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  The rumble of a diesel engine and tires crunching over gravel came through the open doorway, tearing her attention away from those thoughts she had no desire to explore at the moment.

  “Finally,” Paxton said, making her way past Donovan and through the kitchen. “That must be the TVs.”

  She exited the side door and rounded the front of the building, waving at the delivery truck driver. Thankfully, the rain had lightened to a steady but weaker sprinkle.

  “Over here,” Paxton called, waving her hands.

  A loud bark came from just behind her a second before Heinz, the huge mutt she’d nursed back to health after he’d gotten into a fight with a coyote, came barreling into her legs. Paxton’s fingers automatically scratched the scruff behind his ear.

  “What in the world,” Belinda said as she came down the stairs, followed closely by Harlon and Donovan. The four of them stood to the side, surveying the deliverymen as they carted a fifty-five-inch LCD TV into the building.

  Harlon pointed to the delivery truck’s raised gate. “What did you do, girl? Buy out the entire store?”

  “You can’t have a sports bar with that little black-and-white television behind the bar,” Paxton said.

  “How many TVs did you buy?” Belinda asked, her voice a combination of awe and trepidation.

  Bracing herself for her mother’s reaction, Paxton said, “Eight.”

  “Eight!” Belinda’s screech echoed around the open clearing. “No, no, no.” She held her hands out in an attempt to stop the deliverymen. They bypassed her and carried in the second television. “There’s not enough room in this bar for eight TVs.”

  “We’ll make them fit,” Paxton said. “Oh, I forgot to mention that the guy from the satellite company will be a little late, but it should be installed by tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Donovan said, rubbing his hands together. “You got the football package?”

  “Of course.” Paxton nodded. “And I’ve already ordered the NBA package, too.”

  “This place is gonna be fiyah. Maybe I don’t need to worry about college. I can just work here.”

  Belinda grasped Paxton’s forearm and gave it a slight squeeze. “How much is all of this costing you?” she asked.

  Despite the genuine concern in her mother’s voice, Paxton ignored the question, just as she had ignored it the 542 times Belinda had inquired about the cost of all of this in the months since Harlon decided to retire and sell the bar.

  She knew her mother was concerned about the money. She was always concerned about money. She’d tended bar at Harlon’s for the past thirty-two years, and although Harlon had always paid her a fair wage, this little watering hole on the low-income side of Gauthier had never made enough to make anyone rich.

  Barely scraping by had been a way of life for her mother for far too long. She’d sacrificed everything—food in her belly, clothes on her back, countless hours of sleep—all to make sure Paxton had an easier road than the one she’d traveled.

  One could argue that Paxton had sacrificed just as much as her mother had. After all, she’d spent the better part of her adolescence working side by side with Belinda in this very bar. They were a team, always had been. But the few hours she spent helping out in the evenings and weekend here at Harlon’s was nothing compared with the time and hard work Belinda had put in day after day, year after year.

  That she could now afford to properly thank her mother for all she’d given up for her filled Paxton’s chest with pride.

  Which was why she refused to engage in any discussion of what all of this was costing her. As a project manager for one of the largest engineering firms in the Gulf South, she’d managed to build a nice nest egg in a relatively short amount of time. Sure, she’d emptied it in order to buy this place and renovate it, but Paxton had a set of career goals in front of her; she was confident she would be able to replenish her savings in a matter of a few short years. Especially if things went as she’d planned them out in her head.

  “With all the money you’ve put into this place, you’ll have to sell a lot of beer and tater skins to break even,” Harlon remarked as the final television was carted through the door.

  “Could we please close this subject?” Paxton said. “We still have a lot to do before the grand opening, and I’ve got to be at the Gauthier Law Firm early in the morning.”

  “What you got going on over there?” Harlon asked. “You need Matt Gauthier to get you out of a bind?”

  Paxton shook her head. “Matt has been kind enough to let us use the extra conference room as a temporary office for the flood protection project I’m working on. I’m lucky that he had some available space.”

  At least Paxton thought she was lucky, until this past Thursday when she’d discovered that the state engineer who’d been assigned to the project had abruptly left the Army Corps of Engineer Civil Works department. He’d been replaced by another civil engineer. Sawyer Robertson.

  The muscles in her belly tightened just at the thought of his damn name.

  Why, why, why did it have to be Sawyer?

  Although it didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand why, of all the civil engineers on the state’s payroll, Sawyer would be the one chosen to take over for the departing engineer. It was the same reason the management team at Bolt-Myer had tasked her with this project. They were both familiar with the area. Like her, Sawyer had grown up in Gauthier. He knew the lay of the land, and, even more importantly, he knew the people. The people in Gauthier could trust that both she and Sawyer would give their all to this project.

  Still, if given the option, would she trade her car instead of working with Sawyer? Heck yes, she would.

