Actually, maybe he felt kinda sick.
But there was a definite new buzz in his blood.
“Hart,” he said, still without taking his eyes off the woman. Off that mouth. “Mad. Admit it, my friends. I may not have won the grand prize, but I still came out on top.”
Willow Ray inspected her hands. “Thanks, Carrie,” she said to the manicurist, who was tucking away the bills she’d passed over. “They look great.”
“I told you the color was a good choice. You wanted feminine but not girly.” The younger woman cast a critical eye across the table and tilted her head. “Your nails are a little short, though.”
“Businesslike,” Willow said, satisfied with them. “I told you what I wanted.”
“You’re the customer.”
Standing, Willow shook out the legs of the pinstriped gray-and-white linen pants she wore with a plain white top. Like her nails, the look was designed to be understated while not completely uninspiring.
As an interior designer, she had to straddle the line between showing style and also not showing too much style. Clients needed to trust she could work with their tastes and needs, regardless of her own personal preferences.
Carrie had turned her attention to organizing the tools of her trade. “Rings?” she asked automatically, then shifted her gaze to the small porcelain bowl on her work surface, a convenient place for clients to stash their jewelry before the usual hand massage with emulsified essential oils.
Willow flexed her fingers, thinking they looked bare. No matter. “Left at home,” she said. There’d be no time to collect anything before her meeting at Harry’s, the nearby coffee place.
“Heading out to Sawyer Shores?”
“I didn’t get that contract yet.” She grimaced, regretting that she’d told the other woman about the possibility the month before. At the time, she’d been excited at the interest expressed in her one-person operation. If awarded the opportunity to decorate the models of the new patio homes slated for construction at that development, she’d not only get a welcome infusion of cash, but the job would be excellent advertising for her business going forward. “So don’t say anything about it, will you, Carrie?”
The younger woman pretended to zip her lips. “This place is covered by a cone of silence. We’re all good at keeping secrets here.”
Willow glanced around, taking in the busy salon that catered to elderly women getting wash and sets, younger ones being tended to with curling irons or straightening tongs, and even several men, some getting tight business cuts and even one with bleach processing on spiked tips. There was a barber in town too, but most males under fifty seemed to prefer the services at 333 Main, the name and the actual address of the place. She figured if they’d christened it something punny like Combing Attractions or The Grateful Head, there wouldn’t be such a gender mix.
In the mirror across the room, her gaze caught with a familiar one. Ben Gillespie. She began to sketch a wave, but he immediately looked away, as if he didn’t recognize her…or didn’t want to be recognized.
They were mere acquaintances, so maybe Willow shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t want to engage. Or really, he might not even recognize her.
It didn’t matter either way, she told herself. Don’t look for rejection.
That tendency was a lingering byproduct of her chaotic childhood, even though she’d ultimately ended up in a stable and loving foster home.
“I’ll see you, Carrie,” she said, slinging her portfolio-style briefcase over her shoulder. “Thanks again.”
“A shower invitation should reach you any day,” the manicurist reminded her.
Willow paused. “I can’t wait.” Carrie’s wedding was scheduled in less than a month, meaning she’d be the proverbial June bride. Completely ignoring her own pang of envy—another consequence of her younger life was a deep desire for the ties of family, she’d learned that through the counseling she’d undergone as a teenager—she beamed down at the other woman. “In my spare time I’m practicing constructing a bridal gown out of toilet paper.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. “We’re not doing any of that traditional goofy stuff. It’s going to be shots of tequila and a sex toys demonstration.”
“To each her own,” Willow said. But the traditional stuff appealed to her more than shots of tequila. As for sex toys…she tried to pretend the idea didn’t bring a blush.
When was the last time she’d even had sex, no toy included?
Hurrying away from the thought, she made for the door. A man was exiting in front of her, and unlike the usual in their town of Sawyer Shores, he pushed through without even glancing back to see if he could hold it open for another patron.
The hasty leave-taker was Ben Gillespie.
Moving as if he was on the run. As if he wanted no contact with her.
Weird.
But she refused to give it another thought, because the upcoming appointment with her new client was more important than imagining slights from people she barely knew. The winner of the services she’d offered at the raffle over the weekend would find her at Harry’s, everyone’s favorite coffee place. On Sunday, instead of contacting her directly at the fundraiser, Cooper Daggett had sent Hart Sawyer to her with the other man’s phone number so they could make arrangements via text. Apparently Cooper had been working one of the booths during the event and a sudden upsurge in demand had made a meet right then impossible.
It had been good to see Hart again, as it was his company that would award the design contract she coveted. Cooper Daggett she’d finally come face-to-face with today.
She made short work of the half block to Harry’s and found an open bar-height table and a pair of stools near the window looking onto the busiest part of downtown Sawyer Beach. Summer was yet to hit full swing, but still visitors crowded the sidewalks bordering small shops behind tidy storefronts and others within narrow clapboard structures that had originally been homes at the turn of the century.
Sliding the briefcase off her shoulder, she debated the merits of ordering a much-needed caffeinated beverage before her client arrived. With a decision yet to be reached, the barista, Sophie, appeared at her elbow with Willow’s usual order.
