The Maestro and the Roofer (A Dash of Desire #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Her marriage and career had collapsed, so it was fitting that the roof collapsed too.

“Hell of a storm,” the foreman lamented with a shake of his head as his fellow crew member hauled a ladder out of the truck that proudly boasted Robinson & Sons Roofing across the doors.

The last few years of my life have been a storm, buddy. This is nothing new.

Mia Pelletier had been in the coastal town of Daymont, Connecticut, for only a few days when the tempest tore through—the worst the northeast had seen in over a decade. All things considered, she was lucky the roof was the sole problem, as several hundred people in the area were without power.

“You Leslie?” the foreman asked. He was short and stocky, with fiery red hair and a face of freckles to match. A local through and through.

“No, she’s a friend,” Mia replied. “She’s letting me stay here for a few weeks.”

Despite the decent-sized hole in the roof, the coastal cottage was a stunning piece of property, and Leslie had offered it as a much-needed refuge. The home was classic Connecticut—creamy-white siding with sage-blue trimmings, a wraparound porch overlooking a tidal river connected to the Long Island Sound, and a rickety dock leading to the water. Inside, the home was summer themed all year long, splashed with different hues of blues and greens, and marine artwork decorating the walls.

The ultimate setting to breathe new life back into herself. But as each day passed, Mia knew the fresh air wouldn’t solve her problems.

“Okay, yeah. The work order says to call her with updates,” the man murmured as he consulted the crumpled paper he pulled from his back pocket. He nodded to the other crew member. “I’m Eric, the foreman, and that’s Jerry. In case you have any questions. We’ll stay out of your hair as much as possible.”

“I’m Mia.” She searched their faces for any recognition, but her tense shoulders relaxed when they didn’t pay her a second glance. Then again, neither man appeared to be the target audience of Maestro Mia.

Funny how that nickname had once been a source of pride. Now it felt like a curse.

“We’ll have to check out the interior damage, though, if you don’t mind?” Eric said, gesturing to the door. A gentle awareness was layered into his tone—an understanding that a lone woman around two strange men could feel uneasy.

Instead of cracking a joke that she’d seen a porno that started this same way, Mia let them pass through the door, and she returned to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. After devouring some cottage cheese and berries, she brought a mug of steaming caffeine onto the porch. The water had mostly calmed, the waves crashing mildly against the dock’s weathered pillars. It was only the beginning of October, but the air was crisp with the promise of winter.

As she curled up on the porch furniture, her ears pricked at the roar of an engine. A sleek forest-green truck barreled down the remote road, dirt and gravel flying into the air. The truck took a sharp turn and proceeded up her driveway, parking behind the roofing crew’s vehicle. Then the door opened and a man stepped out, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

Mia had sampled a handful of men since her divorce, but none exuded the pure animal magnetism of this one. Tall and lean, he moved with swagger—just enough to prove he was a force to be reckoned with, but not so excessive to be labeled arrogant. Unruly dark-blond hair topped his head, coupled with several days’ worth of stubble across his undeniably chiseled jaw.

Noticing her blatant inspection, he met her scrutiny with a charged look. Every inch of her skin burned as his striking sapphire-blue eyes examined her, moving from head to toe, the perusal eventually settling on her lips. Work boots hit the porch steps, ascending in a slow and steady manner as he approached like a predatory jungle cat.

“You the tenant?” he asked in greeting.

His voice—low and smoky and masculine—sent a bolt of heat zipping through her, but she steeled her reaction and said, “Temporary tenant. My friend owns the house. I’m visiting for the month.”

“Ah.”

No other comment was offered. Only a smoldering stare, which he performed well, as much as she hated to admit it. Instinctively, she pulled her chunky sweater closer, silently cursing her lack of appropriate clothing. She was clad in ratty leggings and a cardigan she lovingly called her granny sweater because it had belonged to her late grandmother. Not an ounce of makeup adorned her face, and her curly hickory-colored hair needed a proper wash.

Not exactly babe material. But apparently, that didn’t matter to Mr. Seduction.

“And you are?” she prompted with a raised eyebrow.