  She’d tried to convince herself that it wasn’t a big deal, but the thought of facing Sawyer tomorrow had her stomach in knots. She hated it, but Paxton couldn’t deny it. She was human, after all. She had an exceedingly acceptable reason for why just the thought of working with Sawyer made her nervous and uncomfortable and ready to bury her head in the sand and not come out until this project was over.

  But she couldn’t do that, either.

  Nor could she walk into that office tomorrow with even a hint of trepidation or intimidation at seeing Sawyer Robertson for the first time in three years. She’d made her bed where he was concerned—literally. And now it was time to lay in it.

  No. No. No! There would be no lying in bed with Sawyer. It was bad enough they had to share the same work space for the next four weeks. She didn’t want to be anywhere near a bed when Sawyer was around.

  Okay, so that was a lie, but she was prepared to tell herself whatever was necessary to get through these next four weeks with her sanity intact.

  Four weeks! Good God, how would she survive being confined to a tiny conference room with that man for an entire month?

  She clutched her stomach with one hand in an attempt to combat the anxiety rioting through her belly. She’d faced some tough challenges in her thirty-seven years, but Paxton had a feeling this would be one of the toughest yet.

  * * *

  “Fine, you win.”

  Sawyer Robertson tossed the package of fancy adhesive strips on the table and looked around for some good old-fashioned Scotch tape. Detesting the thought of admitting defeat, he quickly picked up the adhesive strips again, his fingers aching from the strain of twisting the heavy cardboard and plastic back and forth.

  He dropped his head back and sighed. “Scissors, you idiot.”

  Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he walked out of the Gauthier Law Firm’s small conference room and over to office manager Carmen Mitchell’s desk.

  “Hey, Carmen, can I borrow a pair of scissors?” Sawyer asked. “I swear they don’t want you to get into this thing.”

  “Give me that,” Carmen said. She plucked the package from his
hands, poked a hole in the cardboard with a letter opener and sliced it open, then handed it to him.

  She snorted, shaking her head. “And to think you were considered one of the smart ones.”

  Sawyer couldn’t help but laugh. He’d attended Gauthier High School with the law practice’s longtime secretary. Nice to see she was as smart-mouthed as ever.

  “Trust me. Advanced calculus is ten times easier than opening this package,” Sawyer said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Carmen waved him off. She motioned to the small table in the corner that held a coffeepot. “There’s fresh coffee over there, but it’s decaf.”

  “In other words, there’s fresh brown water over there.”

  “You sound like Matt,” she said. “And just like I tell him, you can buy one of those nice single-serve coffee machines with the individual coffee pods, or you drink what I make.”

  “Or I can just walk across the street to the Jazzy Bean for my caffeine fix,” Sawyer said.

  “That, too. But I still want the fancy coffeemaker.” She looked up from her computer and nodded in the direction of the conference room. “You need any help setting up in there?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got it from here.” Sawyer turned back toward the conference room but then pivoted on his heel. “Hey, Carmen. The project manager should have been here already. Can you point him to the conference room whenever he gets in?”

  “Sure, but you know the project manager is—” The phone rang. Carmen held up a finger. “Gauthier Law Firm.”

  Sawyer held up the pack of adhesive strips and mouthed, “Thanks again,” before returning to the conference room and closing the door behind him so that he wouldn’t disturb Carmen any more than he already had this morning.

  The room was on the smallish side. An eight-foot well-worn, but polished, wooden table took up a vast majority of the space. There were two makeshift desks on either side of the room—small folding tables, each with a table lamp and a chair. A two-drawer filing cabinet stood next to the table on the opposite end of the room from the one he’d chosen. His desk sat underneath a window overlooking Heritage Park.

  It was one of the perks of being the first to arrive. If P. Jones wanted a say in which desk he would work at for the next four weeks, he should have shown up for work on time.

  Someone, probably Carmen, had placed a yellow legal pad, a pack of pens and a box of paper clips on each desk. All in all it was pretty bare-bones, but that wouldn’t last for long. If the past projects he’d worked on were any indication, by the end of the week every surface in this room would be covered with modeling charts, cost estimates and reams of paper covered in specs.

  Sawyer unrolled the preliminary diagram of the flood control structure that had been proposed by Bolt-Myer Engineering, the Arkansas-based firm that had won the bid for this project. The company was smart enough to have several Louisiana branches; the state legislature was known for awarding contracts to local companies.

  Using the adhesive strips, he tacked the design up to the conference room’s paneled walls.

  “Much better,” Sawyer said as he gave each twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch printout a cursory glance. He would still need at least another day or so to pore over all the documents he’d received from his supervisor at the Army Corps of Engineers, where he’d worked since returning to Louisiana seven months ago.

  He had only been assigned to this project this past Thursday, after his former colleague, Raymond Burrell, abruptly left for a more lucrative position in the private sector. Sawyer couldn’t really blame the guy. Ray had a wife and three kids; he had to do what he had to do in order to provide for his family.

