disappearing, along with iced cartons of juice and milk and gallons of coffee from her catering truck’s built-in urn.
She didn’t mind the dirt on the men’s hands and clothes. Most of the welders, electricians, steelworkers and laborers at this construction site—like the stevedores and dock workers she would feed next on her route—were salt-of-the-earth, hardworking men who knew the value of even harder work. They were much like the people in the neighborhood where she’d been born, still lived and would probably die. Some were even from her neighborhood, the Ridge, as those who’d grown up in Bayridge, Virginia, called it. So were some of the guys on the dock. She was one of them. She knew the value of hard work, too. Day in and day out. She couldn’t imagine living her life any other way.
“Hey, Madison.” The deep, self-conscious voice came from beside her. “What are you doing this Friday night?”
Her smiled moved to the strapping steelworker who’d asked the same question three weeks running. Eddie Zwicki was tall, cute, built and probably only a year or two younger than her own twenty-eight years. “Going to bed early. I have to get up to shop and clean my truck on Saturday so I’m ready for you guys again next week.”
“Don’t you ever go out?”
“Not with my customers,” she replied, her tone kind as she repeated the rule she’d adopted to save face and feelings. She didn’t date anyone, actually. As hard as she was working to build her business, she simply didn’t have the time. “But, you know what?” she asked, because he really did seem like a nice guy and there seemed to be so few single ones like that around. “I think you and Tina Deluca would get along great. I told her about you. The kindergarten teacher? Do you want her number?”
“Can she cook?”
“Your favorite oatmeal cookies are her mother’s recipe.”
“Yeah, but can she bake them?”
The guy was quick. “She’s learning.”
Someone behind Eddie gave him a shove. But even as he turned to frown at the guy who’d just passed him, he became distracted from his consideration of Tina’s lack of culinary talent. As the rumble of quiet conversations around them suddenly tapered to near silence, it seemed the other men were distracted by something, too.
Madison stood near the door of her silver truck with its side popped up to serve as an awning. Moments ago she had seen nothing but the men lined four to six deep waiting to make their selections. Now, those men were shifting, booted feet shuffling in the dirt as they parted like a denim-clad Red Sea.
“Morning, Mr. Callaway,” said someone from the back of the group.
“Morning, sir.”
“Hey, Mr. Callaway.”
“Hi, guys,” came the deep and cordial reply. “How’s it going this morning?”
The men’s replies to the question were now accompanied by an undercurrent of murmurs. Workers who weren’t talking simply remained silent and stared.
Madison immediately recognized Matt Callaway. He was the tall, commanding-looking gentleman in the suit and hard hat the others greeted with a certain deference. He owned the construction company building the enormous York Port Mall that was currently nothing more than acres of concrete slabs, rebar and steel girders.
He wasn’t alone.
With a curious jolt, Madison realized she knew the man with him, too. Of him, anyway. Just as tall, even more imposing, the man earning the stares that ranged from curiosity to envy was Cord Kendrick.
She had never seen him in person before. But there was no doubt in her mind who he was. Like nearly everyone else in America, she’d seen pictures of him in People and Newsweek, on Entertainment Tonight and in the supermarket tabloids her grandma Nona Rossini devoured like candy. His reputation for fast women and faster living continually made the news. Even people who didn’t pay attention to the lives of the rich and infamous knew of him. The entire Kendrick family was practically considered royalty by the press. His beautiful mother actually was royalty, or so Madison had heard.
She just couldn’t quite remember if Cord’s last scandal had been a paternity suit or a car wreck as she watched both men approach her. Certain her grandma would know, she settled her attention on the men’s boss.
“Morning, Mr. Callaway,” she greeted with her easy smile. “Do you want your usual?”
He was a bit of a celebrity himself, she suddenly remembered. His marriage to the oldest Kendrick daughter last year had caught half the nation off guard, since no one had even known Ashley Kendrick was dating anyone in particular. What Madison recalled most, though, was her own surprise when her grandmother had read the woman’s new husband’s name and Madison had recognized Matt as the very man who had given her permission to enter his site to sell to some of his workers.
The birth of his and Ashley’s daughter a couple of months ago had made headlines, too. It had also resulted in paparazzi lining the chain link fence surrounding the vast construction site trying to get shots of him.
“My usual,” Matt repeated, rubbing his chin. “I didn’t realize I was getting that predictable.”
“So you want zucchini, then? Or banana nut?”
“Surprise me.”
She reached for a zucchini muffin and an empty cup for him to fill himself.
“And for you?” she asked, finally glancing toward the man she just realized would now be his brother-in-law. She had heard that the Kendrick family owned the mall project. That association alone could explain how the owner of the construction company had met Cord’s sister. It would also explain Cord Kendrick’s presence on the job site.
Grandma Nona was going to be terribly impressed that she’d seen them both today. But the only thing that truly impressed Madison herself was that Matt Callaway looked right at home in his silver hard hat, while the man with the admittedly gorgeous blue eyes looked more as if he were modeling his for GQ. The cut of his jacket was definitely designer. Italian, probably. The sweater under it looked too soft to be anything but cashmere.
His blue eyes crinkled appealingly at the corners. “I’ll have his usual.”
“One poppy seed. Coffee?” she asked, trying to ignore the jerk of her heart as his glance skimmed over her.
There was nothing the least bit subtle about that glance. He was checking her out, boldly, bluntly and quite thoroughly. He apparently liked what he saw, too, as his glance moved back up the length of her long, denim covered legs, over the maroon turtleneck tucked into them and up to where she’d pulled her dark hair up and back with a clip.
His beautifully sculpted mouth moved into a knee-weakening smile.
Photographs truly had not done the man justice. That expression packed enough charm to fascinate nearly anyone in a skirt.
“Cream. No sugar.”
“You’ll find cream down by the coffee.”
“What kind is it?”
“The kind from cows.”
“The
