Winning the Boss's Heart

by Hayson Manning

  Well, two can play at this.

  …

  The haunting notes of Vivaldi drifted from Mason’s Land Rover. Seemed he’d grown tired of the sad and lonely people he usually listened to. Billie absently rubbed her throbbing knee and stared out the passenger window. Try as she might, she couldn’t make sense of her thoughts. They lay like wreckage in her mind. One question flashed red, though. Her grip on the passenger door tightened. What was Mason’s game? She was tired enough and confused enough to talk instead of just putting up with the silence he usually dished out.

  She stared at his profile. “I saw the way you looked at me tonight.”

  His eyes cut to her for a second. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “It wasn’t the usual look of ‘where’s the hole-punch,’ or ‘have you ensured the staple for the report is in the top left hand corner’ look.”

  He stared straight ahead, but in the light of the streetlamps she saw his jaw working.

  “I’ve only seen you look at me like that once before and it had nothing to do with work.”

  “You’re reading way too much into this.” His lips had thinned, and the car seemed to have picked up speed. The countryside was a blur as they passed.

  She studied him for a further heartbeat before he turned up the volume, shutting down further conversation.

  Her bag made a buzzing sound and she pulled out her phone. It showed a text from Sarah.

  How’s Heathcliff? I saw the way he looked at you. Multiple pairs of women’s underwear combusted in that tent.

  She tapped out a reply, swallowing. Found out he’s divorced and totally in love with the ex.

  Sarah’s answer came back fast. This needs to be discussed over vats of margaritas. Harvest is coming up. We’re all on tenterhooks here. Drinks on me.

  She stared at the screen, and her throat dried. If she could find a way to make this work for everyone, she’d harvest plasma and give up her first born. There had to be a way to resolve this. Of course, she wouldn’t mind if Mason decided he loved it here and wanted to stay. No, she wouldn’t mind that at all. But he’d made it clear that he’d never be happy here. Roots, for him, weren’t a source of nourishment and stability. To Mason, they were shackles.

  She looked at him, trying to read his face, but he was a blank canvas. Yet she knew behind that carefully maintained façade there was a man with passion and emotions he didn’t know how to deal with. She’d felt him when he’d made love to her. Oh, how he’d loved her.

  That wasn’t a man who didn’t feel. He felt deep. His pain was palpable. Tonight when she’d stood on the stage and looked into his eyes, she’d sworn something had flickered there. For just a blink, it had been there. She just didn’t know what it meant.

  Mason swung the car onto the gravel driveway, and she jumped out as soon as it came to a halt. Stanley followed her into the house and with a long sigh lay on his bed, his eyes on her. She tucked his blanket around him and kissed his head.

  She joined Mason in the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, a brown bottle of beer at his lips, his Adam’s apple moving deeply in the long column of his throat as he drank.

  When he’d drained the bottle, he wiped his hand across his mouth. “Don’t read anything into this, Forty-Two.” He spoke casually, as if he were peeling an orange or toasting a Pop Tart.

  She crossed her arms. “Really, Wilfred? So why not just write an anonymous donation?”

  Silence.

  He carefully set the bottle on the counter and spun it a few times before his gaze finally came to rest on hers. “I was saving you.”

  She tilted her head. “Really?”

  He went for a casual shoulder shrug, but there was nothing relaxed about the movement at all. “I saw the guy who bet on you. He drove a tractor and was wearing clothes the National History Museum wanted back on display. After they’d been washed.”

  She glared at him. “So?”

  His eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean, ‘so?’ Did you not hear my last sentence?”

  “Yeah, I heard your last sentence, and I said ‘so’ because I don’t care if he drives a tractor and is wearing his pop’s hand-me-downs.” She leaned closer and ignored his clean smell and the fact he didn’t reverse as he usually did when she got into his space. She tapped her fingers against the counter. “I know you’re using this as an in with the council.”

  He threw her a sharp look. “As I said. Reading too much into this.”

