By Thursday evening, Crickitt decided she really, really liked her job. Shane gave her enough space to allow her to find her way, never losing patience when she interrupted him to ask questions or clarify how he wanted something done. Which would be exactly the kind of career she could settle into if it wasn’t for her daily minifantasies starring Shane August, CEO of sex gods.
Crickitt tossed the empty Chinese container into the trash can and congratulated herself for avoiding dishes another night. Eating leftover takeout at 9:05 p.m. was just one of single life’s perks.
Right! Single! Have at him! her errant hormones chanted.
Like that was going to happen. First of all, it was ridiculous. Shane August was a billionaire. Crickitt bought knickknacks from thrift stores. The idea someone like him could be interested in someone like her was…she fanned her collar, suddenly warm. Well, it was…distracting.
“Absurd” is the word you’re looking for.
She reached for a dishcloth to wipe down the counters in her already tidied kitchen and distract herself from more inappropriate thoughts about Shane. She covered the minuscule space in a few seconds and, not for the first time, grieved the loss of the spacious kitchen in the house she and Ronald had built. They’d been far from wealthy. In fact, they were mortgaged up to their ears in an attempt to keep up with their affluent neighbors. Ronald’s idea.
He’d kept the house, explaining that as an investment banker, he’d had appearances to maintain. Meanwhile she was Holly Hobby Homemaker who, according to him, “didn’t have a real career.” Funny, she’d outearned him for the last five years.
She refilled her water glass, carrying it to the living room with her. Her canvas shoulder bag sat on the corner of her sofa, a manila folder poking out of the top. Shane had dropped the folder onto her desk before he left, assuring her with one of those sideways smiles of his that she didn’t have to read over it tonight. And she’d intended to leave it for tomorrow, she had. But at the last minute she brought it home. For all her declaring she wanted to watch mindless television, she couldn’t make herself care who was stranded on an island or in the running for a recording contract.
And, okay, she’d admit, she was looking forward to tomorrow’s meeting in Columbus with Mr. Henry Townsend. Settling onto her comfy sofa, a find from an estate sale shortly after procuring her apartment, she opened the folder and began to read about the company August Industries had been hired to represent.
Crickitt’s cell phone rang, demanding her attention. She frowned at the unknown number on the screen. Maybe it was a former customer or a wrong number… It rang for the third time before she gave in and answered it. Better to handle it than end up with a voice mail she’d have to deal with later.
“Crickitt,” a silken male voice said after she said hello. “It’s Shane.”
“Hi.” The word sailed out on an exhaled breath, and she’d unintentionally added a second syllable. Maybe he’d assume the husk in her voice was because she’d been sleeping. Which made her imagine being in bed. Which made her wonder if he was. She stood and began pacing across the room. “I, uh, didn’t recognize this number.”
“It’s my home office line,” he said. “I thought I’d given it to you. Listen, I apologize for calling so late, but I forgot to tell you we need to leave early tomorrow morning.”
“I thought the Townsend meeting was in the afternoon,” she said, sifting through the file in search of a time.
“It is, but I have another client in Columbus scheduled in the morning and I want you to sit in on that meeting as well.”
“Oh, okay. No problem.” Nope. Just an entire day of one-on-one time with Shane. No problem at all. It might take extra concentration to keep her eyes from bugging out of her head, and she’d have to keep her voice from having the breathy do me quality it had right now, but she was totally up for it. “I’ll just, um, what time do you need me to be at the office?” she asked, starting off toward her bedroom to find something to wear.
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll swing by and pick you up at your place. How does six a.m. sound?”
Early, she thought, grimacing. “Sounds great.”
“Liar.” His voice lilted, tipping her equilibrium. Was he…teasing her? She could feel the force of his smile in her stomach. “I’ll need to brief you before the first meeting,” he continued. “I thought we’d get to town, have some breakfast, and go over the details then.”
“I’ll be ready,” she promised, hoping she could sit across the table from this man for a second time and not lose her cool. Not that she was all that cool to begin with.
“Great, see you then.” Then he added, “Sweet dreams.”
He hung up and Crickitt stared at her phone until the light went out.
Sweet dreams? If she managed to sleep at all.
Chapter 8
Four a.m. was early. “Stupid early,” as her dad called it. But Crickitt managed to rise even if she didn’t shine. A cup and a half of coffee later, she was reasonably certain she’d buttoned her shirt properly.
She’d just finished brushing her teeth when a knock came from her front door. She gave her puffy reflection one last glance before swiping a dash of soft pink gloss across her lips and hurrying to get it.
Shane stood on her front porch in the waning moonlight, looking too good for six in the morning. Pressed suit, polished shoes, hair styled in damp waves.
“Good morning.” He flashed her a billionaire-worthy smile, one that had her thankful for the sturdiness of the door frame. “I thought you might need this.” He held out a paper coffee cup, a familiar green logo emblazoned on one side. “I called Keena to find out your regular order. Caramel soy latte with extra whipped cream.”
She accepted the cup, speechless for a second. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, I aim to please,” he said with a grin.
There was a distracting thought. “Um…do you want to come in while I grab my things?”
