by R. J. Groves
He fidgeted with his sleeves, rolling them up his forearms, and ditched the tie. Thankfully, he didn’t need his suit today. Not particularly. He’d had a couple of casual meetings in the morning and most of the afternoon free. The rest of the week, however, he’d simply been going through the motions. Thank God he’d been doing this job long enough he could do it in his sleep.
His discovery turned out to be right. She was engaged. And for whatever reason, they must have decided to postpone the wedding. Or perhaps they had eloped and therefore no longer required a venue. He’d felt a small pulse of hope when it seemed as though she lived alone. But he only saw one room—every other room could have quite possibly been filled to the brim with boxes for all he knew. His boxes. Joseph’s. Whoever that was.
She wore no ring.
But that meant nothing. Lots of couples didn’t have engagement rings these days. Perhaps the bastard she was marrying didn’t think she deserved one.
His jaw clenched at the thought of it. God, he hoped he treated her well. Tay liked to think he was a patient man, but there were a few things he couldn’t stand—abusers, liars and cheaters. If this … guy … ever so much as laid a finger on Andie that hurt her, he might just …
What? What, exactly, might he do?
He had no right to do anything. She was not his. She never had been. And she was never going to be. So why was he all hung up about it? It wasn’t as if he’d ever wanted anything. Anyone. In fact, he’d made the decision to not be tied to anyone. Ever. And since making that decision, he’d done a damned good job of keeping to it. For ten years. Ten years of keeping his promise to himself. No one should be able to break that kind of determination. No one should make him feel like … like … this.
He swiped at the files on his desk, knocking them to the floor, the papers scattering. Unsatisfied, he picked up his mug and downed the rest of his coffee, glancing at it. Oh, mug. How it served him well. He lifted his arm—
‘Don’t you dare!’
His hand high, ready to toss the mug, he stopped, glancing at Helen storming towards him.
‘I gave you that mug the day you took over this company. Don’t you dare throw it.’ She halted in front of his desk and stretched her hand towards him, her expression stern. ‘Hand it over.’
He placed the mug in her outstretched hand. She was right. It was kind of his lucky mug. It had served him well over the years, and it would be a shame to break it. Still, the urge to throw something was strong.
‘What can I throw, then?’ he said, not caring that he sounded sulky.
She wandered over to the bookshelf in his office and pulled an odd-shaped drab-green vase from one of the shelves and handed it to him. He took it, narrowing his eyes at her.
‘Where did this come from?’
She shrugged. ‘Some old client who tried to seduce your father,’ Helen said, matter-of-factly. ‘She used to send gifts, and your father—the kind man that he was—didn’t have the heart to tell her not to send them. He gave most things away, but kept that vase to remind him that nothing could possibly be as bad as that vase.’ She waved a hand at him dismissively. ‘By all means, smash it. I’ve been wanting to do it myself for years.’
He blinked at her. His father had women trying to seduce him? He hadn’t known. Then again, so what if he did? Tay’s mother had passed away when he was young. And though his father never remarried or saw someone seriously, he was well within his rights to indulge in some seduction.
He put the vase down on his desk. He’d always thought the vase was ugly. But he’d never thought to look at it the same way his father did. Perhaps he’d do well to keep it as a reminder. A reminder of what could happen if he let go of his control. Helen eyed the vase.
‘No? Oh, that’s too bad.’ Her eyes dropped to the files on the floor. ‘Shall I inform everyone that we’re trialling a new filing system?’
He smirked. ‘They weren’t very interesting, anyway.’
Helen shrugged, as if she hadn’t expected any other answer from him. ‘Now, to the point of me being in here talking you down off whatever ledge you’re on,’ she said, amusement flashing in her eyes. ‘Your three o’clock is here.’
He frowned. Three o’clock? That couldn’t be right. He’d already done everything he was booked into for the day. He had no three o’clock. ‘Has he got the right day?’ he said, warily, checking his appointment schedule. ‘I don’t have a three o’clock.’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘She,’ she corrected. ‘And it’s not on your schedule because it’s not a business appointment. It’s wedding-related.’ He blinked. Wedding-related? ‘Specifically, your sister’s wedding.’ She walked towards the door.
‘You don’t need to inform me if Libby’s here, just send her in.’ He furrowed his brow. She’d never informed him before, why now?
‘Oh, it’s not Libby,’ she said, waving a hand to signal the visitor to come into the room. ‘But the young lady has convinced me that she knows you and won’t be needing an introduction.’ She stepped out the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
He narrowed his eyes. She had a mischievous look on her face. But he didn’t have long to dwell on it, because his three o’clock stepped through the door. Helen closed the door behind her. And he found himself staring across the room into a pair of very mysterious eyes, and all breath left his body.
‘Andie.’
It was barely over a whisper, but he knew she heard it. He knew in the way something flickered in her eyes and she faltered. Then she stood up straighter.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Ballin,’ she said. All business. She quickly scanned the room, her eyes lingering on the files on the floor before pulling out a tape measure. ‘Libby assured me this time would be all right. I’ll only be a minute, anyway.’