  “Really? Well, since you’ve denied me an all-out treat with the tractor-driving man of my dreams, I think you owe me a date.” She leaned her hip against the table and flinched when the Band-aid across her knee tightened. Damn that dresser and the rough wood she’d landed on.

  His condescending smile ticked her off. “Wine?” he asked pulling a bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge.

  She nodded, and he poured her a glass. Correction, he poured her half an inch. She cocked her head. “Fill her up there, Jim, I think this might get a bit heated.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and filled the glass. “Can’t see what’s going to get heated.”

  “Do you cook?” She took a long sip, savoring the crisp wine.

  “I butter my own toast when required.”

  She laughed. She could see Mason in the kitchen yelling at the toaster when it wasn’t fast enough. “Well, you do now.”

  His brows drew together in an adorable look of confusion.

  “Cook,” she said. “Now you cook. As far as I’m concerned, you owe me a date. Terms of winning me and all, since you’ve denied me Tractor Man.”

  “Ah, no. I didn’t deny you anything. I saved you. Trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted him. He had something resembling a cow pat on his head. Besides, he was too old for you.” An amused smile curled his lips.

  That just sent a spike of pissed-off through her body. “You reneging there, Ebenezer?” She cocked her head to one side. “Didn’t take you for a man who went back on his word. I kind of had you pegged as a man of principle.”

  “Careful,” he growled, his face flushed.

  “Careful yourself, Boris. You undertook a verbal contract by betting and winning a date with me for the night, so I’m calling you on the date. Whatever your reasons for doing it, I don’t care. You owe me.” She let loose with a smile. “And you’re going to rustle me up soul food.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and a hint of a smile played around his mouth. “Not going to happen.”

  Now, that just boiled her blood.

  “Am I right? Was it to get an on the council’s good side?” She advanced until she was a foot from him. A red haze formed around the periphery of her vision. “If you had no plan on wooing me on a date, or even supplying me with a bucket of KFC and three sides, what was the point of forking out ten grand?”

  He didn’t speak, just stared at her, almost smiling. Her blood was no longer boiling. Now it steamed.

  “You owe me a date. A proper date, or is there something you’re not quite convinced about here?”

  Nothing moved on his face, but his eyes had darkened to deepest denim. “You’re reading far too much into this.”

  “Well, I’m thinking you have a multiple choice answer here.” She ticked the options on her fingers. “A. You couldn’t bear the thought of me out with another man. B. You did this as a means to bend the council’s ear. C. A combo of the above.” She paused for a breath. “Well, my answer is C.”

  At his sharp intake of breath, she got very close and pushed a finger into his chest. “So what’s the verdict?”

  He finally spoke, and when he did, his voice was low and gravelly. “Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Dress is formal. It’s just a date. A moral obligation. Nothing more.”

  “Good to know. A date only. A date with all the trimmings. And no toast. A meal that you’ve cooked.”

  “Jesus,” he said under his breath.

  She rubbed the center of her chest, trying to unravel the knot o
f trapped air. “Putting yourself out there for salvation?”

  “I don’t have a soul,” he replied instantly.

  She blinked, and the tension leaked from her body. Oh, he had a soul all right. She knew it in the way he’d made love to her. The way he waited patiently for her dog to finish up while holding an umbrella over Stanley’s head. The man had a soul bursting with suppressed emotion he didn’t know what to do with. He didn’t just love, he buried himself in love. Buried himself in a perfect marriage.

  “Yeah, you do,” she whispered. “You only wish you didn’t.”

  His body went into that Michelangelo statue mode.

  He deserved to find whatever he’d lost. That second chance that he believed he couldn’t have again. He clearly thought he wasn’t worthy, but he was wrong, so very wrong. Everyone deserved a second shot. Mason was so determined to go through life alone. Why he didn’t believe he deserved a second shot, she didn’t get. The man planned on going through life without feeling anything, but he deserved to find the peace that he so desperately needed. He also deserved to be loved. She swallowed heavily. If, in the short time she was here, she could help him see that he deserved happiness, then she’d do everything she could to help him.

