After she’d pulled back, she’d been all business again, talking about them packing the boats and eating their picnic food in the car instead as they returned to the house. She had emails to check and calls to return. And he’d lost track of all she’d listed. He’d been more focused on watching her, gauging her mood and deciding how best to proceed.
For now, he’d decided that since she wanted to ignore the kiss, he would go along with that. It was certainly better than having her declare it couldn’t happen again.
Progress of sorts.
A progress that gave an extra kick to his steps as he walked into his great room after showering.
To find Isabeau waiting.
For the moment at least, she seemed unaware of his presence, which gave him an opportunity to study her.
Her hair was piled on her head, glistening with dampness. So she had showered too. She’d changed into leggings and a flowing white shirt that called to his hands to tunnel underneath.
But he was learning that slow and steady was the better move with her. He didn’t want her to run, the way she had after their encounter at the boathouse. He needed to use their time together wisely.
Striding deeper into the room, he looked closer and what he found surprised him. He’d expected to discover her with her computer or tablet, but instead she was...pulling yarn out of a bag. Shock left him too surprised to ask why she wasn’t answering all those emails and calls she’d mentioned back at the water.
Legs tucked to her side, Isabeau fished a crochet hook from her blue paisley bag, settling deeper into the left side of the light tan sofa.
She looked up at him, her red hair falling into her face slightly, contrasting with those bright blue eyes. “What’s with the frown?”
“I’m just...surprised, maybe even a little confused.”
“I’m just crocheting.” She tugged more of the yarn free.
A few strides took him past Isabeau and the living area to the outer wall made entirely of windows. From over his shoulder, he called, “Why?”
“It’s relaxing and productive at the same time. I decided to give myself a chance to settle before getting back to work.” She shifted her legs to the other side, tucking a throw pillow behind her.
Scanning the horizon, he took a steadying breath. Concern for her health—and maybe an unborn baby’s health—weighed heavily on his mind, despite the normally calming effects of the sprawling landscape peppered with pines and other evergreens.
Since the construction of this ranch-inspired building, Trystan had felt, even if it wasn’t a permanent feeling, at home here. If there were ever a physical building that fit his state of mind, it was this place. Every detail reflected Trystan’s soul, from the carved wooden figurines of moose and bears to the sweeping panorama of the Alaskan wilderness supplied by the wall of windows.
After a few moments, he made his way back to the hearth and sofa area where Isabeau sat with her yarn. “How do you feel?”
“I feel great. Really.” She smiled reassuringly. “And yes, I checked my blood sugar levels to be on the safe side, and all is well. It was just one of those things. They happen, not often, but that’s my life. I’m sorry you were worried.”
He sat beside her and tapped the tan-colored yarn. “What are you making?”
“Scarves for local homeless shelters.”
Not what he’d expected to hear. “That’s really kind of you.”
“What goes around comes around,” she mumbled so softly he almost didn’t hear her.
“It would be good if more people thought that way.” He and his family had so much that sometimes, no matter how many charity foundations they set up, he wondered what more they could be doing. He felt a twinge of conscience about not giving enough of his attention to the upcoming wilderness initiative fund-raiser. Isabeau was here to help him and still he found her a major, tantalizing distraction. “When did you start crocheting scarves for homeless shelters?”
“And blankets and hats. My mother and I were gifted with some of each when I was a young teenager.”
Shock knocked him off balance for a beat. He blinked through it and willed his face to stay neutral. “You were homeless?”
“After my dad ran off for a while and we got evicted. We were only in a shelter for a couple of weeks, but it saved us.” Her fingers worked deftly, yarn transformed from static string to the beginnings of a scarf.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t move, other than her fingers.
“I’m so sorry.” He understood what it was like to have your world uprooted by turmoil, but he’d always known he had a place to live.
“No need to be sorry. I’m here and successful and okay. There was this little old lady there who crocheted for us.”
“As a volunteer or staff member?” he asked, enjoying the sound of her voice and appreciating her opening up to him.
“A former resident. She understood what it was like and that was her way of giving back.” Isabeau’s eyes took on a pensive air, as if seeing inward to the past, looping yarn over the crochet hook faster and faster. “She helped me while Mom searched for a job. It was summer, so school was out. We sat and she showed me how to crochet.”
He searched for something to say, but words weren’t his strength, and it wasn’t like he could ask her to coach him on this. “You’re really talented.”
She glanced at him quickly, half smiling. “Just because someone’s poor doesn’t mean they have to be grateful for donations that look like crap.”
“Good point.”
She laughed softly. “You still seem confused though.”
Such an understatement. When his family had approached him about working with an image consultant, he figured he’d be working with a vapid woman only interested in the veneer of things. Not one whose heart had such depth. Now, after meeting Isabeau, he felt a splash of embarrassment for his initial assessment of an image consultant stereotype. “I just didn’t expect an image consultant to be so...deep.”
“I’ll try not to be insulted.” She yanked free a length of yarn before setting to work again.