“Hey,” she said, smiling at the petite blonde. She didn’t know much about her except her first name—from her badge—and her seemingly unfailing good nature. “Thank you. I would have come to the counter.”
The other woman shrugged. “We’re not busy this time of the afternoon.” Then she leaned against the open chair, clearly ready to chat. “You’re Willow Ray, right? You just missed Rachel Warren.”
Willow blinked. “Rachel?”
“I see you in here with her sometimes. The two of you seem close.”
“Right. We are close.” She’d been Willow’s foster parent beginning at age twelve. And though she loved her kind-of mom, she was also just a teeny bit glad she’d avoided her this afternoon. Of late Rachel had been asking pointed questions that Willow couldn’t answer.
Just another reason to be glad of her new client, who was a welcome respite from obsessing over the unknowables currently in her life. Would she get the Sawyer Shores job? Would Brad—
She yanked her mind from going down that road. “You’re very observant, Sophie.”
“She’s a honey lavender latté with an extra shot. I never forget one of those.” Sophie smiled. “It’s an occupational hazard. I’m also pretty good at guessing a newcomer’s order.”
“Yeah?”
With a subtle nod, the blonde indicated a sixty-something man sprawled in a corner easy chair. “I figured him for an Americano and a double chocolate brownie that he can get away with eating because his wife’s browsing at the Gifts for Girlfriends boutique across the street. And I was right.”
That made Willow laugh. “I get it. Sometimes I amuse myself by imagining what a stranger might ask of me.” She laughed again, then tried to explain. “That sounds bad. I design interiors for a living.”
> “Okay,” Sophie said. “So what would Americano and double chocolate brownie want from you?”
Sophie glanced over, trying not to make her assessment obvious. “Hmm. His den is already just how he likes it, with a heated recliner complete with cup holders thanks to his wife. From me…he’d want a re-do of the master closet. Men can be fastidious about their wardrobes. They surprise me about—”
“Everything,” Sophie interjected. “To me, anyway, I find them a constant surprise these days.”
Willow raised a brow.
“I’m discovering they’re more complicated than I knew…that their emotions run deeper than I ever believed.” Her face flushed and she looked away, only to point out the window. “So, uh, what about that woman passing by? What’s she looking for?”
Willow tried ignoring an uneasy idea that the other woman’s words sent circling in her brain. She’d told herself Brad was stalling simply because his one-track man-brain didn’t fully comprehend her priorities and she’d been steeling herself to force the issue.
But then she’d stalled too.
“Willow?”
Blinking, she refocused on the question, seeking distraction again by forcing herself to take in the forty-something female in spandex and white walking sneakers moving so fast she was nearly out of sight. “Too easy,” she said. “A home gym space. She’s ready to give up some garage storage for a place for her treadmill, yoga mat, and free weights.”
“Hah.” Sophie pressed her lips together as if to suppress a smile. “That’s Dana, she’s an iced matcha green tea with an orange twist. And I happen to think you’re exactly right.”
Willow wrapped her hand around her drink. “Like I said, too easy.”
“What about him?” Sophie said now, again gesturing out the window.
A pair of guys stood across the street. Hart Sawyer, with that underlying hunted—or was it haunted?—expression she’d noticed since she’d learned he’d lost his wife-to-be. Beside him, another man.
A man with a smile. Bright. Easy. Like the world charmed him. Like he would charm whomever crossed his path. His nut-brown hair was long on top and less styled than carelessly left as is after a quick shampoo and a casual finger-comb. A model-hot stubble on his cheeks and jawline.
Long legs. Broad shoulders.
Model-hot. Had she mentioned that?
Yes.
Model-hot. Or just. Plain. Hot.
Hot.
Willow resisted the urge to fan herself, slightly shocked by her reaction to a man’s physical being. She didn’t ogle, as a rule. Didn’t think about shoulders or muscled chests displayed by tight T-shirts. Biceps that bulged when he crossed his arms over said chest, hiding hands that had looked, um…
Strong. Capable.
Gentle when need be.
Ready to touch just where a woman liked to be touched.
Sex toys would be totally redundant, because he could use that body, those hands, that entire package to arouse a woman.
Uh-oh.
Her face flamed and she brought her coffee to her mouth, hoping to hide her unprecedented reaction. How embarrassing.
“Well?” Sophie again. “Maybe he wants his bedroom redecorated.”
Was that sly amusement she heard in the other woman’s voice? Willow cleared her throat, trying to draw around herself a professional demeanor. “Sure. A bedroom.”
One that would be visited by dozens of woman over a sexy bachelor’s lifetime. She narrowed her eyes, trying to appear thoughtful instead of rattled. “He probably thinks he would like a bittersweet chocolate and mint-green color scheme.”
“But…” The other woman drew out the word.
Willow tried to resist using her designer’s imagination, truly she did. But the idea of arranging this man’s most private space tempted her. She wanted to make it just right for him and for…some random woman who didn’t at all look like her.
She didn’t ogle men. She didn’t think of them on sheets, especially mussed ones, made messy by—
“Bittersweet chocolate and mint green, you said,” Sophie prompted again. “What else? A mirrored ceiling?”
