Michael, Reinvented Read online

  Michael, Reinvented

  By Diana Copland

  Sequel to David, Renewed

  Delta Restorations: Novel Two

  Cute hipster and interior designer Michael doesn’t do love—not after his ex screwed him over. Sex is a different story, though, and the gentle giant who’s painting the mural in the old mansion they’re restoring might be perfect hookup material. Gil is just Michael’s type with his solid muscle, wicked sense of humor, and the hazel eyes that seem to see into Michael’s soul.

  Trouble is, Gil does do love. He wants romance and forever, and he’s set his sights firmly on Michael. Michael’s not going there again.

  Yet when Michael is the victim of a vandal who’s been plaguing the men working for Delta Restoration, Renovation, and Design, Gil is the first person he tells. No matter how he fights it, it’s becoming harder and harder to deny he’s crazy about the guy—even if that thought terrifies him. But the true fear sets in when the criminal behavior escalates, and Michael realizes he might have lost the chance to tell Gil how he feels—forever.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  More from Diana Copland

  Readers love David, Renewed by Diana Copland

  About the Author

  By Diana Copland

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  For Betsy, because there is no way I could do it without her.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TO SARITZA Alicia Hernandez for your steadfast belief, to Becky Condit for loving all my silly, wonderful, funny men, and to the real Dr. Gail Shumway for your generosity and expertise. You wonderful ladies have every bit of my love and admiration and thanks.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MICHAEL CRANE flipped up the collar of his coat as he walked briskly down the sidewalk, black leather boots clicking on the concrete, Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling” flowing into his ears. He liked the song, and it provided a steady bass beat that helped him keep up his pace as he walked through the crowded downtown corridor. The high-rise building housing his employer, A.F. Interiors, was six blocks from his apartment, and usually getting there was a painless process. Not today. The cold cut through his coat, the wind lifting the front of his medium brown hair and slipping under the coils of the heavy dark blue scarf around his neck. His cheeks even ached from the cold.

  Berms of icy sludge lined the busy thoroughfare, blackened by dirt and exhaust, and heavy dark clouds hanging low over the city carried the promise of more snow. February might be the beginning of spring in some places, but in the inland Pacific Northwest, the temperatures were still in the low twenties. Michael’s breath rushed out in a puff of condensation, and he huddled deeper into the short gray peacoat, picking up his pace. Starbucks was only half a block away.

  When he pulled open the glass door, coffee-scented air rushed out to him, warmth brushing his cold cheeks. He sighed gratefully, taking his place in the short line, pulling his black gloves from his long pale hands and shoving them into his coat pockets. Red cardboard hearts hanging from the ceiling on monofilament strands twirled slowly in the movement of the heated air. Michael eyed them with disgust, moving forward when the woman in front of him stepped closer to the register. He was four back, and he checked his watch. It was eight forty. He still had time.

  When Michael looked up, the young man steaming milk gave him a flirtatious smile. He was very cute, with dark curls and big brown eyes. He gave Michael a nod and urged him closer with a flick of his head.

  “Michael, isn’t it?” he asked when Michael reached the counter. “Flat white, right?”

  Michael wasn’t surprised he knew the order; he got the same thing every morning. He also wasn’t particularly surprised the barista had called him up to the counter. He’d checked Michael out head to toe the first day he’d worked there nearly six months before and had been cruising him ever since.

  “Yes.” Michael gestured toward the irritated people who had been in line in front of him. “But shouldn’t I—”

  “What’re friends for?” The come-hither smile was back, and Michael decided to ignore the irked stares burning into his back. He’d take his perks where he could get them.

  Five minutes later the barista handed him the white paper cup. Michael had seen him scribbling furiously on the side for several seconds with a black marker. He’d written “I’m Carlos” and a phone number. Under that he’d drawn a heart with “Be My Valentine” inside it. Michael managed, just barely, not to roll his eyes.

  “Thanks.” He gave the man a weak smile, dropping a dollar into the tip jar before leaving the store.

  It was only February 7, and he was already over Valentine’s Day. He hated the stupid holiday. A friend called it “Singles Awareness Day,” and Michael laughed even as he agreed. He was single by choice, but to have hearts and flowers crammed down his throat every February 14 irritated the hell out of him. He sipped his coffee as he wove in and out of the active foot traffic, already knowing the cup with the note was going into the trash can in his office as soon as he got there.

  His cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Taking it out, he thumbed to his text screen.

  Good morning baby, the message read. How are you this beautiful morning?

  Michael huffed, pausing next to a building, and set his coffee on a window ledge.

  I am not your baby, he replied. What do you want?

  I can’t just send my cutie a good morning text?

  Michael’s lips curled up at the corners. He couldn’t help it; the man was maddening and endearing at the same time. He was just glad Gil couldn’t see his smile.

  Gilbert—What. Do. You. Want.

  He could almost imagine Gil sitting in his truck, that snarky smile in place while he tried to compose a witty comeback.

  Fine, don’t let me flirt with you.

  Michael snorted. We’ve discussed the whole “flirting” thing.