  Sawyer had missed Friday’s kickoff meeting with the project manager from Bolt-Myer. He’d flown out to Los Angeles to be with his aunt Lydia who’d celebrated her sixtieth birthday with a party at her new home in Chatsworth. Sawyer knew it was something his father would have wanted him to do, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d flown out there to surprise her. Lydia had been somewhat of a surrogate mother to him ever since his own mother had died more than two decades ago, back when he was still in high school.

  But now that his family obligations were fulfilled, Sawyer was ready to get to work. He’d wanted on this project from the very beginning, but he’d been too busy finishing the levee surveying study around Lake Pontchartrain. He put his heart and soul into every job he worked on, but this one was different.

  This was Gauthier.

  Ray’s departure had opened the door for Sawyer to work on something that was close to his heart—saving his hometown from potential disaster.

  Once he was done hanging the computer-assisted-design drawings on the walls, he went over to his desk, taking a moment to appreciate the brilliant view of Heritage Park. It was just one of the things he’d missed about Gauthier in the three years that he lived in Chicago.

  Sawyer tried not to think about that time for a number of reasons, his ill-fated marriage being only one of them. But of the things he regretted during his short stint in Illinois, the awkward farce of a relationship with Angelique wasn’t even at the top of the list.

  That spot was reserved for another disaster, one that Sawyer would not allow to happen here in Gauthier.

  His complacency back in his old job had cost business owners their livelihoods. It cost some people their homes. Some even lost their pets. All because he hadn’t spoken up sooner when his gut told him that something wasn’t right.

  This was his chance to make up for those past mistakes. He would not remain silent this time.

  Would it change what happened in Illinois? No. Nothing would make up for what his inability to speak up had caused, but at least he knew better now. He wouldn’t allow the catastrophe that had happened on his last project to happen here.

  This town—the place where his mother was born and raised, the place his father had quickly adopted as his own—meant too much to him to let anything happen to it. He wasn’t doing this just for the people of Gauthier. He was doing it for his mom and dad. He would take care of the town they both loved so much.

  He would make sure this P. Jones person understood that from the very beginning. When it came to Gauthier’s flood protection system, there would be no cutting corners.

  Sawyer checked his watch—the silver Seiko his father had given him as a gift years ago—and cursed underneath his breath. He’d always considered punctuality to be the most telling sign of a professional. Apparently, he wasn’t dealing with a professional here.

  He sat behind his makeshift desk and lifted the plans for the proposed reservoir; then he heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the conference room door. He recognized Matthew Gauthier’s voice. Matt’s family had founded the town of Gauthier and had owned this law firm for generations. There was a feminine laugh. Sawyer figured the other voice must belong to Carmen. But then the conference room door opened. And his heart stopped.

  Paxton Jones plopped a hand on her hip and said, “Well, hell.”

  Chapter 2

  “Paxton? What are you doing here?”

  The shock on Sawyer Robertson’s face was laughable. If this were a laughing matter.

  It was not. There was nothing even remotely funny about this.

  The moment her eyes popped open that morning, Paxton knew she would live to regret not checking her phone to make sure she’d set the alarm. She and Belinda had stayed out at the bar much later than originally planned, getting the last bit of odds and ends done before tonight’s reopening. By the time she fell face-first onto her pillow, Paxton could barely move, let alone check the alarm on her phone. When her mother knocked on the door of her childhood bedroom that morning, Paxton discovered that she’d overslept by more than an hour.

  To make matters worse, there was only one bathroom in the single-wide trailer where she’d gro
wn up, and, as per usual, she had to fight Belinda over bathroom time.

  Why did she allow her mother to talk her into staying at home instead of at Belle Maison? Not only was the quaint bed-and-breakfast closer to the Gauthier Law Firm, but Bolt-Myer would have footed the bill for it. Instead, Paxton had to make the twenty-minute drive in from Landreaux, which didn’t help with getting in to work on time.

  Not the best way to make a first impression.

  Paxton gestured to Sawyer’s desk. “I wanted that table,” she said. Then, remembering that she had to share this space with him for the next four weeks, she added in a more amiable tone, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he replied. He stared at her for a moment before his eyes widened. “Wait.” He picked up one of the documents from his desk and, pointing at it, said, “You’re P. Jones?”

  “Since birth,” Paxton answered.

  The combination of bafflement and amusement remained on his face as he tossed the papers back on the tabletop and rose from his chair. It was downright mystifying how this man could make a simple pair of gray slacks and a plain white button-down look so good. The unassuming clothes fit his tall, solid frame to perfection, the sleeves of his shirt folded back at the cuff, giving the barest glimpse of his powerful forearms.

  Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sauntered toward her.

  Paxton braced herself for the onslaught of longing that never failed to pummel her whenever she was around him.

  Breathe through it, girl.

  “This is a surprise,” Sawyer said, a hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I knew you worked for Bolt-Myer, but I never put two and two together. I assumed the P stood for Paul or Patrick.”

  “Oh, wow! Really?” she asked with exaggerated exuberance. “Your 1950s mentality makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”