  Before he could refute it, she leaned up and whispered into his ear. “Seven o’clock tomorrow night, formal. See you here. I shall require a couple of hours off to go shopping, but I’ll make up the time.” She walked toward the door, not even pausing when he spoke.

  “Don’t buy another beige dress.”

  She kept her back to him as she approached the exit. “Any other requests?”

  “High shoes. Your hair down and underwear is optional.”

  She tensed. Luckily, she hadn’t been wearing high heels now, or she’d be on the floor in a heap. As it was, she stumbled. She grabbed the door handle, refusing to turn around.

  “You joking about the underwear there, Shaft?” she said, still facing the door.

  “Shaft?” Amusement and something else tinged his words. “Now that one I like.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “No, Shaft does good things to a man’s ego, and as for optional underwear, that’s something I don’t joke about.”

  Once she’d opened the door, she did look back. His eyes smoldered, and he tilted his chin. She licked her lips and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  “You going commando?” Her gaze dropped to the zipper on his jeans. She’d tried for a teasing tone, but with her mouth so dry, she sounded parched and hungry.

  Damn.

  His eyes darkened.

  Tomorrow night wasn’t going to be about work. No. Tomorrow night would be about two people having dinner. Connecting. A chance to prove to him that he deserved to try again for perfection. “I like the way you said my name tonight.”

  “What?

  “Tonight. You called me Billie.”

  His features tightened, and he paled.

  “Seven o’clock. Looking forward to it, Mason.”

  …

  After spending most of the night trawling the internet for recipes, finally Mason had the menu planned.

  So now he stood with a beaming Nola, premium fudge maker and the owner of the aptly named Nola’s Food Emporium. He really didn’t have time for this. He had a phone hookup in two hours with a potential Canadian investor interested in adding the property to their chain of yoga retreats. For the first time since the council had denied his plans, he felt a glimmer of hope that if the Canadian buyer fell in love with the place, if Takahashi bailed. The word failure wasn’t in his dictionary. He’d spent years building his business reputation as the man who brought deals in on time. He wasn’t about to lose that now.

  Nola patted his arm. “Don’t you worry now, pet, we’ll get you sorted. Follow me.” Nola’s blue eyes twinkled. She stared at his list, and the twinkle turned into a full-on blast of sunshine.

  The sushi rolls for the starter, the scallop and chestnut terrine for the entrée, and the licorice parfait dessert were history. Nola didn’t stock chestnuts or Ouzo–“Ooze what?” she’d asked. She had an Uncle Norrie, but he wasn’t anything to do with food. He didn’t tell her nori was seaweed sheets for the sushi—he had a feeling she’d feel awkward at being corrected. And she was adamant she had a packet of instant Midori sauce somewhere. There was no way in hell he was going to cook her “famous” rissoles. He’d had enough of the oversized meatballs in boarding school to last him this lifetime and the next.

  She walked to the front of the shop and indicated a strip of stools. “Sit yourself down there, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Just sit. If I can’t get you to agree to keep the fruit trees, at least give me the opportunity to poison your coffee.”

  “I’ll take a double shot of poison to go if I could.” He went to move, but she pinned him with her twinkling blue eyes.

  Before he knew it, a cup was pressed into his hands, and he was sipping the best cappuccino he’d had in years.

  “This is excellent.”

  Nola beamed. “We’re not all ancient machines and beating our washing down at the river, you know. We’re just the same as people living in the city, except we’re doing it on a smaller scale. Do you know your neighbors, petal?”

  He blinked. Petal. He’d never been called a petal in his life. It almost made him smile. He had no clue who his neighbors were. Figured they’d come over if the fire alarm went off, as he would for them, but that was about it.

  “Neighbors, dear. People who look out for you. We’ve had some terrific blow ups in the town, but once a year everyone puts their differences aside and usually by the end of the day what they were fighting over is forgotten. That’s why the grounds are so important. Every year we get together and all the hurts of the past year get healed. It’s how we heal and move on.”

