His eyebrows rose, and his simmering panic faded for a second. “Checking out the boss there, Forty-Two? Not really the done thing.” A surge of blood hit one area of his anatomy at the way her pupils dilated.
“Well, Jiminy. If the boss is caught being checked out, he really shouldn’t say anything, don’t you think?” She snagged her bottom lip. “But for the record, you don’t need a bum bra.”
“Neither do you.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Are you serious?” She looked at him as if he were a purple people eater. “For the record, I’ve got the industrial strength bum bra, the miracle pill, the shampoo that promised I’d have radiant hair with no split ends in three short weeks. I also bought a massager but turns out it was a massager with another purpose.” Her face flushed.
“What’s with all the quick fix shit?” He wasn’t going near the massager thing, but an image of Forty-Two with a vibrator came to mind. He pushed it away.
She looked thoughtful. “No, not quick fixes, more trying to enhance what you’ve got.”
“You’re fine the way you are. The only enhancement you need is to quit hiding in shades of brown.”
She blinked up at him, looking like he was an Ikea shelf and the instructions were in Swedish. “Yeah, see there’s the problem. I like clothes that are…comfortable. And that disguise my lack of planes and angles.”
“For the record, men don’t like planes. Men want curves. The curvier, the better.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, please. Pick up any women’s magazine and tell me those women have curves.”
“Ah, but those magazines are for women. In the magazines men read, the women have curves.”
“Guy magazines have words?”
Her smile sneaked up on him and before he could help it, he grinned down at her. He hadn’t enjoyed being in a woman’s company this much since….Monica.
Her hazel eyes looked golden in the sunlight. “Just for the record, what is your type of woman?”
“Petite, blond, doesn’t talk much, wants the same things as I do,” he said as if by rote. The exact opposite of the woman before him, which was also such a load of shit. If he were in the market—and he most definitely was not—he’d want a woman who challenged him, and who called him on his shit, like swearing. It hadn’t occurred to him that he swore much until she’d blown up at him in the car. His woman would also have curves, and would laugh. Someone like…He rubbed his temple. No, not someone like his assistant, who was exactly that. His assistant. And a woman who had managed to make him forget for a few minutes that his entire deal was about to imitate a fireball.
“I thought that would be your type of woman.” She patted the space beside her. “Take a load off there, Manny. Come and sit for a while.”
She lay on the rug and looked straight up.
He needed to get back to the house. He had a lot of decisions to make, deals to smooth over. Insomnia to cultivate. But seeing her relax on the hillside reminded him of what it once felt like to stop caring about anything for a few minutes. To have a numb mind. To not fucking think. To not feel. Besides, he was starving, and she had food. Food she’d made, which meant it was awesome. “Ten minutes, then I’m gone,” he said.
He sat a measured distance away from her, unwrapped the foil from the roll he’d refused earlier, and bit down on the crusty bread. The sweetness of the figs combined with the goat’s cheese and honey smoked ham sent his stomach into overdrive.
She pointed to a cloud. “Oh look, it’s a woman on a broom. Hi, Mum.”
He looked at the woman by his side, curious. “Where is your mother?”
“I got a text from her last week. She’s in Greenland saving some poor gnat who didn’t know it needed saving. Then she might check out the solstice with the druids,” she said in a wistful voice. “She’s never quite found what she was looking for. We stayed on different communes growing up. She still moves around.”
“You grew up on communes?” He tried not to sound shocked, but it shot out of his mouth like a bullet.
“Yeah, it was fun.” Her face all dreamy. “There were always kids to play with. I was an only child, but I was never lonely.” She stared at a place he couldn’t see. “I loved living here for a year. It was the longest we’d ever stayed anywhere. It was awesome. I love having roots.”
He meant to think about Takahashi and the council, to strategize a next step, but a wood pigeon, her beak heavy with raspberries, caught his eye as she lumbered past and landed in a nearby tree. Another moocher here to commune with the berries and make fucking jam. He took another bite of his sandwich and snuck a glance at Forty-Two.
