My Construction Site Nightmare - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

I'm Bianca Roland, freshly twenty-three and already stuck in the most awkward situation of my life.
A week into my new job at the construction site, and I'm starting to regret taking the company housing. The dorm they assigned me is way too close to the men's quarters. Every night when I shower, I catch shadows moving past my window—just enough to make my skin crawl.
Tonight was worse. Around ten, I'd just unbuttoned my shirt when a deep, husky voice cut through the silence outside: "Damn, that's huge."
I froze.
My fingers fumbled to refasten my clothes as my heart hammered against my ribs. Someone had seen me. That voice confirmed it.
I yanked the door open, catching only a glimpse of a tall, lean figure disappearing down the hall. The silhouette was all sharp angles and effortless grace, and that voice—rough but magnetic—lingered in my ears.
"Was that one of the workers?"
And if so… who?
I'd like to say I was furious. Outwardly, I played the cool, composed type. But let's be real—I was a woman, not a saint. Fresh out of a messy breakup, my body had been starved for touch. Anyone who claimed they didn't crave it was full of it.
A reckless fantasy flickered through my mind—being pinned down by that stranger, his hands rough from work, his mouth hot against my skin. Heat rushed to my cheeks, my pulse throbbing in places it shouldn't.
Then sanity kicked in. What the hell was I thinking? If anyone found out, I'd never hear the end of it.
The next day, I adjusted my hard hat and scanned the worksite, eyes narrowed. I needed to find last night's peeping Tom. But after hours of scrutinizing every tall laborer, I still couldn't place him.
Two days later, a coworker's wedding forced us all into the same room. Most of the crew showed up, me included—cash gift in hand. A few drinks in, the room started spinning.
I was halfway to the exit when a familiar voice stopped me cold.
"Bianca, you're wasted. Let me take you home."
Ice shot down my spine. The alcohol haze evaporated instantly.
That voice—it was the same one from that night.
I turned and came face-to-face with Chase Langley, a 21-year-old laborer from the site. Six feet of lean muscle, clean-cut, with an air of quiet confidence. Not the type I'd peg as a voyeur.
Before I could respond, our foreman, Vincent Lombardi, barked, "Chase, you're responsible for getting her home safe. Anything happens, it's on you."
"Got it."
Chase's grip closed around my arm. My deep V-neck clung to me, leaving little to the imagination. His gaze dropped, lingering a second too long on my chest, his throat working as he swallowed hard.
"Bianca," he murmured, voice low enough that only I could hear, "you've got an incredible body. Especially your—"
He cut himself off, but the hunger in his tone sent a jolt of heat straight through me. And damn it, my body responded like it had been waiting for this exact moment.