“I’ve made no secret of the fact I’m participating in this makeover under duress. I’m just not that into superficial appearances.”
“People gain confidence in different ways, and if that confidence is used to do good for others, then this—” she held up the scarf in progress “—helps me more than the receiver.”
Those bright eyes met his and she lifted her project to show him the small progress. He could almost see a younger Isabeau—the one in the shelter, gaining confidence because an old woman had given her a fine scarf.
“Yes. You’re definitely a surprise.” Leaning toward her, he studied her face, the way her fingers moved, the careful attention to the smallest detail.
He studied her mouth.
“Well, thank goodness I’m not boring.” She took her bottom lip between her teeth, releasing it slowly.
A bolt of desire shot straight through him. Electrifying him. “Lady, you are far from boring.”
More than air, he wanted to kiss her again. Holding back was difficult as hell. But something told him this wasn’t the time to press her on that—or more. He didn’t want to spook her and lose ground.
He was definitely making progress. So the best bet?
Double down with another outing to romance her.
* * *
Later that week, Isabeau wondered when she’d lost control of her client.
When he’d kissed her? Or when he’d looked at her with a passion so intense it seared her?
After she’d steadied her blood sugar and nerves with some good old-fashioned crocheting, she’d spent the evening locking down a schedule of podcast interviews for Trystan.
Only to have him surprise her with the announcement of another planned outing. As she’d
started to argue that work needed to come first, he’d surprised her yet again by revealing he’d set up a publicity opportunity on his own. He’d secured a news interview at a gold rush festival in Juneau.
She tightened her hold on Paige’s leash as they walked through the festival goers, proud of her dog’s firm focus in such a melee. Boy, was there a lot to take in. Surveying the crowd, she had to admit that although this might not have been an event she’d have set up for Trystan, the festival was full of life.
Chain saws hummed in the distance from the woodcutting competition where woodsmen—and women—showed off their prowess carving art from huge logs of Alaskan pine. The scent of fresh sawdust, sweet and sap-tinged, hung in the air everywhere they explored. A small livestock show nearby kept kids entertained with a petting zoo where eager goats cavorted for the reward of a treat. And now, she paused as she heard the cheers of another crowd near the band pavilion.
For a moment, she lingered, watching a lean twentysomething brunette hoist an axe above her head and aim at a target fifty paces away with surprising accuracy. A small crowd made up of older couples and young families cheered, loosing whistles and whoops of approval into the air. Beaming, the young woman took a mock bow before nodding to the next competitor.
Guitars and a banjo played in the background providing a peppy beat for their wanderings. Navigating through throngs of people gathered outside food trucks and the lines for inflatable slides, Isabeau felt strangely at peace.
Rather than continuing to watch another competition—this time with two men racing against each other to climb a pole—she slid her attention to Trystan, who walked confidently beside her. His muddied cognac-brown cowboy boots were paired with worn jeans and a red flannel shirt, sleeves straining against his muscled arms.
Damn. Sexy as ever.
Isabeau cleared her throat, elbowing him. “This was a fantastic idea. I’m impressed.”
“Pleased to hear it. This is one of my favorite festivals. And it seemed a good platform to talk about ways we Alaskans are working to responsibly cultivate our resources.”
“And I’m impressed again. You have more of a way with words than you give yourself credit for.” Or than she’d given him credit for. When he was in his comfort zone, he was spot-on. “I can see you being one of those old-school gold miners, forging your way through the Alaskan frontier, living in a tent.”
She couldn’t quite make out his eyes from the shade cast by the brim of his simple Stetson.
He laughed softly. “Sounds like heaven to me. In fact, I wouldn’t even need the tent. Just give me a hammock to string between two trees and a thermal sleeping bag.”
A line of elementary school–age children walked by, laughing as they clutched cotton candy puffs that wavered in the wind in time with the banjo music. Such a sense of community.
“You fit in well here,” she said, noting how many people who recognized him waved and smiled. He was so...accessible. Not as distant as he’d seemed in more formal settings. Guilt pinched her. No matter how much she told herself she was tailoring his makeover to fit his personality, she saw the truth. He was a happy and whole person right here, right now, no changes. “This month will be over soon and you can go back to living at your ranch full-time, sleeping bag and all.” Although she couldn’t help but think how Naomi had mentioned the possibility of him taking a more active role beyond this month. Would the business still want her services long term?
More importantly, would she still be spending close quarters time with Trystan long term?
“I’ll miss you.” He nudged back his Stetson, and his deep blue eyes met hers, locking her in place.
Her skin tingled, and the noisy, packed world faded away for an instant. “We’ve only been working together a little over a week.”
“Then that should tell you what an impression you’ve made on me in such a short time.”
“I have a job to do.” And this flirting made it tougher. How would she resist him if their lives were tied together permanently through a child?
“And I’m asking you to consider the possibility we could see more of each other. You work on a consultant basis. You could take time off. Money’s not an issue. These are the sorts of things to consider, especially if there’s a baby.”