She stretched out the measuring tape and paced towards him. He backed up, his legs hitting against his desk chair and he flopped into it, not taking his eyes off her. What was she doing here? Here—in his office. She paused, looking at him without looking at him.
‘Everything all right, Mr Ballin?’ So damn formal. Why couldn’t she just call him Tay like everyone else?
His thoughts drifted back to the cards on her coffee table. She was with someone. She couldn’t allow the kind of familiarity that he wanted with her. He frowned at the thought. Did he want familiarity with her? He couldn’t. He couldn’t allow it.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said gruffly.
Her brow furrowed, and he fought the urge to smooth out the crease with his thumb. He cleared his throat and moved to busy himself with the papers on his desk, only to realise they were still on the floor. Damn. So much for trying to be cool about it all.
She jiggled the measuring tape near him. ‘I’m taking your measurements.’ His eyes widened. His measurements? ‘For your suit,’ she added.
‘I have a suit.’
‘For the wedding.’
‘I’ll wear the one I have.’
‘You can’t wear your business suit to your sister’s wedding.’
‘I’ll wear whatever damn suit I feel like.’ He hadn’t meant for it to sound rough, agitated.
She lifted her hands, facing her palms towards him. ‘I’m just doing what Libby asked me to do. If you want to wear your own suit, talk to her about it. But I’m already here and I don’t like backtracking, so I may as well take your measurements.’
He made a noncommittal noise and dropped his gaze to the vase again. Remember. Remember the trouble he got into a little over ten years ago. And why he made the decision to not let anyone close like that again. He startled when he felt her touch his shoulders. He spun in his chair, startling her. Her hands were clutching the measuring tape near her chest.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m taking your measurements,’ she said, suddenly sounding a little less sure than she had before.
‘You don’t need them.’
She sighed. ‘For all of our sakes, let me take the damn measurements.’
<
br /> He studied her for a moment. She looked weary, as though she’d been missing out on sleep. She looked pale, and a little thinner—if it was possible in less than a week. He swallowed. Let her take the measurements and she could leave, be out of his hair.
But no, that wouldn’t be all.
After the measurements come fittings. Scheduled meetings to see her. He couldn’t deal with that. Couldn’t see her.
‘Libby will have me coming back here until I have them,’ she pointed out.
‘I’ll send you the measurements of my other suit,’ he said, decidedly. ‘That will suffice.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t work like that.’ She reached towards him, holding one end of the measuring tape just below one shoulder and running the other hand across his chest to the other. He stiffened. ‘It’s my job to make sure it fits, and unless I measure you, I can’t guarantee that.’
‘You’re a perfectionist, aren’t you?’
She faltered again, her eyes flicking up to meet his briefly. ‘In some things,’ she said softly. ‘Stand, please.’
Reluctantly, he stood. He might have tried harder to get out of this whole ordeal, but he couldn’t find it in him to be so stubborn. Damn, he was going soft. All because of her. He straightened.
‘Are you happy that Libby and Connor are getting married?’
The question surprised him. He glanced at her while she took his measurements, her fingers lingering against him. Methodical, precise, gentle touches—barely touching, even. Yet her fingertips made an imprint on his body that stirred something inside him. She scribbled each measurement in a notebook before taking the next one.
‘Why? Did she say something?’
‘No,’ she said, measuring the length of his arms. Another measurement scribbled. ‘You just seem so … against it.’
She nudged his arms upwards, then wrapped the measuring tape around his chest. Without thinking, he puffed out his chest—though why he felt the need to, he couldn’t tell. She blinked quickly a few times, then wrote the measurement down.
He frowned. ‘I’m not against it. They’re perfect for each other. Why else would I be paying for the wedding?’
‘Why else would you fight every detail?’ she muttered. He tilted his head, studying her. She froze. Then she took a shaky breath. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
She wrapped the measuring tape around his hips and studied the numbers, seemingly distant. He found himself clutching her wrists.
‘What do you mean?’ He was aware his voice sounded harsh, but he didn’t like people insulting his integrity. His character.
‘Nothing,’ she muttered. She wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t let go of her wrists. ‘Like I said, I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘Andie.’ His tone demanded she look at him. She resisted a moment longer, and when he gave her wrists a squeeze, she finally looked up at him, lifting her chin high.
‘You fought over the dress, for starters. The price. And this—the measurements for your suit. And I … I heard you talking to Libby at the vineyard. You didn’t seem particularly happy about that, either.’
‘It wasn’t the venue I was unhappy about,’ he said. ‘It’s that the wedding is in three months.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s doable.’
‘I suppose you would know.’
She frowned, attempting to tug her hands free. He didn’t let go. God, he wished he knew why he didn’t. But he just … couldn’t. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know, I’ve wondered,’ he started. ‘Why you were at the vineyard with Libby. And just how you were able to pull some strings and get her a date that was within the next two years—and so close, too.’
Her jaw set, and he saw her swallow. She held his gaze. A battle of wills. But he knew more than she knew he did. As if the answer was obvious, she recovered her composure.
‘I like to book in a date to have available for when I come across brides who are in desperate need of a venue. It’s more common than you might think.’