His smirk widened at her gutsy reply, and he leaned against the porch beam, folding his arms across his chest. A zip-up gray hoodie covered his upper body, complete with the Robinson & Sons Roofing logo embroidered on the left side of the threadbare fabric. Dark-wash jeans perfectly hugged his firm thighs, and his boots were scuffed.

No pomp and circumstance with this man. Unfortunately, that only amplified his dangerous allure.

“Oh, I’m just the roofer,” he drawled.

She tilted her head toward the door. “Well, they’ve started already. And I’m sure your boss won’t appreciate your tardiness.”

Amusement danced over his features. “Tardiness. My, my, my. You a teacher or something?”

The innocent question tugged at something deep within Mia. Once upon a time, that had been her dream. To be a music teacher like her grandmother. But destiny had other plans for her—plans that everyone insisted were more worthy of her extraordinary talent.

As if teaching wasn’t a worthy calling. The implication still unsettled her spirit all these years later.

“No, I’m not a teacher,” she answered, pursing her lips.

Mere minutes with this man, and she’d reverted from a thirty-seven-year-old woman into a cranky teenager. But when his attention returned to her mouth, she struggled to pull air into her lungs, and her annoyance evaporated as he licked his plump lips like he wanted to devour her for breakfast. The silence lengthened, tension brewing as the wind whistled and the water lapped on the rocks.

“You got a name?” he asked, the pitch of his voice impossibly deep.

“Sure do.”

A husky laugh bubbled from his throat at her refusal to elaborate. Behind her, the screen door hinges squeaked, and she glanced back to see Eric the foreman. Relief washed over her that this seduction game would cease—mostly since she was a stone’s throw away from bursting into flames.

“There you are,” Eric said to the latecomer. “Wondered when Boss Man would show up.”

Boss Man.

Mia’s jaw dropped, and her head jerked back toward the unnamed man. He held her stare in a brazen challenge, daring her to say something. But shock rendered her unable to string a sentence together, and his eyes delivered a clear message.

Don’t underestimate me.

His gaze remained on her as he answered Eric. “Got held up.”

A splash of disappointment trickled through Mia when he broke their staring contest, stepped past her, and entered the house.

Maybe I should get a hotel room for a few nights.

The unreasonable thought tugged at her brain, her pride still wounded from the earlier encounter. But there was no point in wasting money if the home was perfectly livable, especially when Leslie had already texted with an update. After a full inspection, the crew estimated that the roof would take two days to repair, and then these men would be out of her life forever.

Surprisingly, Mia grew accustomed to the heavy hammering, the sound of power tools, and the men’s colorful shouts from outside. After several days of total isolation, the cacophony was oddly soothing. But boredom persisted, and an itch to do something productive burrowed beneath her skin as the morning progressed. Instead of grabbing the blank manuscript sheet music still stuffed away in her luggage, she made a casserole.

Between the cardigan and the casserole, I really am channeling Granny.

The recipe had been a staple of her grandmother’s kitchen and one of Mia’s favorites growing up. Thankfully, the instructions were simple and straightforward, and her overwrought mind quieted as she got lost in the monotony of chopping broccoli, boiling chicken, and grating cheddar cheese. In the silence of the kitchen, Leslie’s words skipped back into her brain.

“Get out of the city and focus on yourself for once. Rediscover your love of music. Make something great. You’re way too fucking talented to let the last few years define your legacy.”

A casserole probably wasn’t what her agent had meant when she told Mia to make something great. But damn, she couldn’t deny how good it felt to create something.

A light knock on the back door extracted her from the musings. “Come in,” she called out, grabbing the potholder and removing the casserole from the oven.

The door squeaked open, and Eric stepped into the doorframe. “Just a heads-up that we’re breaking for lunch.”

“Oh. Well, if anyone’s interested, I made this.” She pointed to the dish on the stovetop. “It should be edible. At least, I hope so.”

“Hey, it’s free,” Eric replied with a laugh. “That’s all we care about.”

She barely had time to prepare a plate before they barreled into the kitchen like eager school children dismissed for recess. Hyperaware of the Boss Man’s continued presence, since his truck remained in the driveway, she escaped down the hallway before he appeared, her bare feet skidding along the runner carpet.