“What about your father?” he asked, not quite knowing why the words snuck out of his mouth.
She looked pensive before continuing. “Mum never knew who it was. It used to embarrass me having ‘Father Unknown’ on my birth certificate, but it’s just the way it is.”
She sat up and turned to her dog, who watched her like she was going to disappear from his life and he was going to have to roam the hills to find her. She ruffled the dog’s head. “What about you, Mason, are you close with your mum and dad?”
His mother was less than a ghost of a memory, a woman who’d tucked him into bed at night, making the blankets as tight as a cocoon. All he remembered was a faint waft of faded roses and smiling blue eyes. He didn’t know if the memory was real or the person he imagined she’d be. He shrugged. “Didn’t know her. She died when I was five. I hardly know him.” The week after she’d died, Mason had been shipped to boarding school, his father busy at work. Only at Christmas did they share stilted conversation over dinner at a restaurant, each struggling to find words appropriate to use with the stranger across from him, until with an unspoken agreement they’d ceased contact. The last time he’d seen his father was at Ruby’s funeral, but his dad had left before they could speak. Their lives were strangely mirrored, each known in the business world as being hard-hitters. Each having lost someone close to him.
His mind a brittle maze, he forced himself out of unfamiliar corridors and back into the present.
He stared down at his assistant, temporarily mesmerized. With a soft pink glaze on her lips and in that shocker dress, there was something about her. If they were the only two souls left on this planet, then fuck yeah, he’d kiss every inch of her hot, sweet body. But they were employer and employee, ergo a no-go zone.
Forty-Two’s fingers brushed his. The tender touch took him by surprise.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“About what?” he shrugged. “I’m down with it. Shit happens, you deal and move on.”
He glanced into her eyes and turned away at the mix of empathy and tenderness.
“Ten minutes are up.” Mostly he needed to get away from all this jam making and healing and history shit.
For a moment their eyes locked, and he couldn’t look away. Something pulled at him, something he didn’t want or need.
He’d made a pact years ago. No more relationships. No dates with meaning. Merely going through life alone and working his ass off. If Monica had taught him anything, it was that if two people made for each other couldn’t survive tragedy, what chance was there for another person? There wasn’t. He’d found everything he wanted with Monica and Ruby, and it was all now a memory. Only once a year did he allow himself a trip down memory lane, and it ended with six dozen roses and an empty bottle of scotch.
He didn’t even glance in Forty-Two’s direction. Just got his shit together and moved. He would find a way to get rid of this property and fast.
Time started now to work out what the council wanted from him. The sooner he had this ironed out, the sooner he could get the hell away.
Chapter Five
Twenty minutes later, Billie and Stanley stepped into the large kitchen. Her favorite room in the house, it smelled faintly of orange oil touched with pine. Pinecones spilled from woven flax baskets that stood like soldiers guarding the huge wood-bu
rning stove in the corner of the room. Light streamed in from the mottled stained-glass windows, casting a montage of faded purple and green pools on the wooden floor. She put the picnic basket on a huge oak table that dominated the room. Its long, worn benches were far more inviting than the adjacent formal dining room.
Billie inhaled and imagined the family gatherings that had taken place in this room, the happy birth of babies, the unbearable sadness of loss. The room felt happy, loved, and inviting. And Mason wanted to rip out all this beauty, all this life, and replace the warmth of the room with polished stainless steel and black marble? She trailed her hand down the warm wooden table.
Something drove the man. Something deep. Maybe Mason, without knowing it, needed a place like this to stop and enjoy life for a while instead of just going through the motions. Never stopping for a dance with the love of his life under the ancient apple tree at dusk. Not sipping a glass of chilled wine on the deck, just kicking back and talking about the day. Maybe if he paused and looked around him instead of speeding down the autobahn of life he’d see something that would make him want to stop for a while. Maybe, just maybe she could help Mason slow down and appreciate what was around him and maybe, just maybe they could all be winners in this.
