Farrah Rochon - Stay with Me Forever

It was one of the perks of being the first to arrive. If P. Jones wanted a say in which desk he would work at for the next four weeks, he should have shown up for work on time.

Someone, probably Carmen, had placed a yellow legal pad, a pack of pens and a box of paper clips on each desk. All in all it was pretty bare-bones, but that wouldn’t last for long. If the past projects he’d worked on were any indication, by the end of the week every surface in this room would be covered with modeling charts, cost estimates and reams of paper covered in specs.

Sawyer unrolled the preliminary diagram of the flood control structure that had been proposed by Bolt-Myer Engineering, the Arkansas-based firm that had won the bid for this project. The company was smart enough to have several Louisiana branches; the state legislature was known for awarding contracts to local companies.

Using the adhesive strips, he tacked the design up to the conference room’s paneled walls.

“Much better,” Sawyer said as he gave each twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch printout a cursory glance. He would still need at least another day or so to pore over all the documents he’d received from his supervisor at the Army Corps of Engineers, where he’d worked since returning to Louisiana seven months ago.

He had only been assigned to this project this past Thursday, after his former colleague, Raymond Burrell, abruptly left for a more lucrative position in the private sector. Sawyer couldn’t really blame the guy. Ray had a wife and three kids; he had to do what he had to do in order to provide for his family.

Sawyer had missed Friday’s kickoff meeting with the project manager from Bolt-Myer. He’d flown out to Los Angeles to be with his aunt Lydia who’d celebrated her sixtieth birthday with a party at her new home in Chatsworth. Sawyer knew it was something his father would have wanted him to do, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d flown out there to surprise her. Lydia had been somewhat of a surrogate mother to him ever since his own mother had died more than two decades ago, back when he was still in high school.

But now that his family obligations were fulfilled, Sawyer was ready to get to work. He’d wanted on this project from the very beginning, but he’d been too busy finishing the levee surveying study around Lake Pontchartrain. He put his heart and soul into every job he worked on, but this one was different.

This was Gauthier.

Ray’s departure had opened the door for Sawyer to work on something that was close to his heart—saving his hometown from potential disaster.

Once he was done hanging the computer-assisted-design drawings on the walls, he went over to his desk, taking a moment to appreciate the brilliant view of Heritage Park. It was just one of the things he’d missed about Gauthier in the three years that he lived in Chicago.

Sawyer tried not to think about that time for a number of reasons, his ill-fated marriage being only one of them. But of the things he regretted during his short stint in Illinois, the awkward farce of a relationship with Angelique wasn’t even at the top of the list.

That spot was reserved for another disaster, one that Sawyer would not allow to happen here in Gauthier.

His complacency back in his old job had cost business owners their livelihoods. It cost some people their homes. Some even lost their pets. All because he hadn’t spoken up sooner when his gut told him that something wasn’t right.

This was his chance to make up for those past mistakes. He would not remain silent this time.

Would it change what happened in Illinois? No. Nothing would make up for what his inability to speak up had caused, but at least he knew better now. He wouldn’t allow the catastrophe that had happened on his last project to happen here.

This town—the place where his mother was born and raised, the place his father had quickly adopted as his own—meant too much to him to let anything happen to it. He wasn’t doing this just for the people of Gauthier. He was doing it for his mom and dad. He would take care of the town they both loved so much.

He would make sure this P. Jones person understood that from the very beginning. When it came to Gauthier’s flood protection system, there would be no cutting corners.

Sawyer checked his watch—the silver Seiko his father had given him as a gift years ago—and cursed underneath his breath. He’d always considered punctuality to be the most telling sign of a professional. Apparently, he wasn’t dealing with a professional here.

He sat behind his makeshift desk and lifted the plans for the proposed reservoir; then he heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the conference room door. He recognized Matthew Gauthier’s voice. Matt’s family had founded the town of Gauthier and had owned this law firm for generations. There was a feminine laugh. Sawyer figured the other voice must belong to Carmen. But then the conference room door opened. And his heart stopped.

Paxton Jones plopped a hand on her hip and said, “Well, hell.”

Chapter 2

“Paxton? What are you doing here?”

The shock on Sawyer Robertson’s face was laughable. If this were a laughing matter.

It was not. There was nothing even remotely funny about this.

The moment her eyes popped open that morning, Paxton knew she would live to regret not checking her phone to make sure she’d set the alarm. She and Belinda had stayed out at the bar much later than originally planned, getting the last bit of odds and ends done before tonight’s reopening. By the time she fell face-first onto her pillow, Paxton could barely move, let alone check the alarm on her phone. When her mother knocked on the door of her childhood bedroom that morning, Paxton discovered that she’d overslept by more than an hour.

To make matters worse, there was only one bathroom in the single-wide trailer where she’d grown up, and, as per usual, she had to fight Belinda over bathroom time.

Why did she allow her mother to talk her into staying at home instead of at Belle Maison? Not only was the quaint bed-and-breakfast closer to the Gauthier Law Firm, but Bolt-Myer would have footed the bill for it. Instead, Paxton had to make the twenty-minute drive in from Landreaux, which didn’t help with getting in to work on time.

Not the best way to make a first impression.

Paxton gestured to Sawyer’s desk. “I wanted that table,” she said. Then, remembering that she had to share this space with him for the next four weeks, she added in a more amiable tone, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he replied. He stared at her for a moment before his eyes widened. “Wait.” He picked up one of the documents from his desk and, pointing at it, said, “ You’re P. Jones?”

“Since birth,” Paxton answered.

The combination of bafflement and amusement remained on his face as he tossed the papers back on the tabletop and rose from his chair. It was downright mystifying how this man could make a simple pair of gray slacks and a plain white button-down look so good. The unassuming clothes fit his tall, solid frame to perfection, the sleeves of his shirt folded back at the cuff, giving the barest glimpse of his powerful forearms.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sauntered toward her.

Paxton braced herself for the onslaught of longing that never failed to pummel her whenever she was around him.

Breathe through it, girl.

“This is a surprise,” Sawyer said, a hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I knew you worked for Bolt-Myer, but I never put two and two together. I assumed the P stood for Paul or Patrick.”

“Oh, wow! Really?” she asked with exaggerated exuberance. “Your 1950s mentality makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”