Her distracted mind brought her to the parlor instead of the den, and her hands shook as she laid eyes on the gorgeous baby grand Steinway piano she’d been ignoring for days.

The immaculate instrument was polished to perfection. An absolute sight for sore eyes.

It made her sick to her stomach.

She was no stranger to pianos. From the light-up Fisher Price keyboard her grandmother had purchased for her first birthday to the Yamaha upright piano at her elementary school to the wide range of options at Juilliard—she’d mastered them all.

A prodigy, they’d called her. Maestro Mia. There wasn’t a music award she hadn’t won, wasn’t a grand stage she hadn’t performed upon to a sold-out audience. And then her passion project—the musical she and her ex-husband first brainstormed during their freshman year at Juilliard—went into previews off-Broadway. Over ten years of dedication and workshopping paid off. Buzz grew and interest increased, and it was fast-tracked to the Lunt-Fontanne as a certified smash hit. Before she knew it, they were household names. The next Rodgers and Hammerstein.

But the higher you rise, the harder you fall.

Because, despite the success and accolades, she couldn’t bear to sit at the piano in a quaint beach house in Connecticut.

She should’ve course corrected to the den, but running scared from the big, bad piano was too pathetic to stomach. So she parked her tush on the love seat and tucked into her meal— delicious. Granny would be proud —while eavesdropping on the conversation in the other room. The men were a bunch of gossips, and she smiled at their lively chatter. Apparently, someone named Dennis Coates was rumored to be in poor health, although the family was trying to keep it hush-hush. Nothing quite like small-town life.

Once she finished her meal, she placed the empty plate to the side. The Steinway called to her like an old lover she no longer trusted.

Sit down. Start playing. You know what you’re doing.

Peeved at her own foolishness, she stepped toward the bench and sat, her backside sinking into the plush leather cushion. An overwhelming sense of familiarity surrounded her, and a complicated mix of emotions lodged in her throat. If she didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn her grandmother stood behind her, wrapping her frail arms around Mia’s shoulders. That small comfort provided enough fortitude to place her fingers on the keys, her foot following onto the sustain pedal.

But something prevented her from pressing down and letting the music flow.

“Do you play?”

An unladylike yelp burst into the air, and she almost jumped off the seat. Whirling around, she found Boss Man leaning against the doorframe, his stance the epitome of casual seduction, although true sincerity was laced into the question.

“Yes—no! I mean—can I help you with something?” she sputtered.

His tawny brows narrowed at her curtness. “We finished lunch. Loaded the dishwasher. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

She cringed internally at the unintentional haughtiness, his jaw clenching at her apparent dismissal. Instead of exiting in a huff, he grabbed her empty plate and, with one last weighted look, left the room. Soon after, the men’s chatter faded, the screen door slamming as they returned to work.

Alone in the cottage, Mia fled the parlor, caught off guard by her reaction to the piano. Lord knows she wasn’t ready to unpack every intense feeling—how the shiny ivories felt beneath her fingers or how her body had naturally melted into the bench’s cushion.

But equally concerning was how a private part of her reveled at the idea of performing for the man who’d interrupted the intimate moment. Clearly, he considered her a stuck-up city girl, and she secretly wished to humble him with the force of her talent.

All the more reason to stay away from him.

Reality television was always a reliable distraction, so she headed to the den to rot her brain for several hours. A streak of sunlight filtered through the open blinds later that afternoon, illuminating the room and pulling her from a trashy TV coma. The persistent clouds of the past few days hadn’t helped with her already downtrodden mood, so she rushed onto the porch to behold the warm glow.

The salty sea breeze whipped her curly tresses like a twister, and she propped her hip against the cedar porch railing, but the sun reflecting off the water didn’t transfix her for long. The men were packing up for the day, and the tool kits crashing onto the flatbed stole her attention. Boss Man barked orders like a natural leader, but he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, evident in how he hauled the ladder atop the truck with ease.

From a distance, he almost looked ordinary. But the nape of her neck tingled when he caught her watching, and there was no mistaking the man’s true nature. His powerful stare summoned a whirlwind of unrest in her, but she averted her gaze, keeping it on the water’s horizon until the trucks departed.