Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] by Power Play Resistance Read Free Book Online Page B

“Wild weekend?” Bastard was smirking, just like
    Jonathan. He clapped Bran on the shoulder. “She have a sister?”
    Bran flipped him the bird. “Won’t your blow-up doll get jealous?
    Get to work, asshole.”
    “Yes sir, Mr. Foreman, sir.” Mike tipped his ball cap with another
    fucking smirk and poured himself a cup of coffee.
    The rest of the crew filtered in, and soon Bran found himself up
    the frame of the ridiculous mansion they were building for some
    Chinese broker, nailing down roof joists with a pneumatic gun. Not
    his usual work, but he liked it just fine, and they were down a man
    today. He laughed at an image of Jonathan trying to fill in. He’d
    probably nail his hand to the wal . Or fall off the scaffold.
    And so will you if you don’t stop thinking about him and focus.
    Lunchtime finally rolled around, and Bran and his crew sat out
    front, eating their sandwiches and drinking cheap coffee. Nothing
    like the stuff he’d been drinking yesterday. He’d forgotten coffee—
    hell, food of any kind—could taste so good.
    They were all about to get back to work when a white van pulled
    up, and out climbed a guy in delivery coveralls. What the hell? This
    was a closed construction site and he hadn’t ordered any supplies in
    today.
    The guy circled around to the back of the van, then reappeared
    with a small potted plant. An orchid. Just like the ones on Jonathan’s
    balcony.
    He didn’t. Tell me he didn’t.
    The delivery guy headed straight for them and said, “Brandon
    McKinney?”
    Shit. He did.
    For a second, Bran was tempted to tell the guy he had the wrong
    address, but then Mike piped up with a very amused, “Right here!”
    Added, quieter, to Bran, “Ain’t that backwards, buddy? Aren’t you
    supposed to send the flowers?”
    Oh, you are so fired, you jerk.
    The delivery guy walked up to Bran and handed him the pot.
    “Here you go, sir.” And just like Saturday’s courier, he walked away
    before Bran could tip him.
    There was a card, of course. “Friday at eight? I’ll send the car.
    —J.” Mike snatched the card from his fingers with an exaggerated,
    “Oooooooh. Who’s J, Bran? She hot? Oooh, ‘send the car’? She
    rich ?”Bran reached to snatch it back, but Mike danced out of the way.
    He’d never shut up if Bran didn’t shut him up, so he flashed a smile at
    Mike—all teeth, no friendliness—and said, “Yes, heis.”
    For a second Mike just blinked at him, and he regretted having
    said anything—they might actually believe him, and he needed these
    guys to respect him. But then Mike just laughed and shook his head
    and said, “You handsome fucking shark, you’re dating a Playboy
    bunny, aren’t you,” and handed back the card with another friendly
    pat on the shoulder.
    Still, Bran had a feeling he was never going to live this down.

    CHAPTER 5
    randon looked amazing. A few days’ worth of ginger stubble,
    neatly trimmed. Dark jeans that showed every plane and curve
    of those gorgeous legs. Sport coat over a bright green dress shirt that
    made his eyes pop like spring grass. The top two buttons were undone,
    revealing a tantalizing hint of throat and col arbone.
    Brandon crossed his arms and grinned like a piranha. “You’re
    staring.”
    Jonathan cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I can hardly be blamed.
    Please, come in.”
    He put an arm around Brandon’s waist and ushered him inside.
    Gesturing toward the couch, he said, “Have a seat. Would you like
    something to drink?”
    Brandon’s smile softened. “Is your scotch as good as your
    coffee?”
    “Even better.”
    “I’ll have a double.”
    He poured doubles for them both while Brandon took off his
    jacket and settled on the couch, then handed Brandon his drink and
    sat down across from him. For all of Brandon’s apparent nonchalance,
    he really had made an effort tonight.
    Maybe he really does like me.
    “So . . . how was your week?”
    “Fine, until your damn flower came,” he groused, but