You Can Leave Your Hard Hat On

  From fan-favorite author Stephanie Bond comes a beloved and sexy novella about finding love where you’d least expect it.

  Successful architect Samantha Stone finds the tool belt and bulging muscles sexy, but her employee Teague Brownlee digs dirt for a living. If backhoes are his business, then his sweet backside is none of hers!

  Originally published in 2006.

  You Can Leave Your Hard Hat On

  Stephanie Bond

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  PROLOGUE

  “SO THE QUESTION IS,” Samantha Stone said, arching her eyebrows at her long-distance best friends Abby Vandiver and Carley DeLuna, “where are all the good men?”

  The women each maintained hectic schedules yet never missed a quarterly lunch and shopping date in Manhattan, where their respective careers took them on occasion.

  Sam ran a finger over the line sketch she’d doodled—on a cocktail napkin—of her upcoming architectural project, which was expected to cement her reputation. “I mean, here we are, three fabulous, successful women in our early thirties, and we’re single.” Tucking a strand of long blond hair behind her ear, she frowned. “I could understand if we all lived in the same city—but it’s the same story in Dallas, D.C. and Charlotte. I think what we’re witnessing is a nationwide shortage of marriageable men.”

  Abby Vandiver, a D.C. marketing wunderkind, made a derisive noise, her silvery-gray eyes flashing. “The problem is that smart, self-made women are too threatening to men’s fragile egos. Trust me—my ex-husband is a prime example. Big-boobed waitresses are much easier to deal with than a woman who might take your job.” The frustration on her face was clear—she could make over a so-so product and turn it into an overnight sensation, but she hadn’t been able to find a man who didn’t want to make her over.

  Carley DeLuna nodded, her brown curls bobbing, her dark eyes solemn beneath the brim of a pale-blue Parisian couture hat. Over the past few years, Carley had turned her unassuming upscale vintage clothing store in Charlotte into the East Coast source for A-list celebrities. “Think about it—even the guys we knew at Wharton dated women who were beneath them on the economic food chain.”

  Abby nodded. “So if we’re near the top of that food chain, where does that leave us?”

  “Lonely,” Carley said, her voice wistful. Of their threesome, she had always been the romantic. She toyed with the Ford Thunderbird convertible brochure lying next to her plate. “It’s enough to make me think twice about buying my new car. Maybe it’s too…pretentious.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Abby said. “You’ll look terrific sitting behind the wheel of that car. Men don’t mind announcing their success, and neither should we.”

  “Right.” Samantha sipped from her second glass of wine—or was it her third? The two empty bottles of merlot on the table might explain their philosophical state of mind. “And personally, I’d rather be lonely than settle for a man who isn’t my equal on every level.”

  “Hear, hear,” Abby said. “I’ve worked so hard to break the glass ceiling at my company—I refuse to downplay my success in order to find romance.”

  “I feel the same way,” Carley said. “I couldn’t be happy with someone who doesn’t have the same drive that I have.” Then she frowned. “Unfortunately, the only men who ask me out still live with their mothers.”

  Abby and Samantha groaned in sympathy.

  “I’m on the radar of every loser in D.C.,” Abby said. “I meet a cute guy on the train, and, inevitably, he’s barely employed.”

  “If he’s employed,” Samantha said. “I’ve dated more guys who are ‘between jobs’ than I care to remember. A couple of them even asked me to help them find jobs.”

  “Good grief,” Abby said. “Call me shallow, but I’m a successful woman, and I think I deserve to have a successful man in my life.”

  “But not just successful,” Samantha offered dreamily. “Someone who makes those long hours at the office worthwhile…who likes adventure…who pushes me out of my comfort zone…”

  “You’re twirling your hair,” Carley chided.

  Abby harrumphed. “And you’re describing someone who, to my knowledge, doesn’t exist.”

  “God, I hope that isn’t true,” Sam said, stopping mid-twirl to tuck her hair back, keeping with her polished public image.

  Carley tapped her finger on the car brochure. “Maybe we need to be more…selective. You know—raise our standards.”

  “Amen,” Abby said. “And stick to them. Hold out for a man who is worthy of our fabulousness.”

  “You’re right,” Sam said, perking up. “After all, there must be three quality men out there…somewhere.”

  “All we need is one in Dallas, one in D.C. and one in Charlotte,” Carley said with a laugh.

  “It’s going to be like finding a needle in a haystack,” mused Abby the cynic. “Think it’s possible?”

  “Absolutely,” Carley insisted.

  “A pact,” Samantha said, raising her glass. “No more dating unsuitable guys.”

  “No freaks,” Carley said, raising her glass.

  “No geeks,” Abby said, raising hers.

  “No bartenders,” chimed in Samantha.

  “No janitors,” Carley added.

  “No ditch-diggers,” Samantha said.

  “No unemployed actors, musicians or artists,” Abby added.

  “And no used-car salesmen,” rounded out Carley.

  “Agreed,” Samantha said, clinking her glass against theirs, then glanced at her watch. “Oh, sorry, girls—I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my flight. How about if we compare notes in three months?” They checked their PDAs and set a tentative date for their next rendezvous, to coincide with Abby’s return to Manhattan for a seminar.