God, she’d buy this house in a heartbeat if she had the money. It was exactly the type of house where she’d raise a herd of kids, have Ethel the goat out back keeping the grass trimmed, give Stanley room to bark and round up pinecones.
She glanced at her watch. Mason was very taken with the organic free-range eggs straight from the farm, and she only had three left, not enough for the frittata she’d planned. If she hurried, she’d make it to town and back and have something on the table for dinner.
“Come on, Stan the Man, we’re out of here.” After a quick glance around the spacious room, she found her bag and walked out the front door, sending Mason a text that she’d be back soon. As usual, he didn’t reply. Stanley, her silent sentry, was glued to her side.
Two hours later, she bowled through the door of the house clutching shopping bags. The sky had darkened toward the end of her trip, and she was glad to have made it home before a mother of a storm hit. She shivered at the prospect. Stanley trailed behind her, a ham bone donated by the town’s butcher in his mouth.
She cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them, adding fresh herbs as she went. Her iPad was pumping out Rihanna’s latest, and she sang along to the lyrics as she let her mind wander.
She’d noticed men looking at her today. Smiles were directed her way, and she’d directed a few back. Well, she hoped she’d read the situation correctly. God, she’d die of embarrassment if she’d read it wrong. Dating. The thought at once terrified and thrilled her. Find a nice guy who wanted to hold her hand, kiss her in public, all the things she’d never had. A nice guy who’d want the same things. Wouldn’t dick her around. Wasn’t married to his career. She closed her eyes, and dark hair and laser blue eyes that belonged to her boss wandered into her mind, sat down, and saluted her with whiskey.
Her eyes flew open. Holy hell. She must be tired. Beyonce’s soulful “At Last” filled the room. She hummed along, letting the notes soak through to her soul. This was her time. Alone in the kitchen, her iPad throwing up random tunes. She closed her eyes and let herself sway, imagined strong arms holding her against a warm chest, imagined feeling safe and secure and wanted.
She shook her head of Cinderella ideas and turned back to the frittata.
She concentrated on nice guy again. After holding nice guy’s hand, they’d kiss, then fool around. Then… She stiffened.
She threw off the feeling of inadequacy, added cream, blanched asparagus, field mushrooms, and fresh spinach to the bowl and poured the egg mixture into a pan. She set the timer, smiling along to Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines,” and headed for the office.
“Forty-Two, get in here!” Mason’s voice boomed down the hall.
“Here I am, Denzel,” she called. When she walked into the office, blueprints covered every surface. The contractor who stood by his side shot her a dazzling smile. She smiled back automatically and watched her boss’s features darken further.
“Don’t let me keep you,” Mason said in a low voice, his eyes trained on the contractor.
The man rolled his eyes when he walked past and gave her another dazzling smile. She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
When the man left, she found Mason staring at her.
“What was with the contractor?” he asked.
“Oh, you mean Foot-long Floyd?”
He blinked. “What?”
She bit back a smile and widened her eyes. “He’s legendary in these parts, is old Foot-long.”
His face darkened. “You’re mine for the time you’re here. You won’t have time for… Footlongs.”
She balled her fists. The man knew how to piss her off. “What are you, part cyborg? If a Boobs Berthilda were out there, spilling out of her leather beer wench outfit and ponying on up, and you wouldn’t be interested? Don’t you want to interact with people? Don’t you get lonely paddling alone in the deep end with no one to pluck you out if you go under?” She took a deep breath and at his schooled features, softened her voice. “Don’t you ever get lonely, Mason? Don’t you want to curl up with someone at night? Hold their hand and know they’d have your back no matter what?”
He shrugged one shoulder like an afterthought. “No to all of the above. I know where I need to be and when, and it will be with me alone. I don’t rely on anyone. It is my experience that ultimately people will let you down, leave you.” He looked at her sharply.
Before she could respond, he rummaged around a pile on his desk, dismissing the conversation.
