“Plenty more black socks where those came from. You’re welcome to them.” He knew he should have been measuring the wall for painting, knew that time was precious and that they didn’t have time for screwing around, but he couldn’t stop watching her. God, what was it that made her so captivating? That made him feel lighter when he was with her?
It was true that he was fascinated by the ballsy way she dressed as she liked, putting color matches together that should have been illegal. And it was also true that he enjoyed hearing her talk about her love for her family and her friends, her studies, and the things she was passionate about. But the thing that made her so captivating and so easy to be around was that everything was just fun for her.
Never in a million years would he have thought about sliding across this floor in nothing but his socks, but to a woman like Yasmin, it was the most natural thing in the world.
Finally, she stood against the far wall, her hand digging into her side as if she had a stitch, her breath coming in quick bursts. “I used to come in here as a little girl, the night before a wedding,” she said, then paused to get more breath. “I wasn’t allowed to. Mom would have killed me if she’d known, but it was just so magical. I’d sneak in and turn the lights on and the glasses would sparkle and the silverware shine. Flowers would have been delivered and arranged and it smelled like one long springtime.”
“You don’t feel too sad about painting over this, then?” He gestured at the mural they were about to begin work on. “This room is going to look a whole lot different with that gone.”
She gave a small shrug and a sad expression spread across her face. He wanted to go over and lift her, sock-clad feet and all, off the ground in a big hug. In fact, she looked quite pale and drawn. Was he pushing her too hard? Was all of this starting to be too much for her?
Slowly she slid toward him. “I talked to Dad about it over the weekend and he thinks it’s a good idea. He’s so desperate to get Mom to come home with him, he’ll do whatever he can. It’s sad, really,” she said, her voice becoming wistful. “This whole place represents so much to him. One of my uncles painted that, but he’s long gone now.”
She’d drawn closer. Her cheeks had a rosy blush and strands of hair were falling from beneath her head scarf. “You don’t think it’s too late, do you?” A tiny frown dug into her forehead as she held his gaze.
“Too late?”
“To save this place. You don’t think we’re wasting our time here, do you?”
He started to speak, saying something about hard work and good management, but she shook her head.
“Without the diplomatic businessman thing you do so well, Lane. What does your heart tell you about this place? What do you think deep down about what’s going on here?” She put her hand across her own heart and he remembered the scent of her when they’d kissed. How her hair had smelled of flowers and sunshine.
He swallowed. What did he feel deep down? Deep down he knew he had inappropriate feelings for his best friend’s little sister. Deep down he wondered when the next time would be that he could pull her into his arms and taste her sweet lips on his. He’d begun to dream about slipping the straps of her dress down, of sliding the silky fabric of her skirt up her thighs until he could pull her hips closer.
“You don’t need to sugarcoat it for me.”
He put his hands on his hips and tried to keep his focus on the project. “I’ve got to admit, I’m a little worried that after all this hard work that you’ve done, after all the time and energy you’ve put into it, you might not get what you want and the Palace might have to be sold.”
Suddenly, the light in her eyes dulled and she lifted her hand to gently touch the butterfly necklace at her throat. His arms ached to hold her while he told her everything would be all right, to comfort her. But he was simply her brother’s friend. Her project partner. He could best help her by remaining focused on the project so they could ensure its success.
He cleared his throat and managed to find his business tone again. “But that’s only going to happen if we spend our time sliding across floors and chatting up workers. If we put decent time and hard work into it, we might be able to pull it off. I have a plan to invite the press in a few days before the launch to get some early publicity, so we can’t waste any more time.”
She looked up at him through her lashes and he made the choice right there and then to step away and get on with the painting. It was the only sensible thing he could do. Though, for the first time in his life, he hated having to be the sensible one.
He curled his fingers into the palm of his hand and made himself a promise. He would find a way to make this work for Yasmin and her family. He’d make sure that the Palace was in their lives for many years to come. No matter what it cost him to do it.
Chapter Seven
The week went by in a blur of painting and curtain hanging, going out to buy new restaurant fittings, and meeting with people while they installed them. While he was being careful to stick to Mano’s budget for the renovation, it was becoming increasingly difficult.
When Yasmin would find a print she thought would look good in the foyer, or a potted plant that would work well in the entrance to the kitchen, they’d argue over it at length. There was something addictive about her enthusiasm. But he was the one who’d been charged with seeing this through, to make the right business decisions, and he couldn’t let himself get distracted. He’d spoken to the project manager at his own restaurant this morning and he’d indicated everything was ahead of schedule. They could get into the space two weeks early, which would mean everything at the Palace would be have to be finished by then, too. It was more important than ever that he keep focused on the endgame here, not let himself be sidetracked.
While Yasmin had said nothing about their kiss at the fabric store, there was constant electricity in the room whenever it was just the two of them together. Tonight they were almost finished sanding back the last wall before they’d paint it in a couple of days’ time.
“My God, I’m hungry,” Yasmin said as she wiped her hands on her overalls. Her hair was twisted in a high bun, and dust from the sanding made it look gray in places. Despite being the only people around at this time of the night, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “What say we go on a kitchen raid?”