There it was. The issue that clouded everything else.
This special outing, his flirting—none of it was just about dating each other. They’d made that kind of casual relationship impossible by impulsively sleeping together. As much as she’d vowed not to live her mother’s life, vulnerable and alone for so many years, Isabeau had not made the wisest choices lately.
“I won’t be dependent on anyone, particularly a man I’m sleeping with.”
He fell silent, clearly digesting her assertion.
But before Trystan could lobby a response, Isabeau saw a news crew out of the corner of her eye.
Saved by the media.
Not a phrase she used every day. Relief washed over her. “News crew at your two o’clock.” Isabeau nodded in the direction of the huddle of journalists gathered outside a funnel cake stand.
The female reporter—high heels sinking in a mud puddle—tapped her cameraman on the shoulder. A mutual recognition, Isabeau realized. The cameraman adjusted the gear on his shoulder, and the news media team began their approach.
“Time for my debut,” Trystan muttered, motioning for Isabeau to follow.
“Mr. Mikkelson,” the reporter called, waving. “I’m so glad you and your girlfriend could meet with us for an exclusive.”
Isabeau blinked in shock.
Girlfriend?
Seven
A half hour later, as they settled into the SUV, Isabeau was still steaming over being maneuvered.
She’d been so immersed in the beautiful day with Trystan that she’d never seen it coming.
Now, he guided the rental vehicle from the packed parking lot, and she watched the fairgrounds grow smaller in the rearview mirror as her regrets grew larger.
She’d been drawn to Trystan, succumbing to that chemistry, because she’d thought he was giving her the personal space she’d requested while they waited for pregnancy results.
Instead, he was just setting her up for his own agenda. To press and push for...what? Either to get her to sleep with him again or ensure some kind of hold over her if it turned out she carried his child.
She glanced down at her stomach, then over at him, his hands so sure on the steering wheel.
As if he felt her gaze, he looked back at her. “I didn’t tell her that.”
Sure, whatever.
“The damage is done. The story’s going to run and it will say that I have a personal relationship with a client.” She hugged herself, agitation rising. “Denying the report won’t do any good.”
“Then let’s do the opposite and play it up as a great romance. People do fall for each other on the job. Letting the public know we’re dating could prep for news if you’re pregnant—”
“I know, I know. There will be no hiding the truth. But what if I’m not and we’ve convinced the world we’re having some great love story?”
“We’ll quietly break up...if that’s what you wish.”
His hesitation gave her pause as well, and launched a surprise flurry of butterflies in her stomach. “If that’s what I want? Are you saying—after a little over a week together—that you’re madly in love with me?”
“Of course not. But I’ve made no secret of the fact I would like to see more of you.” He reached across the space to stroke her shoulder. “Come on, let’s enjoy the rest of the day. We could even turn around and go back, take in another part of the festival, get something to eat.”
“How can you just drop a bombshell like that and then say let’s have a funnel cake?”
“There’s nothing we can do about the past except
enjoy the future.” He nudged his Stetson up, sliding his sunglasses in place.
Easier said than done.
“It’s been a full day. If you don’t mind, I would like to get a quiet meal and turn in early. Or maybe you’ve already planned for us to go to the airport?”
“Actually, no. I filed the flight plan for the morning.”
Her back went straight with suspicion. This was too much. Paige nudged Isabeau’s foot from the floorboard of the front seat. “Trystan—”
He raised a hand in defense. “I had to plan it for tomorrow because of weather tonight, which I only learned about when we landed. I was going to tell you at the festival. I have arranged for a hotel suite for us so we don’t have to drive the couple of hours back and forth to the ranch—and yes, the suite has two bedrooms. I’ve also had some clothes sent over for both of us, along with arranging for Paige’s needs, as well.”
Guilt nudged a lot harder than her dog. She melted back into the seat. “I’m sorry if I sound like an ingrate. You’re being very thoughtful.”
“I am not setting you up.” He shot her a pointed look. “But make no mistake, I am working my ass off to impress you.”
She bit her lip hard to keep from telling him the truth—it was working.
* * *
Trystan had learned a lesson at the Juneau festival.
He needed Isabeau—in more ways than one.
She brought a light and sparkle to his world when he saw it through her eyes. His practical, blunt nature tended to miss the beauty in a moment and, yes, the nuances, as well.
He’d been certain he’d set up the perfect day for her, down to an interview that would show her his work ethic. Instead, the reporter had surprised the hell out of him. Not to mention setting back his progress with Isabeau. If he’d included her in the plans, she surely would have arranged that interview to their benefit and had the reporter eating out of the palm of her hand.
Instead, he’d walked them into a media trap.
Tonight, in the five-star, waterside hotel suite, he would have to tread warily. At least she was relaxing in the small, saltwater pool on the screened-in balcony. The waters were warmed. He’d seen her head out in a swimsuit, sexy as hell, even though he would have preferred they enjoy the bubbling waters together, naked.
The Love Child Page 8