it. His overall insights to A Room of One's Own startled her with depth. He'd stripped away his usual mockery of whining women and connected with the isolation and dedication a woman writer had to face; the solitude and willingness to dive deep in order to unearth the emotions needed to bleed on the page.
A dull ache settled into her bones as she reached the end. God, she missed him. It was as if he was right here next to her while she read his voice on the page. Ella began to close the folder when her fingers skated over one last paper.
A letter.
She sucked in her breath. A letter handwritten to her, the personal scrawl filling up the page. She closed her eyes. Could she do this right now? Was she ready to hear things that would only hurt her deeper?
Ella began to read.
Dear Ella,
You were right. When we first met, it was e
asy to resist you. Besides being a pain in the ass, failing me in class, and finding out you were my new next-door neighbor, I wasn't truly prepared to think of you in any romantic way. When I bonded with Luke, I realized what a wonderful mother you were. When you insisted on pushing my limits in class, I realized what a wonderful teacher you were. When you challenged me to get real, I realized what a wonderful woman you were.
But you were also wrong. It wasn't your image, or clothes, or perfume that finally made me surrender to my need to touch you. I had been searching for you my entire life, but I didn't know it yet. Unfortunately, what I had been searching for I was also terrified of finding. It was easier to hide with shallow relationships and believe in a stereotype I'd been taught my entire life.
That I wasn't worth loving.
You taught me I am. You taught me to stop settling and relying on my surface qualities to skate through life without injury. You taught me there was something greater to fight for, but once again, my insecurities and fear allowed me to let you walk away.
I love the way you scrunch up your nose when you're irritated. I love the way you giggle when Luke tells those terrible knock-knock jokes, and I love your awful meatloaf you still insist on serving, and I love the way you defend the beauty of Virginia Woolf, and I love those ugly sweaters you wear, and the beautiful body and heart and soul that beats true beneath your clothes.
I love you, Ella Blake. I love your son. You're the only woman I want, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life convincing you I'm worth taking a second chance on.
Open your door.
Connor
She didn't hesitate. The decision had been made the moment his soul-stirring words lifted from the paper and arrowed straight through to her heart. She rose from the couch, walked across the room, and opened the door.
He stood before her clutching a bouquet of red roses.
"Will you be mine, Ella Blake?"
She gazed at his beloved face and the way his eyes told her the truth, gleaming in the depths of a bottomless ocean blue.
"I already was," she said simply.
She stepped into his arms and he kissed her, long and slow and sweet. When he lifted his head, Ella smiled.
"You officially passed my class. Congratulations."
He laughed and swung her up high, holding her close, and Ella realized they'd both found what they were searching for and more.
The End
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The Billionaire Builders
by Jennifer Probst
May 31, 2016
Click here to pre-order.
Hot on the heels of her beloved Marriage to a Billionaire novels, New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Probst nails it with the first in an all-new sexy romance series featuring red-hot contractor siblings who give the Property Brothers a run for their money!
Ever the responsible eldest brother, Caleb Pierce started working for his father's luxury contracting business at a young age, dreaming of one day sitting in the boss's chair. But his father's will throws a wrench in his plans by stipulating that Caleb share control of the family business with his two estranged brothers.
Things only get more complicated when demanding high-end home designer Morgan hires Caleb to build her a customized dream house that matches her specifications to a T--or she'll use her powerful connections to poison the Pierce brothers' reputation. Not one to ignore a challenge, Caleb vows to get the job done--if only he can stop getting distracted by his new client's perfect...amenities.
But there's more to icy Morgan than meets the eye. And Caleb's not the only one who knows how to use a stud-finder. In fact, Morgan is pretty sure she's found hers--and he looks quite enticing in a hard hat. As sparks fly between Morgan and Caleb despite his best intentions not to mix business and pleasure, will she finally warm up and help him lay the foundation for everlasting love?
Prologue
Caleb Pierce craved a cold beer, air-conditioning, his dogs, and maybe a pretty brunette to warm his bed.
Instead, he got lukewarm water, choking heat, his head in an earsplitting vice, and a raging bitch testing his temper.
And it was only eight a.m.
"I told you a thousand times I wanted the bedroom for my mother off the garage." Lucy Weatherspoon jabbed her French-manicured finger at the framing and back at the plans they'd changed twelve times. "I need her to have privacy and her own entrance. If this is the garage, why is the bedroom off the other side?"
He reminded himself again that running your own company had its challenges. One of them was clients who thought building a house was like shopping at the mall. Sure, he was used to difficult clients, but Lucy tested even his patience. She spoke to him as if he was a bit dim-witted just because he wore jeans with holes in them and battered work boots and had dust covering every inch of his body. His gut had told him to turn down the damn job of building her dream house, but his stubborn father overruled him, calling her congressman husband and telling him Pierce Brothers would be fucking thrilled to take on the project. His father always did have a soft spot for power. Probably figured the politician would owe him a favor.
Yeah, Cal would rather have a horse head in his bed than deal with Congressman Weatherspoon's wife.
He wiped the sweat off his brow, noting the slight wrinkle of her nose telling him he smelled. For fun, he deliberately took a step closer to her. "Mrs. Weatherspoon, we went over this several times, and I had you sign off. Remember? Your mother's bedroom has to be on the other side of the house because you decided you wanted the billiard room to be accessed from the garage. Of course, I can add it to the second floor with a private entry, but we'd need to deal with a staircase or elevator."
"No. I want it on the ground floor. I don't remember signing off on this. Are you telling me I need to choose between my mother and the pool table room?"
He tried hard not t
o gnash his teeth. He'd already lost too much of the enamel, and they'd just broken ground on this job. "No. I'm saying if we put the bedroom on the other side of the house, it won't break the architectural lines, and you can have everything you want. Just. Like. We. Discussed."
She tapped her nude high-heeled foot, studying him as if trying to decipher whether he was a sarcastic asshole or just didn't understand how to talk to the natives. He gave his best dumb look, and finally she sighed. "Fine. I'll bend on this."
Oh, goody.
"But I changed my mind on the multilevel deck. I found this picture on Houzz and want you to recreate it." She shoved a glossy printout of some Arizona-inspired massive patio that was surrounded by a desert. And yep, just as he figured, it was from a spa hotel, which looked nothing like the lake-view property he was currently building on. Knowing it would look ridiculous on the elegant colonial that rivaled a Southern plantation, he forced himself to nod and pretend to study the picture.
"Yes, we can definitely discuss this. Since the deck won't affect my current framing, let's revisit when we begin designing the outside."
That placated her enough to get her to smile stiffly. "Very well. Oh, I'd better go. I'm late for the charity breakfast. I'll check in with you later, Caleb."
"Great." He nodded as she picked her way carefully over the building site and watched her pull away in her shiny black Mercedes. Cal shook his head and gulped down a long drink of water, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Next time, he'd get his architect Brady to deal with her. He was good at charming an endless array of women when they drew up plans, but was never around to handle the temper tantrums on the actual job.
Then again, Brady had always been smarter than him.
Cal did a walk-through to check on his team. The pounding sounds of classic Aerosmith blared from an ancient radio that had nothing on those fancy iPods. It had been on hundreds of jobs with him, covered in grime, soaked with water, battered by falls, and never stopped working. Sure, when he ran, he liked those wireless contraptions, but Cal always felt as if he was born a few decades too late. To him, simple was better. Simple worked just fine, but the more houses he built, the more he was surrounded by requests for fancier equipment, for endless rooms that would never be used, and for him to clear land better left alone.