He flicked his wrist and looked at his watch. “At one thirty a.m.?”
“Sure. It’s been about six hours since we last ate, and my belly thinks I’ve excommunicated it.”
“I’m okay,” he said as he moved the sanding block back and forth. “But you do look a bit tired.” Actually, she looked exhausted. Her skin was pale and there were dark smudges under her eyes. Just as well their late nights were nearly over.
“Oh, I guess it must be kinda confusing for your body, eating at this time of night.”
He looked down to find her grinning up at him.
“What do you mean?” he asked, pausing his sanding. With Yasmin, he never knew where things would go.
“Well, it’s a tricky problem.” She cocked her head to one side in an exaggerated movement. “Let me see. If Saturday is ham and mustard on rye…and Sunday is turkey on a baguette, then because we haven’t gone to sleep yet, does that mean we should have half a sandwich each, or should we mix them all together?”
He let out a chuckle at her teasing tone. “I’m not that rigid.”
She wiped her hand on an old cloth. “Oh, no? Apart from the food samples that Leo made for the menu changes, I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything other than at mealtimes.”
He rested his hand on his belly. “When you’re in the sort of business I’m in, you can’t afford to eat at any old time of the day.”
“You’re not exactly the Michelin Man.”
“I might be if I start eating in the middle of the night.”
She licked her lips. “Leo made a halva cake this morning. Every time I shut my eyes I see it with its shiny top. I can just imagine how that crumb texture
would taste on my tongue. Mmmmm, it’s in the refrigerator and he has some of that thick Greek yogurt that his daughter makes, the one with the crust on the top.” She made the low moaning sound in the back of her throat. “And there’s lemon syrup…”
“Okay, okay.” He held his hands up in surrender. She could pretty much ask him anything while making that sound in her throat and he’d agree.
She threw down the cloth and jumped to her feet, and he followed her into the kitchen. When she switched the light on, everything was suddenly awash with a stark white light, and it caught the shine on her dark hair. Showed the last wisp of gloss on her lips. He swallowed hard, imagining another reason their appetites might have them running for the kitchen at 1:00 a.m.
“Let’s make a plate and take it back into the restaurant,” she said as she opened the door of a refrigerator and began removing the cake and other fixings.
Lane pulled two plates from under a counter, and Yasmin nodded to a drawer where he found spoons. She uncovered the cake and cut two enormous pieces, then spooned over a snowy mountain of yogurt. While she carried the plates back into the restaurant, he followed with the spoons and a couple of paper towels.
“I guess your mom taught you how to make stuff like this,” Lane said when Yasmin handed him a plate and then sat on an overstuffed couch.
“Are you forgetting the Pop-Tarts?” Yasmin said as she scooped a large piece of cake on her fork and then dunked it into the pile of yogurt. “I dream about being able to cook things like this, but I’m a sad excuse for a Greek girl. Mom never used to let anyone in the kitchen, and the only things I know how to cook come out of a packet. I think she only did it so we’d come back home at any opportunity to taste her spinach pie or her walnut cookies.”
Lane took a bite of the cake. It was good, crumbly, but with a moist, lemony finish. “Why do you think your mom left?”
Yasmin played with the edge of her slice, making a little pile of crumbs, but she’d stopped eating. “I don’t really know.”
“You haven’t asked her?”
She sighed. “You don’t ask my parents personal questions like that. They still think their job is to protect us from all the bad things in the world. They’ll just pretend that this is the new normal, and none of us will make any comment about it.”
He chewed slowly. “So what’s your take on it? She must have been unhappy.”
“I suppose.” She let out a long breath. “I think she found it difficult when we all finally left home and were so involved with our own lives that we didn’t come back as often as she would have liked. She always used to talk about the O’Malleys, how their kids had stayed working for the business and they all lived nearby.”
“Why do you think you and your brothers didn’t do the same thing?” He was nearly finished with his cake, but Yasmin was still playing with hers. Seeing her so thoughtful and sad tore at him. He wanted to wrap her in a hug, pull her so close that all the worries inside her would become his.
“I guess we knew we’d always feel like kids. If he hadn’t been facing this crisis, Dad would never have let me work on the renovation without him. And he still hasn’t told Nick and Ari the full story of why Mom is in Greece.”
Lane put the plate on the side of the couch and reached out for her hand. “You’re doing an amazing job here, you know. I hope it’s not too much for you. You’re starting to look pretty tired.”
She shrugged and then looked over at him, her eyes soft and glossy. “I’m okay.” Her voice wobbled. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Mom doesn’t come home, but I don’t want her to be unhappy either. If she really is happier in Greece, then I’ll support her, but I’m hoping that what we’re doing here might be enough to convince her that things can be better.”
“You wouldn’t consider staying and working here? That might help convince her.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and was pleased when she left it there. He thought of the hotel being nearly completed, of him being called back earlier than expected, and he had the sudden fantasy of commuting between Yasmin and Manhattan. He pushed the ridiculous dream aside.