  You discussed it, Gil shot back. I didn’t agree.

  I will stop talking to you.

  There was a pause.

  Fine. Please tell David I need those color chips for the Watersons’ today if I’m supposed to start painting the exterior next week.

  Why don’t YOU tell David, Michael shot back. You have his number.

  I think his phone must be off, because he isn’t responding. I’m guessing he and Jackson are fucking like bunnies. Besides, you are his assistant, aren’t you? Aren’t you supposed to take his messages?

  Michael scowled at the small screen. This was why Gil drove him nuts.

  Leave him a voice mail, Michael typed back. His fingers were beginning to ache in the cold; his gloves were still in his pocket. My hands are cold, and we’ve had this conversation before.

  Gil’s response popped up almost immediately.

  But if I leave him a voice mail I don’t get to give you grief, now do I?

  Michael huffed another irritated sigh. Piss off, Chandler. I have better things to do and you’re going to make me late.

  I’m breaking you down, Michael Crane. Admit it. It won’t be long before you’re putty in my hands.

  Michael thumbed off his phone in exasperation without responding, shoved it into his pocket, and yanked his gloves o
ut. He pulled them on and retrieved his coffee before resuming his commute down the sidewalk. His temper was simmering. The man infuriated him, poking at him on an almost daily basis. And Michael honestly wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  He’d met Gilbert Chandler the day his best friend, David, bought an entire houseful of beautiful mission-style furniture from him. Gil’s dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. They’d moved him into assisted living, leaving Gil to sort out the details of his life. One of those details was the furniture, and David brought Michael along as “muscle” on moving day. That had been a joke; Gil’s friends were all built like CrossFit Junkies, and Michael, at five ten and a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, certainly wasn’t comparable. But for some reason, Gil, six foot four and roped with muscle, Mr. Clean bald head gleaming in the sunlight, deep blue eyes shining and dimples popping by his mouth, had decided he wanted Michael.

  He didn’t just want a casual hookup, either, which Michael might have been amenable to. Who wouldn’t want to climb all those muscles, feel those big arms close around him? He’d admit he wasn’t immune to the idea. But Gil didn’t want a one-night stand; he was looking for happily ever after, and Michael didn’t believe in it. Not anymore. He pushed through the heavy door into the building and sent a jaunty smile to the receptionist, saluting her with his coffee cup.

  “Michael,” she called, gesturing for him to come over. He changed direction through the crowd, waiting for several people to pass, before arriving at the marble desk. He leaned his elbow on it.

  “What’s up, Kylie?”

  The pert blonde Michael had befriended on her first day six months before turned in her swivel chair, picking up a long slender white box from the counter behind her before turning back.

  “It’s Monday.” She gave him a wry grin.

  Michael sighed inwardly. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He took the box, which was still chilled, and thanked her before he turned away.

  The box was surprisingly heavy, and even though the lid was taped closed, he could smell the soft, sweet fragrance of Hawaiian ginger. Michael shook his head as he entered the elevator and quietly asked a woman in front of him to push the button for the second floor.

  David had a tall cylindrical black vase on the file cabinet in his office. He traditionally kept curly willow in it, the twisted spirals reaching toward the high ceiling. Once he’d casually mentioned to his boyfriend Jackson that he loved red ginger and thought it would be beautiful in that vase, but it was a little pricey to keep fresh. After that conversation, three red ginger blossoms on long, sturdy stalks with heavy, waxy spear-shaped leaves arrived every Monday morning. There was never a card, but there didn’t need to be. Michael left the elevator, empty coffee cup dangling from his fingers and the long florist box under his arm.

  A.F. Interiors took up the entire second floor, and he nodded politely at the woman on the front desk, Candy, as he passed. He refrained from speaking with her; Candy was a dreadful gossip, and everything he said to her seemed to spread through the rest of the staff like wildfire.

  David and Michael’s offices were at the back of the floor. He detoured around examples of office furniture in several wood tones and past hotel beds and chairs. A.F. Interiors specialized in hotel décor and design for office spaces. Michael walked between walls of carpet samples and racks hung with different styles of bedding. He loathed almost everything they used, but it wasn’t his job to love it; it was his job to help David make it look as good as possible. Sometimes it was a challenge, and sometimes, with the right client, David would let Michael steer them to his favorite midcentury modern. Those jobs were rare unless they got a request for a Mad Men setup, but when they did, Michael was in heaven.

  He passed other employees on the floor, some at drawing tables, others on the phone. Most nodded or waved, but there were a couple who studiously ignored him. Debra in textile acquisition hated him and called him a “bitchy queen” behind his back. Neil in sales emphatically turned his back as Michael passed, and Michael fought a smile. Neil had asked him out, and Michael had archly informed him he didn’t date where he worked. (He told David it was more like he didn’t shit where he ate, particularly when the main course was so unappetizing. David had howled for a full minute.) His refusal hadn’t been particularly well received. He should probably make more of an effort, but he didn’t really care if people at A.F.I. liked him or not. He was there to do a job, and his job was to help David. Full stop.

