He locked his apartment and thundered down the narrow interior stairs to the street. He climbed into his truck, which was parked at the curb out front, started the engine, switched the music from country to the loudest, hardest metal he could find, and cranked it up until his windows rattled. That was his only hope of keeping his mind blank on the drive in, and he needed blank like a deployed soldier needed a blow job.

At this hour, traffic wasn’t an issue, and he was pulling up behind the office in no time, ready or not.

He allowed himself thirty seconds once the engine was off to close his eyes, consider the Draper project, where they’d be replacing the plumbing of the 1920s French-revival-style home later today. The day’s work was sure to turn up yet more challenges, as hundred-year-old buildings always did, but that sounded preferable, by far, to facing the woman who’d taunted his dreams all damn night.

“Nothing to do but do it,” he muttered as he gathered his bag and his travel mug of strong-ass coffee from home and left his tool belt behind the driver’s seat.

He entered through the side door into the kitchen area and instantly discerned two things—Sierra had already brewed her god-awful more-sugar-than-caffeine “coffee,” and she’d cranked up the furnace. He could see from the entryway that she was in her office with the light on. He went there directly.

“Morning,” he said from the doorway, taking in the sight of her sitting, as usual, at the table instead of her desk, dressed in her standard cargos—dark gray today—a fleece quarter-zip Dunn & Lowell pullover, and scuffed dark brown work boots. Her silky hair was in a high ponytail, and her pretty face radiated her typical early-morning optimism with a bright smile as she looked up at him and returned the greeting.

He shoved down the zap of lust when their eyes met and averted his quickly as he crossed the room to the chair opposite her.

“I didn’t expect you to make it this morning,” she said.

“We have a meeting, don’t we? Seven o’clock?”

“We did, but your weekend—”

“Everything ended up okay,” he said dismissively. She’d texted yesterday for a report on his mom, and he’d filled her in, so she knew the emergency element was past and what was left was a lot of healing and life revamping for his mom.

He set his canvas bag on the table, yanked his sweatshirt over his head, because, shit, she must have the heat set at about eighty degrees, and then took out his notebook and sat down. “How’s that application coming along?” he asked. The Eldridge competition was the reason for their meeting.