A lie. She was lying. Was she so determined to keep her relationship a secret from him?
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Except three months is very little notice. And Poppy—the lovely receptionist—said that everything was already planned and catered for.’
She swallowed. ‘It’s what they do. Catering. Everything. They do cater for weddings, after all.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You’re lying.’
He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to say anything that gave away the fact that he’d looked her up. That he’d found out private information about her. But she did that to him. Made him forget to think.
‘I’m not lying,’ she said, eyeing him carefully. ‘They do cater for weddings.’
‘You don’t make bookings for desperate brides,’ he said flatly. ‘That booking was for you. Don’t try to deny it, because I already know.’
Her chin lifted again, her expression hardened. ‘How?’
He struggled to find the right words—words to distract her, take her mind off the fact that he’d given too much away. ‘I saw the books.’ And he failed. ‘It was your name on the slot you gave Libby.’
‘Of course it was,’ she said, a slight waver in her voice. ‘Like I said, I book in slots to give to other people.’
‘I would believe that if there wasn’t another name on the booking.’
She blinked a few times again, then swallowed. ‘Why were you looking at the books?’
‘I was simply curious—’
‘Do they know you looked at their books?’
‘They gave them to me, so, yes, I’d say they do.’
She yanked her hands free of his hold and took a step back, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Okay then,’ she started. ‘Since you so desperately wanted to look into why on earth I would have a booking, what did you find?’
He held her gaze a moment, considering telling her that he found nothing. Or drawing it out. But what was the point of beating around the bush? ‘It was your booking,’ he said. Straight to the point. ‘For your wedding.’
She dropped her gaze, staring at the ground, her head bent slightly so her fringe teased her eyes. Then she turned her back towards him. ‘You saw the cards on the coffee table.’
‘I saw the books,’ he said. ‘The cards only confirmed it.’
‘Well, congratulations. You’re a terrible stalker.’
He frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Maybe because I took you on a date—’
‘A business arrangement,’ she pointed out, her back still towards him.
‘—and kissed you.’
Her head bent lower, her body shaking a little. ‘I didn’t know you were going to.’
‘You had ample opportunity to tell me you were with someone, and you didn’t. And yet I was the fool who thought to apologise to you.’
Her back stiffened, and she lifted her head. She still didn’t look at him. ‘Why do you think I didn’t need the booking anymore?’ Her voice was soft, quiet. Finally, she turned towards him. She had that weary, exhausted look again, the stubbornness subsiding.
‘Because we kissed.’ The answer was obvious to him. They kissed. And her fiancé found out, and he left. Well, that was the story he’d decided to go with. The thought that she might have eloped …
She scoffed. ‘Don’t think so highly of yourself.’ He tilted his head to the side. It wasn’t because of the kiss? She sighed. ‘I didn’t tell you because there was nothing to tell. I’m not with anyone. I … was. But it was over before I met you.’
‘How recent?’ Why did he feel the need to know?
‘Almost two months ago,’ she said, her eyes clouding. Two months. She’d been single for two months. Why the hell were save-the-date cards sitting on the coffee table? And why was she still booked in at the vineyard?
‘W
ere you hoping he’d come back?’
‘God, no,’ she said, frowning. ‘I ended it with him.’
‘Why?’
Her eyebrow lifted. He knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. ‘What, you didn’t find that out in your investigation?’
He held her gaze, then shrugged slightly. What could he say? He’d looked at the books of the vineyard he’d taken over—looked up her file. It wasn’t as though he’d hired a private investigator to look into her. Which he could do …
No.
Even he knew that would be taking it too far.
Odd, considering he’d never thought twice about it when looking into people he planned on doing business with—people who seemed to be hiding something. But Andie …
He didn’t want to hear her story from someone else.
He shouldn’t even want to hear it from her. But, somehow … for some reason …
His thoughts drifted back to the books. ‘It wasn’t your first time, though.’ He cringed. He hadn’t meant to say it like that—or at all, for that matter. He’d had no issue with her entire past. At least, he thought he didn’t.
Her eyes widened. ‘Wh—what do you mean?’
He pressed his lips together. Damn it. Damn him and his loose tongue and inability to think before he spoke. And damn her for making him like that.
‘Taylor,’ she said, her voice shaking. A warning.
‘It’s not the first time you’ve cancelled a booking there.’
She lifted her chin, her breathing heavier, her brow furrowed. God, she looked a sight. Why did he have to look into her records? Why couldn’t he just let good enough be? And why the hell did she have more of an influence on him than any other damned woman he’d met? His eyes dropped to the green vase and his thoughts drifted back to ten years ago. He swallowed. Almost any other woman. There’d only been one other to affect him so much. And look how that turned out.
‘I think we’re finished here,’ she said, finally.
He frowned. He’d been measured for suits before, and he was sure she’d had the measurements over with quicker than his usual tailor. ‘Have you got all the measurements?’
She hesitated, dropping her gaze lower. ‘No. Send me the measurements of your other suit. I have enough to get started.’ She bundled up the few things she’d brought in and hesitantly glanced at him. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Ballin.’