Good with His Hands - Tanya Michaels Mills & Boon Blaze

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have my head on a platter. I’d better scoot, or I’ll be late for Zumba.” Pausing in the doorway, she asked over her shoulder, “You know what would be hilarious? If Bryce had the same idea and he’s secretly at your office right now, setting up a surprise for Monday.”

      Bitterness stabbed at Sean, an unpleasant sensation somewhere between loss and anger. Alone in the spacious offices of Bertram Design Associates, he tried to imagine stepping into the trailer on his current job site and finding it filled with balloons and streamers. Never in a million years. He and Bryce might be identical twins, but these days, they had little in common besides looks and a shared birthday.

      Bryce, older by nine minutes, had always been more studious, diligently making A-honor roll and graduating high school as valedictorian. Sean had excelled in different areas, like industrial arts and varsity football...and making time with the varsity cheerleaders. Despite different interests, the two brothers had encouraged each other. They’d been close. Then Bryce had been awarded a major scholarship to a college out of state.

      Sean stayed behind, working for their dad’s roofing company and pooling his money with his parents’ to afford a trade school degree, eventually working his way up to supervising construction crews. When their dad suffered a heart attack—minor, but alarming—Bryce had been too busy with finals to come home. There were holiday breaks and summers when Bryce chose plans with his frat brothers or staying on campus for intern opportunities over visiting his family. After graduation, he’d returned to Georgia, but he’d been different. He was more polished and educated than anyone else in the family, and he never let Sean forget it.

      Most of the time, Sean told himself it was natural for siblings to grow apart, no big deal. But his last girlfriend had accused him of being jealous of his successful, intelligent brother. “He has the prestigious degree, the loft condo and the class. You’re a glorified handyman. No wonder you resent him.”

      Was Sean here in part to prove her wrong? To try to recapture some of the old camaraderie? Knock off the introspective crap. You’re here to hang some balloons and heckle him about being old.

      It was only fair, considering how often Bryce had lorded his nine-minute head start on life over his “little brother” when they were kids. Sean also had a gift to leave on his brother’s desk. He’d scanned a section of one of Bryce’s first blueprints and paid a friend with graphics art talent to turn it into a one-of-a-kind multicolored kaleidoscope print. Sean had framed the resulting artwork and wrapped it in black “over the hill” paper. He hoped Bryce would hang the print in his office.

      Or was the customized art too funky for the uptight man Bryce had become? Although Bryce was a decent architect, his main role in the company was getting permits passed. He was the person who crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s. As if his occupational habits were taking over his personal life, with each passing year, Bryce grew more rigid. His DVD collection of pretentious, independent films was probably alphabetized. Most of Sean’s DVDs weren’t even in their proper cases.

      Unlike his brother, Sean lived in the moment, enjoying spontaneity. Why overplan the journey? In his experience, life offered many interesting detours.

      * * *

      OF ALL THE ways Dani could have spent Saturday afternoon, hiding in an empty office so that concerned friends couldn’t call her home line or drop by to check on her was definitely in the pathetic top five.

      Granted, she’d spent the past few hours putting herself in a strategic position to reach her goal—the youngest top seller to graduate to a flat desk fee instead of splitting commission with the brokerage—but was it really healthy to be so practical? She was a scorned bride. Shouldn’t she be finding catharsis in some kind of outrageous behavior? In her career, following the rules and setting goals worked well. In her love life? Not so much. Tate was the one who’d cheated, yet he was happily married while she was alone.

      When Meg had announced she was moving in with Nolan, a pharmaceutical sales rep six years her senior, after dating him only a couple of months, Dani had cautioned her exuberant friend that it was too soon. But Meg had defied conventional wisdom and seemed perfectly happy with her choice. Meanwhile, Dani had tried to do everything right with Tate—spending a year and a half getting to know him before they got engaged, being completely supportive of his needing to work out of the country—and she’d gotten screwed.

      If this were a movie, she would have taken her canceled honeymoon to Maui all by herself and fallen in love with one of Hollywood’s leading men amid a learning-to-surf montage and funny luau scene. Well, it’s not a movie. So she could either stay here and continue her downward spiral into feeling sorry for herself or she could call Meg. Maybe last night’s invitation for drinks still stood. Or maybe Dani should look around the area for paintball places with evening hours. She sort of liked the idea of wearing her pristine white wedding dress to a paintball battle. If nothing else, the sight would unnerve her opponents.

      She heaved a sigh. It wasn’t the bridal gown’s fault that Tate was too insecure to spend his life with a strong woman. She shouldn’t take out her rage on a seven-hundred-dollar dress. But she could totally take it out on a pitcher’s worth of margaritas.

      Resolved, she shut down her computer. There was one nice thing about her abysmal little apartment; it was only two adjoining parking lots away from a neighborhood bar. She could easily walk home after a few drinks. The bar was a nice place with pool tables and a Saturday happy hour she might still make if she left now. Maybe Meg could meet her there.

      Dani would call her from the car, once her cell phone was plugged in to the charger. She’d “accidentally” forgotten to charge it this morning. At least, that was the story she planned to give anyone who’d been unable to reach her. Her father had called three times alone that morning. Lord knew how many voice messages awaited her.

      When Dani had arrived at the office, she’d been wearing a three-quarter sleeved semitransparent blouse over a lace-edged red camisole and white denim skirt. But the air-conditioning didn’t run on the weekends and the day had turned into one of those humid summer previews when Mother Nature demonstrated what Atlanta had to look forward to in June, so she’d shrugged out of the blouse. Now she scooped up the discarded garment and her briefcase, suddenly eager to escape the barren office and the loneliness it represented. She could imagine how Tate would gloat if he knew she’d spent the day here alone.

      But it turned out the building wasn’t entirely deserted. As she juggled her belongings in her arms to lock the brokerage door, she heard footsteps in the hall behind her. She glanced back immediately; her dad, who’d been far more comfortable teaching her self-defense than taking her bra shopping, had coached her to be aware of her surroundings.

      Her eyes widened. Hot Architect! It was like a sign. Or fate, if she believed in such nonsense. For today, be a believer. “Hi.”

      “Hi,” he echoed. “I didn’t think anyone else was cooped up in the building on such a gorgeous day.” His lips quirked in a lazy half smile, his gaze dropping in a brief but appreciative once-over before returning to meet hers. “Never been so happy to be wrong.”

      He was flirting with her? His unexpectedly playful tone was like diving into cold water on a scorching summer day—an initial shock to the system, but damn it felt good.

      Although he still hadn’t given her a full smile, humor danced in his eyes. “I hope your presence here on a Saturday afternoon doesn’t mean you’re a stuffy workaholic,” he teased. “That would be tragic. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

      “You’re here, too. Workaholic tendencies?”

      She could almost believe the man she normally saw in well-tailored suits was a workaholic. But now? Lord have mercy. His dark hair was rumpled. With no trace of styling product, it looked shaggier yet sexy. He filled out a pair of jeans in a way that could make a grown woman weep, and his T-shirt... She tried not to gape, scarcely believing how he’d hid those biceps under his suit jackets.

      He crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a great

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