  He’d meant what he said about not dating where he worked too. A few weeks before, after Christmas, David and Jackson took an idea of Michael’s and ran with it, starting Delta Restoration, Renovation, and Design. So far the fledgling company had only done a few jobs on turn-of-the-century homes, but Gilbert Chandler and his crew had been involved in every job. Michael, as David’s assistant, dealt with the contractors who worked for them. He knew it was a lame excuse for turning Gil down repeatedly, but it was the best he had. They could not date because they worked together; that was his standard line. The truth was he turned Gil down because the man scared him to death. The idea of letting Gil past his self-constructed protective barriers was not an option.

  Michael took out his keys and unlocked David’s office. They hadn’t been as careful before Trevor, David’s ex, made a nuisance of himself by breaking in and rifling through David’s desk, but now Michael was much more vigilant. He checked the locks at least twice every night before he left the building. No one would break in to that office again if he had anything to do with it.

  He flipped the lights on as he passed, and set the floral box on the desk. Pausing, he held the empty coffee cup above his head and lined up his shot. With elaborate care, he launched the cup into the empty trash can.

  “He shoots—he scores!” He punched the air once. “Or he doesn’t, depending on who’s offering.”

  Last week’s red ginger blooms were drooping and turning black around the petals, looking very sad. Michael took the heavy vase down and dealt with the old flowers and water in the nearby janitor’s closet. He was putting the new flowers in the vase when his best friend sailed through the door wearing a black knee-length overcoat, a subtle plaid scarf looped around his throat. His blond hair was mussed, green eyes bright, fair cheeks and the tip of his nose pink from the cold.

  “Good morning!” David smiled brightly, dropping his messenger bag in a chair next to his desk and unwinding his scarf. “You don’t have to do that, you know.” His smile turned soft as he stared at the long-stemmed red blooms. “I don’t expect you to arrange my flowers.”

  “I don’t mind.” Michael slipped the last dark red blossom into the vase. “Gives me something to do when you’re late.” He gave David a pointed look.

  “Oh, come on.” David slipped out of his coat and hung it on the coatrack by the door. He was wearing dark slacks and a bright teal sweater beneath it, and Michael approved of the slender cut and the splash of color. “I’m not that late.”

  Michael moved the vase to the file cabinet, then tossed the clippings into the empty box amid the tissue paper. “Late enough that I was getting texts from our resident Neanderthal because he couldn’t get you on the phone. Thanks so much for that, by the way.”

  “Michael,” David scolded. “You should be nicer to Gil. He really likes you.”

  “I don’t care if he likes me.” Michael wrinkled his nose.

  David sighed. “You know I love you, but you can be such a bitch.”

  Michael smiled. “Thank you. Anyway, he says he needs the color chips for the Watersons’.”

  “Which is true.” David circled around behind his desk as Michael moved the box, standing it up on end beside the office door. “Jackson is taking them by on his way to see Paul O’Donnell.”

  “Good. Call your painter and tell him that, would you please?”

  “You don’t want to do that for me?”

  David was teasing, but Michael gave him a withering look. David laughed as he held up his hands, the co
rners of his green eyes crinkling.

  “Fine, I’ll do it. But you are my assistant.”

  “Not for Delta, I’m not,” Michael said. “Mind you, I’ll be happy to come onboard once you’re paying me, but in the meantime, make your own damned calls.” He moved David’s messenger bag and took its place, sitting in the chair and draping his long leg over the arm.

  David took his cell phone out of the pocket of his slacks and punched in the number.

  Five months before, David had met his boyfriend Jackson when he bought a hundred-year-old house in dire need of repairs. Jackson was a handyman, David hired him, and while he’d been working on David’s house, they’d fallen in love. Now they were nauseating. The upside was David was very happy. The downside was he wanted to pair off the world, including Michael, no matter how many times he insisted he wasn’t interested. He had good reasons for being stubbornly single, reasons his best friend was well aware of.

  “Hey, Gil.” David leaned back in his swivel chair. “Good. How’re you? Excellent. Jackson is bringing you the color chips so you can order the paint, and we’ve gotten the approval from the homeowners’ association. So no one will hassle you once you’re on the job. Put all the paint on the business account, okay?” He paused, his eyes resting on Michael. “He’s right here—do you want to talk to him?”

  Michael glared. “I will poison your coffee.”

  “No, that’s okay.” David’s eyes sparkled. “He doesn’t scare me.”

  Michael crossed his arms. “I should. I know all of your dirt.”

  David just continued to smile. It was much harder to get a rise out of him now that he was domesticated. Sometimes Michael missed the old David, the one who would tell him to fuck off when he got irritated. Now everything was sunshine and bunnies. It was disgusting.

  “Okay, Gil. Let me know how much that scaffolding is going to run. I’ll see you later.”

  David hung up, then started going through the messages neatly stacked on the corner of his desk. Michael stared at him pointedly, and David did a pretty good job of ignoring him, only laughing when Michael stretched out his long leg and kicked his elbow.