“I’ve thought about that, but you know, I’ve spent so much of my life doing what my parents wanted. They pushed really hard for me to carry on and do my master’s, and then my PhD. They wanted their children to have the sort of education and opportunities they never had, and I understood that from an early age. But I can’t carry on trying to please them my whole life, or I’ll end up being unhappy too. They want me to be one thing and I want to be something completely different.”
“And you have your list to complete,” he teased and squeezed her hand.
“Exactly.” She grinned. “I know it sounds like a bit of a game, but I’ve really challenged myself with some of those things, and I hope I have the courage to make it through them all.”
“I don’t doubt you will for a second,” he said. And if circumstances were different he’d want to be there to see her achieve them.
…
It had been a busy week of planning, buying, and organizing at the Palace. After they’d seemed to be getting closer, Lane had reverted to his aloof and distant self, and she missed him. More than she would have predicted. Maybe being out together socially might at least break the ice a little.
Saturday was warm and sunny with a fresh breeze to cool things down. Yasmin had arranged to meet Lane outside the O’Malley wedding chapel, and he was running late. People were filing in already and the ushers were standing outside on the steps, waiting for the bride. She was anxious to get inside and see what made the place so successful.
While she waited, she looked around at the courtyard in front of the wedding chapel, back up the sweeping drive to the entranceway and the double wrought iron gates. Guests drove past manicured lawns to the reception center and chapel. The grounds were pristine, with fluffy white roses and green topiaries like lush lollipops, reminding her of the English countryside. There was a large reception area to the right of the chapel, and rose arbors linked cobblestone pathways. An ornate version of the famous O and W logo for O’Malley Weddings entwined with iron roses sat sentry over it all.
Her heart did its usual rumba when she spotted Lane, but this time the beat shifted lower and warm ripples pulsed through her center. She knitted her fingers together behind her back and willed herself to act normally. A gray suit draped perfectly off his toned limbs, and a white shirt was held at the collar with a plain dark tie. His hair was still a little damp, and gold aviator glasses sat across his face. He hadn’t seen her yet and she wanted to take a moment to admire the view.
The purple cheongsam dress that had seemed to go so well with her hair this morning was now feeling tight and restrictive. She’d dropped one of her contact lenses down the sink while she was getting ready and hadn’t picked up spares, so she’d had to wear her old horn-rimmed glasses. No point in trying to do a decent spy job without the ability to see.
“Hey.” Lane drew close and she breathed his freshly showered scent deep. “You look very nice…and very…studious.”
Yasmin aimed a punch at his arm. “Buongiorno! It’s my superspy look.”
He grinned, then took in the surroundings. “This place is quite something.”
She lowered her voice as they moved through the last groups of people and up the chapel steps. “I know. They’re a really tight-knit family, the O’Malleys. They all work here. Ciara, the youngest, does the gardens. Faith, the middle daughter, runs the catering. And the eldest girl, Erin, has come back to take over the general manager’s role from her father. Mom always held them up as the ideal family who lived together and worked together, and they have been successful. Us on the other hand…”
“Lane!” A clean-cut-looking guy in a charcoal suit stepped forward and shook Lane by the hand. There was something familiar about him, but not the girl standing in a blue shift dress beside him.
“Pete. Great to see you here. I thought you were away for summer school.”
Lane leaned forward and kissed the girl on the cheek. “How are you, Amy?”
Pete grinned. “I’m off next weekend.”
“Pete, this is Yasmin Katsalos,” Lane said. “You remember, Nick’s little sister. Yasmin, Pete, Nick, and I were in high school and we’ve worked together on a couple of projects. This is his girlfriend, Amy.”
“Actually, Lane, Amy’s not my girlfriend anymore, she’s my fiancée. I proposed last night.” Pete rested his hand on Amy’s back.
Lane slapped his friend on the shoulder and kissed Amy again. “That’s fantastic news, you guys.”
Pete pulled his fiancée closer to him. “I know it’s short notice, but we’re having an engagement party Wednesday night, and we’d love it if you two would come. All the old crowd will be there, even your brother, if we can unshackle him from work for a couple of hours.” He grinned at Yasmin.
She opened her mouth to protest that she wasn’t Lane’s girlfriend, that she hadn’t even been on a date with him, but Lane was too busy congratulating them and asking when the wedding would be.
“I’d have loved to come,” Yasmin said, “but I’m working on a project in the evenings. I can give you the night off though, Lane.” She turned her gaze to his, but before he could answer, an usher asked them to take their seats.
Once they were inside and had said good-bye to Pete and Amy, they found a couple of spaces in the middle of the church. The place was filling up with people now and there was an excited buzz. Yasmin couldn’t wait to see Genie; she hoped things had worked out okay and the mother of the bride didn’t hate her hair. Paul was up front with his groomsmen, looking out into the crowd every now and then and nervously adjusting the collar of his shirt and his cufflinks.
Lane leaned closer and whispered, his breath soft against her neck. “How much would a wedding like this cost?”
The Bouquet List: a Weddings in Westchester novel (Entangled Bliss) Page 9