“Sure.” Shane stepped into her apartment, and she instantly regretted inviting him in. He looked out of place among her secondhand treasures, like a fine work of art at a garage sale.
He followed her into the living room, eyeing her furniture as he sipped his coffee. She tucked the manila folder into her canvas mailbag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
“No tour?” he asked.
She clutched the strap of her bag, flicking a longing look at her front door. “Oh, you don’t want to see my little place,” she said, intimidated by the idea of showing it to him. She could imagine what his house looked like. He probably lived in a sprawling mansion filled with fine rugs and leather furniture, and art costing a hundred times her salary.
“You don’t want to show it to me?” He picked up a small porcelain chimpanzee covering his eyes with his hands. Gesturing to its mate, a chimpanzee covering his ears, he asked, “Where’s Speak No Evil?”
“Missing,” she said.
“Hmm.” He set the ape back on the shelf. “Have you tried milk cartons?”
There it was again, his playful side. “Not yet,” she said through a soft laugh. “They’re from the seventies, I think. I found the two of them at a thrift store a long time ago, but I have yet to locate the third. I check eBay every once in a while, and yard sales, but”—she shrugged—“no luck.”
“Why not toss them and buy a new, complete set?”
Crickitt lifted her chin. “They’re not worthless just because they’re incomplete.” Besides, they’d been with her for a dozen years, had survived three moves and any clumsy attempt she’d made to dust around them. Which was more than she could say for her ex-husband. She plucked the figurine from Shane’s hand, ignoring the tingle in her fingers as she brushed against his skin. “I’ll find him one day,” she murmured quietly.
Shane took a leisurely gander around her living room before stopping on her face. She shifted on her feet but refused to look away. “We have a few minutes,
” he said. “You sure about that tour?”
Ten minutes later they were in the limousine on their way to Columbus. “I don’t get it,” Shane said. He sat in the seat facing her, his back to the privacy panel shutting out the driver.
“What don’t you get?” Crickitt wrung her hands. What comment would he have about her hodgepodge apartment? Her decorating style ranged from contemporary to country, the embodiment of a patchwork quilt. There was a charcoal sketch of a bowl of fruit in her kitchen, an oversize black-and-white James Dean poster in her bathroom, and her guest bedroom was a homage to wicker furniture. She’d bet he couldn’t choose which room to be most appalled by.
“You get a soy milk latte with whipped cream,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, taking a moment to shift gears. “I do.”
“Why do you do that?”
“I don’t like milk, unless it’s whipped cream.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I got a strange glance from the barista this morning.”
She blinked at the cup in her hand. “You picked up the coffee?”
“Yeees.”
“I thought you had people to do that for you.” Isn’t that what rich people did? Hire others to run their errands?
“People?” he asked, bemused. “Well, every once in a while I stoop to do my own bidding.”
Great. Now she’d offended him. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“Relax, Crickitt, I know you didn’t.” He watched her for a beat, lips twitching, before he popped open his briefcase and extracted a pile of paperwork.
They lapsed into comfortable silence, Crickitt watching out of the tinted windows as Shane worked. Every once in a while he’d make a deep sound in his throat. It usually paired with him pinching his eyebrows together. Then he’d make a few scratches on the paper in front of him and continue to read, his thumb and finger pressed on either side of his bottom lip.
Watching him made the ride worthwhile. How often could she stare at him without worrying a co-worker might catch her ogling? Not often enough. He lifted his head and she flicked her eyes away.
Busted.
Fidgeting with the strap on her bag, she watched the buildings and cars pass by her window.
“You’re making me feel self-conscious,” he said. “Am I doing something strange?”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Weren’t you just looking at me?”
She shook her head. “No, not at all.”
“You’d tell me if I had any weird habits, right?”
“Uh…”
The limo came to a stop, and Shane ducked his head to look out the window. “We’re here.”
After a small-town-diner-worthy breakfast and more coffee, Shane reviewed the details for their first meeting. “We don’t have to go over the file here if it’s too distracting. We can get a coffee to go, read it in the car if you like.”
“Can’t,” she said.
“You can’t what, read?” he joked.
“Not in the car,” she said.
“Ah. Well, in that case, let’s hang out and make the waitress’s day.”
At first she thought he was being facetious. “Hanging out” would clog up the young girl’s table. She’d miss tips from new customers. Crickitt opened her mouth to tell him so, when the waitress stopped to refill their coffee mugs.
“Excuse me, Debbie, is it?” Shane asked her.
“Yes,” Debbie said, pointing at her name tag.
Shane made small talk, asking Debbie about her job, how long she’d worked there, if she liked it. Crickitt watched as the young waitress succumbed to his charm. By the time Debbie had divulged that her full-time job made it harder to be a good mom to her three-year-old, Crickitt could see he’d won her over. Debbie couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-one, tops. And while Crickitt guessed single motherhood was difficult at any age, she couldn’t imagine going it alone that young.
“Bear with me.” Shane flashed Debbie a heart-melting smile. “This is a personal question, but I’m an investor and I’d love an honest answer.”
“All right.” Debbie gave him a small smile that suggested if her heart wasn’t melting, it was at least warming. She rested her free hand on her hip, elevating the coffeepot in the other. “Shoot.”