“Where’s the quote for painting the upstairs bedrooms?”
With a sigh, she headed to her desk and was soon stuck trying to find paperwork. At nine-thirty that night, she looked up, her stomach howling for food. The frittata had been sitting in the refrigerator for hours and would need to be reheated. “I’m going to stop for dinner.” She stood and stretched aching muscles. “I’m starving, and I need to take Stanley out. The clouds were pretty dark when I was in town, and I don’t want to get stuck trying to encourage him to go in a downpour.” She resisted the urge to shiver.
“I’ll take Stanley out, and I’ll eat later.” He didn’t bother looking up, just continued reading with his head down, every bit the business professional in his crisp blue business shirt. He’d lost the suit jacket, at least.
She stared at him for a heartbeat, shrugged and made her way to the kitchen, sliced the frittata and pulled the salad she’d made earlier from the fridge. Her iPad lay on the table, so she sat and flicked on her music. The raw sound of Black Keys had her swaying in her chair. She was halfway through dinner when Mason walked into the kitchen, Stanley at his heel. He sat at the table, folding his long legs under the bench across from her, and reached for the food without looking at her.
“Why not the dining room?” he asked, piling his plate high with food.
She shrugged. “It’s cold in there. Impersonal. A polar beer gave me a high five when he floated past yesterday.”
He looked pointedly at her iPad, so she turned the music down.
“There’s something about that room that doesn’t work.”
“It has no soul.” She carried on eating. At his raised eyebrow she continued. “Compare this room and the formal dining room. I feel like I need to don a balaclava and snow shoes in there, where this room is stretchy pants and slippers.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but can you change it around?”
“I’ll schedule it. I believe I have a spare two seconds just after five a.m.”
He swallowed and laid down his fork “This frittata is awesome.” And there it was again, on his face. That smile that made her stomach somersault and totally stick the landing.
She wiped suddenly damp hands down her skirt. “Thanks. I can’t wait to
finish culinary school. I started but had to leave when James became ill.” At his quizzical expression she said. “Sarah would come out and we’d rehash our childhood dream of opening shops in Footsteps Bay. She’s running the town bakery.”
He nodded. “Admirable dream. Is that what you want now?”
She put her chin in her hands. “I don’t know. I see how much Sarah puts into her business and what little life she has outside of getting up before dawn to bake bread. It’s tough being a small business owner, but not having anyone to share it with would be tougher. I kind of want the balance. I don’t want to be married to my job and have no one to come home to. No holidays to plan. Just one day rolling into the next until we hit the finish line, then boom, we’re chatting with Peter at the pearly gates.”
She took another bite of the creamy frittata and mentally apologized to her hips. “I could live in this house, though, with my man. It’s close enough to town for you not to have to take a packed lunch for the journey and just far enough that we could play naked Twister whenever we wanted and not worry about prying eyes.” She blinked repeatedly. Oh, God did I just say that?
The vibe in the room shifted. She looked down into her lap, her face flaming. Anywhere but at her boss. She could feel the burn of his stare.
“Right,” she whispered. “Sorry, brain and mouth weren’t communicating. Again.” Her gaze came to rest on his, and she stilled at the hungry look he was not aiming at his food. His eyes dropped to her chest. Breath barely made it to her lungs. She refused to check whether her clothes had disintegrated under his high-beam stare. It was as if she were sitting here in nothing more than her nail polish. Those weird shivers and tingles pulsed deep in her belly.
“What were you thinking just now?” His voice was dark and gravelly, leaving her sticky where she shouldn’t be.
She shoved back in her chair, clearing her mind of the image of her and her boss naked with both hands going for the same green circle on the Twister mat, but couldn’t stop her body doing a full flush. Shit. Had he noticed? Because he could never know. Would never know. She would bank this bit of man magic to use at a later date, along with the drawer full of girl appliances that so far hadn’t cracked the code.
Winning the Boss's Heart Page 5