It couldn’t be helped. Well, Willow couldn’t help but correct that tawdry image. “No, no. That’s all wrong.” She set down her cup and closed her eyes. “Walls painted a custom shade created by blending oyster and mushroom. An industrial-looking caged pendant for an overhead light. A platform bed, but with a cream-colored, knitted spread across it, like a fisherman’s sweater. At its foot, a rustic cobbler’s bench and on it a hand-carved dough bowl to hold the flotsam from his pockets and the TV remote. On either side should be spare-styled, mid-century modern bedside tables stripped of their shiny dated finish so they’ll begin to age as well as their owner.”
Now she opened her eyes to catch Sophie staring at her. She couldn’t guess what the other woman was thinking.
Maybe that Willow was odd. Odd enough, unlovable enough that her own parents hadn’t wanted her.
Which was ridiculous. Her old wounds talking.
“The room sounds fantastic,” Sophie said. “I can picture it.”
“Occupational hazard,” Willow responded lightly. “I’m meeting a new client here any minute so it’s good I’m oiling up the gears.”
Her new client. Her distraction from her current turmoil. Work—whether it be homework or a work-study job or this business—had always been her salvation. Something to get lost in. A way to forget her troubles.
“Oh, um, well,” Sophie said, her gaze shifting over Willow’s shoulder. “I think he’s here.”
“Here?” Some instinct told her not to turn around right away, but instead take another minute. Take another breath.
“Your new client.”
Now Willow had to look. Coming through the entry door was the man from across the street. The charmer. The hot charmer.
Her pulse sped up and heat surged beneath her clothes. It felt like high August or one of those September afternoons when the sun seemed set on Scorch.
Her muscles twitched with an instinctive impulse to flee, but she forced her feet to root as the man strode directly toward where she and Sophie stood. He glanced at Willow, then shot a look at the small blonde.
Sophie smiled. “Willow Ray,” she said, “meet my brother, Cooper Daggett. Cooper, this is the woman about to rearrange your world.”
Willow automatically extended her hand. The man, Sophie’s brother, with all those muscles and stubble and white smile was close enough to touch Willow with his long fingers.
Strong. Capable. Gentle.
They closed over hers. Heat and awareness rippled up her arm and then cascaded in a burning waterfall down her body. Cooper Daggett.
This was her new client. Her supposed distraction.
His hand slipped out of hers and she barely suppressed the urge to grab it back. To keep his touch to herself.
Uh-oh.
The man was a distraction, all right. But she had s sudden new worry it was a distraction of a very dangerous sort.
Chapter Two
Cooper looked after the woman who was striding away from him and his sister, her phone pressed to her ear. A single hello, then her phone had buzzed and she’d hurriedly excused herself, promising to be no time at all.
Maybe she could take a lot more time than that. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, then shoved them in his pocket, ignoring the memory of that jolt of sensation that had sparked across his palm when his flesh met hers.
“So that’s her,” he murmured, looking at the back of her head and the waves of her brown hair. The afternoon sun streaming through the café windows picked out strands of bronze and gold here and there.
“Yep,” Sophie said, in a chirpy tone.
He shot her a sidelong look. “Why so cheery?”
His sister shrugged. “Like I said, she’s going to rearrange your world.”
With a scowl, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I wish you wouldn’t put it like that.”
“Just a figure of speech,” Sophie said with a dismissive wave. “Do you want something to drink?”
Brat. But he couldn’t let go of the uneasy notion. Rearrange his world. “How do you think this works? This design service thing?”
“She’ll go to your place—”
“What?” Sudden alarm jolted his system. Which was stupid, because he had people visit his condo on a regular basis. The poker crew had a rotation and his turn came up every six weeks or so. Sometimes he’d host a drinks and movie night. Of course she’d want to check out his place, but the thought of this Willow…
His gaze slid over to where she stood, still talking into her phone, her shoulders straight and her slim back tapering to rounded hips and one of those asses made for yoga pants. Even with her lower half encased in a striped, loose fabric, he could tell that.
Great ass or not, it…unsettled him to think of her in his space. “You’re sure she’ll want to go inside?”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “To look it over and suggest changes. Probably take some measurements as well.”
“I can draw a diagram on a napkin or something,” he said, quickly thinking of alternatives. “Surely she doesn’t actually need to go through the door.”
Sophie elbowed him. “Consider the novelty of it. The first woman to breach your bedroom but never make it into your bed.”
His withering look didn’t make his short sister any shorter, damn it. Or less annoying.
“Unless you want to get her into your bed,” Sophie said, her eyes widening.
He shot a look in the direction of the designer. “Keep your voice down.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“I didn’t say yes, either. I’ve just met the woman. For God’s sake, Sophie.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re professing to be on the hunt for The One so you can finally get serious, settle down, and—”
“Actually grow up. Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before from Dad. But I’m good with my life as it is, thank you, as simple and unencumbered and unserious as it may be. You know me, it’s all fun and games.”
ANTE UP (7-Stud Club Book 3) Page 2