“Do you rent or own?”
Debbie rolled her eyes. “Own? I wish. I don’t have the credit, or the cash, to buy a house. I rent an apartment.”
“And your rent per month is…?”
“Six seventy-five.”
“Nice place?” Shane asked.
“Not really,” Debbie said with a humorless laugh.
“Roommates?”
Her smile vanished. “Not anymore,” she bit out.
Crickitt wondered if her former “roommate” was her son’s father. There was definite determination in the way she shot out her chin. “It’s just me and my son,” Debbie said with an assertive nod.
“I appreciate it, Debbie,” Shane said after mentioning he’d enjoyed breakfast. “Thank you for the coffee and for your honesty. You’ve helped me a great deal with my next endeavor.”
Debbie left their table and Crickitt waited for Shane to explain. He didn’t, only tapped the open file in front of her. “Come on, you’ve got another forty-five minutes to bone up.” Then he leaned back in the booth and sipped his coffee as if he hadn’t just had an odd and slightly invasive conversation with a total stranger.
When the check came a half hour later, she was surprised to see Shane pull out cash.
“Shouldn’t you charge that and write it off?” she asked, having been accustomed to doing so for her own business.
“Not today.” His mouth lifted mischievously as he counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills and one twenty. He folded them into the black book on the table and slid it to the edge.
Their breakfast and a twenty percent tip would have been more than covered by the lesser bill. A moment later, Debbie came by to pick up the book. “Change?”
“No, thank you. Keep it. You know, for that nice apartment of yours,” Shane said with a smile and a wink that would most likely be the most charming Debbie would see all day. Maybe all week.
Debbie laughed and rolled her eyes, probably imagining an extra four or five bucks hidden behind the vinyl cover, then she headed to tend to her other guests.
“So you weren’t just taking a random poll?”
“I don’t do anything randomly,” Shane said with a lift of his brow. He slid out of the booth, stealing a glance over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“But…” Crickitt looked down at the scattered papers.
“Hurry,” Shane whispered, helping her fill the manila folder as swiftly as if they were fleeing the scene of a crime. Crickitt shoved the folder and pen into her canvas bag as Shane grasped her free hand and towed her to the door. As they walked through it, Crickitt turned to catch a glimpse of Debbie standing statue still in the center of the restaurant, her hand pressed to her chest as she stared at the “tip” Shane left her.
“Come on.” He tugged her to the limo parked out front. The second they were outside Crickitt registered Shane’s long fingers wrapped around hers. Warmth between their palms sizzled her nerve endings. She squeezed his fingers, savoring the opportunity to be close to him, the excuse to touch him. Shane spared her a glance as they descended on the limo, slowing his frantic pace long enough to flash her a wry half smile. Was he thinking the same thing?
The driver poked his head out the driver’s side door, but Shane waved him off. “I got it, Thomas.”
He held on to Crickitt’s hand until she was safely inside, then climbed in and took the seat facing hers. Shane rapped on the privacy glass and Thomas pulled into the light traffic.
At first, Shane looked like a kid who dropped off a tire swing into an ice-cold lake. But as the restaurant grew farther away, his grin emerged. Lifting thick eyebrows in a show of relief, he said, “That was close.”
“She
would have thanked you if you hung around,” Crickitt said, barely repressing a chuckle. “I saw her face, she was—”
“No, don’t tell me.” Shane held up a hand. “The goal is not to be thanked.”
“There’s a goal? Is this, like, a game?”
“Sort of. Ever heard of Dine and Dash, where you go out to eat and run out without paying your tab?”
“No,” Crickitt said, appalled. “Do people do that?”
Shane offered a somber smile. “My mom was a waitress when she met my dad, happened to her a few times. Anyway, I like to do what I call Dine and Cash, where you run out after paying someone’s rent.”
“Much better.”
He shrugged, but his smile was genuine.
What Shane had done for a perfect stranger was beyond sweet, it was downright admirable. But the seed of doubt that had recently taken root in the back of her mind had begun to flower. She had to know, had to be sure he hadn’t hired her only so he could tick off a box under the Charitable Giving section of his tax forms.
“Do you only do it for waitresses?” Crickitt asked before she could rethink it.
Shane cocked his head. “Sorry?”
She swallowed. Cleared her throat. “Is that why you helped me?”
“No.” He answered immediately, the look on his face intently serious. “And by the way, I’m the one who needed help, not the other way around.”
She allowed herself a shaky smile at the idea of being needed. Maybe because she’d been overlooked for so long.
He leaned his elbows on his knees and met her eye. “I hired you because you’re qualified. You’re paid well because you deserve it. Never let anyone tell you differently.”
She looked at her lap, unable to hold his unflinching gaze. “I believe you.”
“Good.” He reached forward to pat her hand before settling back into his seat.
She lifted her head. “That was pretty impressive, by the way.”
“Well, you’re lucky,” he said, lowering one eyelid into a wink that sent her pulse racing. “I only do that to impress my new assistants.”
Chapter 9
Tempting the Billionaire (Love in the Balance) Page 5