  “Good luck with your plans to build the Carlyle Library,” Abby said to Samantha in between farewell hugs.

  “Thanks. Good luck with your next makeover project. And Carley, I’ll look for one of your gowns on the red carpet of the Academy Awards.”

  Carley dimpled. “Thanks.”

  “And don’t forget our pact,” Samantha said as she backed away from the table. “No matter how lonely we get or how tempted we are, we have to keep reminding ourselves that there are certain kinds of guys that women should never date.” She grinned. “I have a good feeling about this.”

  “Me, too,” Abby said.

  “And me,” Carley agreed. “In fact, I’ll wager that the next time we get together, we’ll be talking about the rich, worldly, glamorous men in our lives!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, we’re making our final approach into Dallas. At this time, please stow your tray tables and return your seats to their upright position. And remember, there are some guys that you should never date.”

  Samantha Stone’s eyes popped open and she straightened in her window seat. As the rest of the flight announcement floated away, she realized that in her dream state she had projected her own thoughts through the PA system. She’d definitely had too much wine with the girls.

  Next to her, a young couple sat with their shoulders and heads close, poring over brochures of Hawaii—their obvious destination after connecting in Dallas. Their excitement and love for each other overflowed in every glance, ever
y gesture. They could barely keep their hands off each other.

  Sam’s heart squeezed with an unidentifiable emotion—envy? The way the young man’s fingers mirrored the young woman’s, pressing intimately before intertwining, pinged a memory chord. Unbidden, a set of hooded green eyes rose in her mind—he had laced their hands over her head as he had settled his body over hers, with the most intense eye contact and the most complete connection that she had ever experienced with a man.

  Sam blinked. Only Teague Brownlee hadn’t been a man—he’d been a handsome rebel boy with raging hormones and a desire to bed a girl way out of his league. They’d shared a one-night stand the night of graduation…the culmination of four years of flirtatious looks across the crowded halls of their high school from the safe confines of their respective cliques—hers the most popular, his the most notorious.

  She willed away the distant memory, as she had a thousand times before, but it stubbornly lingered. Forgetting Teague Brownlee had become an automatic reflex after she had left Gypsum, a suburb of Dallas, to study architecture at Georgia Tech in Atlanta. She had been single-minded, determined to get her degree in record time while maintaining top honors.

  That forbidden night with Teague had crept into her thoughts often in those days, usually at night when she’d pulsed with homesickness and loneliness. But the desire to be in his arms had been overridden by her desire to succeed, to prove her mettle to her successful father, to make her mark in what was still primarily a man’s industry. Being involved with someone like Teague, a guy with no ambition and no prospects, would only have held her back. Besides, she’d burned that bridge the morning after their illicit night together.

  She hadn’t thought of Teague in years and blamed the flashback on the lunch talk with Abby and Carley. Deep down, she wondered if her vehemence in denouncing men who were less driven had something to do with Teague Brownlee. She remembered feeling frustrated and angry that he’d seemed directionless and bound for mediocrity because she’d thought he could do better for himself…that they might have had more than one night together if he hadn’t been willing to settle for a small life in the small town of Gypsum. She idly wondered what had become of him and decided that he was doing something with his hands or working in one of Gypsum’s factories, probably married to a pretty Gypsum girl, the two of them raising a gaggle of wild Gypsum kids.

  Through the small rectangular window the Dallas skyline came into view. Fondness swelled Sam’s chest. She knew each building by its shape and height, knew the architect’s name and the approximate year it had been erected. Someday she hoped that her own unique structures would pierce the skyline, that the name Samantha Stone would be synonymous with progressive architecture and an era of new growth for the city.

  The young woman next to her laughed, touching her boyfriend’s face. They were oblivious to her. Sam shifted slightly in her seat to give them more room, more privacy…and to distance herself from their intimacy.

  When she was their age, she was contemplating postgraduate work at Wharton, where she would eventually meet Abby and Carley. She had taken herself so seriously, always thinking that there would be time for a relationship after she finished school, after she was situated in a good career path.

  But instead of slowing down, her life had only become more hectic. One assignment had melded into another as she tried to prove herself to the partners in the architecture firm where she worked. There hadn’t been time to foster a romantic attachment, and the few men she had dated, frankly, hadn’t been worth the trouble. She wanted a man who appreciated her intellect instead of being threatened by it, yet who still could make her feel like a woman. When she’d turned thirty-one a few months ago, she had felt a little desperate around the edges with no significant other and no significant work accomplishments in the foreseeable future.

  And then the Carlyle Library project had materialized.

  Sam closed her eyes briefly, smiling as she imagined the finished structure. Once completed, the private, three-story corporate library would be her first signature building. Competition for the design on the Carlyle Library had been fierce, and the partners in her firm had been jubilant when Sam had won the project. No one, however, had been more thrilled than she, and she wasn’t about to mess up this chance of a lifetime. Her first hurdle was to manage the initial phase of the job—excavation of the site. Although the board of directors had commended her innovative design, they had expressed doubts about its viability on the sloping site that had been chosen.