  He heaved back a sigh. Quite frankly, he was sick of hearing this same old argument from every townsperson he met.

  Before he could respond in a nice way, she carried on. “Have you healed?” Her eyes appraised him.

  “There’s nothing to heal,” he lied.

  She eyed him and said, “All things heal, if you don’t keep ripping the bandage off, examining old wounds. Granted, they’ll leave a scar, but that too will fade if you let it. Doesn’t mean you have to forget. Just forgive.”

  He didn’t know what the hell to say to her, so he said nothing as she shuffled away. He finished up his coffee and called out his thanks to Nola. She responded with a “you’re welcome” from somewhere in the store, and he left.

  Hours later, he stared at the mound of egg shells on the counter. A vein in his brain was about to shred. With only four eggs left, he was running out of time to make Nola’s chocolate tart. He held his breath and tried not to crush the egg with his fingers. He tapped the top of the egg with a knife.

  Nothing.

  He gave it another whack. Egg white streamed down into the bowl followed by threads of yellow. Shit. He threw the pieces of eggshell onto the mountain already stacked on the bench and put his finger against the tic beating under his left eye. A knock on the door saved him from hurling the rest of the eggs against the wall.

  Nola stood in the doorway, pink and breathless, holding a large, opaque plastic container.

  “How’d you get on, pet?” she asked, walking past him. “With the tart?”

  “Not well. I’ve had a problem with the egg separating part. I’ve applied every law of physics there is, and it won’t work.”

  Nola set the large container on the counter and opened the oven, then the fridge.

  Mason stared at the container. “What’s in there?” His heart sank. “Is it rissoles?”

  “I know you wanted to do this yourself, and if you whip the cream and grate an orange, you helped create it.” Nola’s cheeks turned pinker. “It’s a chocolate mud tart straight out of the oven.”

  He took two steps and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“If only I was ten years older, Nola.”

  “Five, petal,” she replied, eyes twinkling. “Now you’ve got a lot of work to do.” She surveyed the kitchen. “I’d best get on.”

  He stopped dead. “Why’d you do this? I mean, I’m grateful, but why would you do this for someone you don’t know?”

  She smiled. “Well, that’s what people do, dear, help each other out. Besides, I don’t think you should go through life on your own. Give this a chance. Give Billie a shot.”

  He blinked and took a step back. Her clear blue eyes bored through him. “No. This is just a date for charity, nothing more.” Sweat dribbled down his back.

  “If you say so, petal.” She turned and walked toward the door, her white rubber-soled shoes sticking to the polished floor with a squelch squelch noise.

  He stared at the door long after it had shut. A strange, hollow sensation spread outwards, and he gripped the counter and stared out the kitchen window. This was exactly the kind of community he’d dreamed of long ago. A place where he and Monica would raise Ruby, surrounded by children and love. In his mind, he stared into hazel and gold-flecked eyes.

  Wait.

  Monica had green eyes.

  His limbs jerked.

  Billie had hazel and gold-flecked eyes.

  Jesus. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. Boundaries were being blurred. He wandered into the lounge and surveyed the room Forty-Two had transformed. It reminded him of a country feature room from one of the “Make Your House Look like This” magazines he flicked through while waiting at the dentist. Large Spanish terracotta urns brimming with red bottle brush Pohutukawa, branches of Silver Dollar, and white bushy Toi Tois resembling gigantic feather dusters stood in the corners. She had transformed the shell of a room into a warm, cozy place. It was different than the black leather and steel he’d envisioned, but he had to admit it worked. If culinary school didn’t work out, she had a future in interior design.

  He collapsed onto the couch. His eyes drifted closed, and a sense of peace settled over him. But that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t peace so much as relaxed. At least the call to the Canadian investor had gone well. Really fucking well. He’d sent them a detailed report and was waiting to hear back.