On that rule, they both agreed.

Morgan dropped her clipboard into the backseat and marched over to him. “Why are you staring at me like I’ve turned into E.T.?”

He jerked a thumb toward her feet. “How the hell did you get pink work boots?”

She wrinkled her nose and gave a humph. “I can get rare Italian tapestry from Rome if a client wants it. Pink work boots are easy. And why do you suddenly care what color my boots are? You’ve seen them before. We’re wasting time. Tell me what you want me to concentrate on. Roof?”

Irritation bristled from his frame. “Even your hard hat is pink.”

“Yep. My hat and boots both meet the standard requirements to be on the job. My mother instilled one hard lesson: a woman can do any job yet still look her best. Now, come on, Charming. Time is ticking. Where do you want me?”

He blinked. Muttered something under his breath. Morgan wished he wasn’t so damn adorable when he was pissy.

“You sure you’re not gonna fall off a ladder and sue me?” he drawled.

Morgan grinned. “I happen to love heights. Much better than doing trim. Also love banging the crap out of something and imagining the nail to be . . . someone else.”

He laughed out loud at that one. Her heart squeezed a bit from the sound, and she wished she could hear it again. And again.

“Okay, princess, take a quick look at those plans, grab a hammer, and get your ass up over there.”

She wrinkled her nose at the foul smell. “First I’m hosing everything down. Thank God I didn’t get the oysters this week.”

She caught his eye roll, but it was done with exaggerated patience. She hooked up the hose and washed down the site until it was to her satisfaction, then got her ass on the ladder.

They worked in silence other than old-school Van Halen blaring from the speakers. The sun beat with brutal waves down on her body, but she was Charleston born and bred, and nothing burned hotter than a Southern summer. She slipped into contractor mode, not having to worry about anything but the materials in front of her, and got into a steady rhythm. She hauled the lumber over her shoulder and climbed the ladder, making steady progress as morning drifted to afternoon.

Until her stomach growl beat out the solo guitar thrumming the airwaves.

Cal wiped the sweat off his brow and hit the STOP button on the boom box. “I heard that. Let’s take ten minutes to eat.”

She nodded, climbed down, and grabbed another bottle of water from the cooler. “I didn’t bring anything.”

“I’ll split my sandwich with you. You like ham?”

“I’d weep if you offered me just a saltine right now.”

“Ham it is.” They collapsed onto two cinder blocks and tore in. The hero was full of good, unhealthy stuff like cheese, mayo, and pickles, and she tried not to moan in ecstasy as her tummy got filled. She washed it down with Coke—not Diet—and eyed the bag of chips. Crap. Her personal Kryptonite. Most women fell to their knees for chocolate, but she worshipped every chip she’d ever eaten. Her idea of heaven was being locked in the Lay’s factory. She tried to distract herself. “Your website says Pierce Brothers has been a family-owned company for decades. Was it passed down through your father?”

“No, it was actually from my mother. It was originally built by my great-great-great-grandfather. They all had boys to pass the company down to until my mom kind of put things in a tailspin.” A brief smile tugged at his lips. “She was the only girl.”

“Uh-oh. Did they try to arrange a marriage or something?”

“Nope, she learned the business from the ground up. When she met and married my father, there were no conditions. She could have kept the company in her own name—Wingate Custom Builders—but decided to sign it over to my father when I was born. Changed the name to Pierce Brothers. Must’ve sensed there’d be another boy on the way.”

Morgan studied his face. Those gunmetal eyes had grown a bit misty, as if he was trapped in a memory that gave him pleasure. “So, it was a true family business.”

And just like that, the distance snapped back. “My father had a firm idea what he wanted, so we just had to follow the plan.”

“Is your mother still involved in the company?”

“No. She’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Not a problem, I just don’t want to get all touchy-feely about it. You want a chip?”

He held out the bag like Satan tempting Eve, and her fingers grabbed it. “Yes. Thanks. Just one.”

“How’s the Hilton?”

The first crunch almost made her moan. Ah, dear God, they were sour cream and onion! What did he say? “Nice. Luxurious. Of course, room service and eating out gets old, but I’m used to it.”

He stretched out long jean-clad legs. “So, basically, you don’t have any type of home base?”

“I thought about buying a condo or a studio in Manhattan, but it doesn’t make sense. I average six months in a place, sometimes less, and I can’t have a bunch of different properties scattered. Hotels are more convenient, and I only stay in the penthouse. Not much to complain about.”

She felt his gaze on her, but she concentrated on the chips. “Do you miss having a home?”

The question was like a bowling ball demolishing all twelve pins in a strike. Her insides took the hit, but she refused to let the emotions show on her face. Her gut screamed the truth. Yes. She wanted a home of her own, a sanctuary that was hers alone. A place no one else could tell her what to do or how to do it. Someplace she could cook and watch TV in flannel pajamas and crank the music really loud and dance like no one watched, because no one could. But she didn’t utter any of those words. There was no point. Morgan loved her career and what she’d accomplished, and certain things needed to be sacrificed. Her parents had given her a solid home base she hoped she’d have for her own one day, on her terms.