  The thrill of telling her father, a wildly successful developer with investments in every corner of Texas, that she’d been awarded the project had diminished when he had expressed similar concerns about her design. The frown of Packard Stone’s doubt was etched into her brain. The hurt that had sliced through her chest at his skepticism had given way to disappointment, then determination. It was how her father had raised her, after all. She intended to overcome the engineering obstacles with a new concept for building retaining walls. If she could successfully manage the excavation on time—thirty days—and on budget, she would receive a green light on the entire project. If not, her career-making landmark would perish before it even got off the ground.

  But she would not allow that to happen.

  When they deplaned, Sam watched the young couple until they disappeared into the crowd, their hands clasped like a vise. A pang of longing hit her with the force of a blow to the stomach, stopping her midstride, disorienting her. Sam stood still for a moment as people walked all around her, brushing past as they hurried to meet their parties. Everyone seemed to be hurrying to meet someone…everyone except her. The noises around her suddenly seemed muffled, as if she were standing in a vacuum. She hadn’t felt so acutely alone since the day her mother had died, when Sam was seven years old.

  The world had fallen away from her that day, leaving her cold and scared and wondering if anyone would ever again love her with such intensity. Packard had tried, but he was a salty Texan businessman, inconvenienced by his slip of a daughter. Out of necessity, Sam had learned to be self-reliant, reluctant to let anyone get close enough to make her emotionally dependent.

  Sam breathed deeply, and slowly her vital signs returned to normal. Someday soon—perhaps after the Carlyle Library project—she would be more open to a relationship and make an effort to meet men.

  Successful men, she reminded herself with a smirk. She hadn’t held out for the right man this long only to settle now. An attractive attorney had recently moved into her building, on her floor, and had been making small talk at the elevator. She hadn’t felt a chemical reaction between them, but maybe the timing had been wrong.

  When she next saw what’s-his-name, she promised herself, she would make an effort to strike up a conversation.

  Sam glanced at her watch and headed for the airport exit, her stride lengthening. Equipment would be arriving on the library job site today, and the ground would be broken. And even though the foreman she’d hired had assured her that he had things under control, she wanted to stop by the site, just in case. She looked down at her clothing and ruefully conceded that a cream-colored skirt and jacket, yellow silk blouse and pale, lizard-skin pumps weren’t exactly job-site attire, but they’d have to do.

  She was, after all, the boss.

  She gave the taxi driver directions to the job site, then pulled site maps from her briefcase so the specifications would be fresh in her mind. Within seconds, she was immersed in the world she loved—a world of exact dimensions and tangible materials that would, under her guidance, turn an empty lot of loose dirt into the home for a building that would be a permanent symbol of her success…one that her father and everyone else would have to acknowledge.

  “Are you sure this is it?” the cabbie asked.

  Sam lifted her head from the maps and surveyed the plot of land dotted with heavy equipment and marked with the sign The Future Home Of The Carlyle Library. “Yes. I should be only a few minutes—can you wait?”<
br />
  “Sure.”

  Sam folded the papers and returned them to her briefcase, anticipation hammering in her chest. She alighted onto the curb and inhaled the scent of freshly turned dirt, sighing in satisfaction to see that work had already begun. But as she picked her way across the uneven ground, she was frustrated to see several workers standing around or, worse, sitting down. A couple of card games had broken out on the tailgates of pickup trucks, and more than one worker was sipping on a beer, a blatant work-site violation.

  Where was her foreman?

  While she stood frowning at the scene before her, catcalls began to sound all around her.

  “Woo-hoo, pretty lady, are you lost?”

  “Where’ve you been all my life, darlin’?”

  Sam scowled at the men—it wasn’t the first time she’d been harassed on a job site. “Where is Mr. Langtry, the foreman?”

  Shrugs ensued and many of the men adopted suggestive stances. “I can be anybody you want me to be,” one of them shouted, inciting a round of raucous laughter.

  Anger sparked in her stomach, but Sam ignored the men and began to make her way toward a section of the site where a deep channel was being dug—a channel that wasn’t on the site plans. The ground was soft from recent rains, and she knew she probably looked ridiculous hobbling around in her high heels, but frustration spurred her forward. Chaos and improperly placed ditches this early in the process were not good signs. She shouldered the strap of her briefcase, then cupped her hands like a bullhorn. “Has anyone seen Mr. Langtry?”

  Unfortunately, the movement threw her off balance. She flailed to regain her footing but failed miserably and tumbled toward the trench being dug. Her pride flashed before her eyes—she only hoped she didn’t break something important when she landed at the bottom. At the last second, she had the impression of a yellow hard hat, a bare chest and a pair of muscular arms reaching for her.

  When she opened her eyes, she was being held aloft by a man who had been standing in the muddy channel and, judging by the shovel lying nearby, was responsible for most of the dirt that had been moved. Sam’s initial emotion was gratitude, although she realized instantly that being rescued by one of the workers would probably be more damaging to her reputation than if she’d wound up at the bottom of the ditch with her skirt over her head.