by Kali Argent
Crouching down beside her, Turner swiveled her chair until she faced him. Then he took her hands again, his eyes softening as smoothed his thumbs over her knuckles. “Better now?”
“Yes.”
Her heart beat a little too fast, and she thrummed with nervous energy that had nothing to do with her lost files. Heavens, he was handsome. Dark stubble adorned his square jaw, giving him a devil-may-care look that was at odds with the impish grin stretching his lips. His broad shoulders lifted with each, slow breath, and she had no trouble picturing the lean muscles that likely hid beneath his fitted T-shirt and baggy jeans. With the light reflected in his eyes, it gave the illusion of a twinkle in his warm, chocolate-brown irises as he watched her intently, waiting for her to say more.
Pulling her hands back, Starla tucked them into her lap, praying he hadn’t noticed the goosebumps that raised the skin on her exposed wrists. “I am truly sorry. I’ll work overtime to make sure your new campaign is ready to launch on time.”
“When was that again?”
Sighing, she shook her head. “The mid part of February.”
Turner’s eyebrows drew together, and he frowned. “No, that doesn’t work, either. The first of March is better.”
“It’s no trouble.”
Recreating everything in the limited timeframe wouldn’t be easy, but she could do it, even if it meant she’d miss a few nights of sleep. She still had almost three weeks until she needed to present the digital billboard ad, along with the advised marketing campaign, for consideration to her boss. Of course, she had completed other advertisements she could present, but nothing like what she’d envisioned for Neverland. She wanted that promotion too much to leave anything to chance, and damn it, she deserved it.
Unfolding from his crouch, Turner pushed to his feet and stared down at her for several, uncomfortable seconds before he spoke. “We should have dinner.”
Sure she’d heard him wrong, Starla blinked. “Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner. It’s this thing that happens every day, usually around the same time, and I hear there’s food involved.”
“I’m aware of how it works.” She couldn’t have dinner with Turner McCord. It would be incredibly unprofessional. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re a client…” And something else she couldn’t remember when he smiled at her like that. “You’re a client,” she repeated.
“Okay.” Folding his arms over his chest, Turner pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re fired.”
Anger, swift and forceful, snapped Starla out of her daze, and she launched out of her seat, advancing until she’d backed him deep into the corner of the room. “Excuse me?”
“If your only reason for not having dinner with me is because I’m a client, then fine. You’re fired.”
She’d worked her ass off to create a respectable, family-friendly image for Neverland, and she planned to use that hard work to launch herself right into a promotion. If he thought he could take that all away from her, she had news for him.
“No,” she bit out through clenched teeth. “I am not fired.”
Turner didn’t back down, and he didn’t even have the decency to wipe the ridiculously charming grin from his lips. “Okay, you’re not fired. So, dinner? Let’s say tonight at seven.” Slipping past her, he picked her laptop case up from the table and returned to slide the strap onto her shoulder before ushering her toward the office door. “Should I pick you up, or would you rather meet me at the restaurant?”
“I…well…stop that!” Whirling around, she slapped at his arm when he tried to push her through the open door. Her five-foot-nine stature put her at eye-level with his Adam’s apple, forcing her to tilt her head back to glare up at him. “Turner, this really isn’t a good idea.”
“Okay, I’ll text you the address, and we can meet there.” He nudged her out of the office and closed the door behind him. Bending to accommodate for their height difference, he brushed a kiss against her cheek. “I look forward to it.”
Straightening, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then turned and sauntered away, whistling under his breath.
CHAPTER TWO
Wearing only a white, fluffy towel, with her hair pinned to the top of her head in a messy bun, Starla stood in front of her closet and stared at the contents. True to his word, Turner had texted her the address—only the address—just as she’d been leaving work, along with the request that she wear blue. While she had a plethora of sweaters, dresses, and blouses in varying shades of blue to choose from, she hesitated in selecting one.
All day, she’d argued that having dinner with Turner didn’t mean anything. It was just a business meeting with a client, not a date. If her pulse throbbed a little too fast, or her hands shook when she removed a midnight-blue sweater dress from its hanger, that didn’t mean anything, either.
When she’d typed the address Turner had sent into her phone’s GPS, she’d been rewarded with a location near Logan Square, but no details about the restaurant. She doubted he’d choose anywhere too upscale, especially since his idea of business attire amounted to a suit jacket paired with his most faded pair of jeans. Laying the sweater dress out on the bed, she shook her head and sighed.
Starla had never understood the appeal of surprises. Whether a business meeting, a party, or just a drink with friends, she liked having a plan and knowing what to expect. Spontaneity led to poor choices—like wearing a long-sleeved sweater dress to a five-star restaurant.
The digital clock on her cherry-oak nightstand read just after six o’clock. It would take at least half an hour to make the drive from her home in Brookfield, and if she didn’t get her ass in gear, she’d never make it into the city on time.
“Sod it.”
Jerking her towel off, Starla tossed it toward the hamper in the corner of the room and unpinned her hair, shaking out the long waves. She donned her clothes quickly, pairing the dark dress with a silver belt and matching gray, knee-high boots. Definitely not an outfit appropriate for a business meeting, but she’d given up on trying to make the excuse stick. After applying a hint of makeup—just mascara and eyeliner—she triple checked that she had her keys, phone, wallet, and emergency pepper spray in her purse. Then she checked again.
When she couldn’t stall any longer, she set the house alarm, locked the front door, and headed out to her black Toyota Camry parked in the driveway. Sliding behind the wheel, she mumbled a curse that ended with Tuner’s name.
Traffic on the Eisenhower turned out to be a nightmare, but by a rare, happy miracle, she did manage to find street parking near her destination. Turner waited for her on the sidewalk, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black, puffy coat, and he frowned when she exited the car.
“You drove?”
Starla arched an eyebrow at him as she closed her door and pressed the button on her key fob to lock the doors. “Obviously.”
“Why?”
“Well, I wasn’t bloody well going to walk from Brookfield, was I?” Starla blamed nerves for her short temper, but she felt badly for taking it out on Turner. Lifting the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder, she finished buttoning her wool peacoat and sighed. “I apologize. That was incredibly rude.”
Unruffled, Turner shrugged and offered her a smile that made her stomach flutter. “You haven’t done this in a while, have you?”
Instead of feigning ignorance or indignation, Starla mirrored his shrug. “I don’t have time to date.”
Turner jerked back, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. “Who said this was a date?”
“Who said it wasn’t?” she countered, unable to hold back her laughter. The anxiety she’d felt since he’d asked her to dinner faded, easing the tightness in her chest. “Date or no date, I drove all this way. The least you can do is feed me.”
The wind kicked up, stinging her cheeks and blowing her hair in all directions. Lifting her shoulders, Starla ducked her head, hiding the lower part of her face in the collar of her coat
. She’d passed at least three eateries on the street, and with the temperatures falling, she hoped it wouldn’t be a long walk to the restaurant.
Without being asked, Turner swiped his credit card at the parking kiosk and presented her with the printed ticket to display on her windshield. Once she’d slid the stub onto the dashboard and relocked her doors, she nodded her readiness, grinning a little when Turner’s large palm brushed against the small of her back.
The smile slowly faded, though, when he pointed across the street to a storefront with dimly-lit windows and only a single, naked bulb above the door to illuminate the entrance. In block letters across the bright yellow, vinyl awning was proclaimed, “Best Mexican Food.” Nothing more.
Hesitant, Starla tucked her hands into her pockets and took a deep breath before following Turner across the street to the brick-faced building. No name or phone number appeared on the door, no sign to welcome customers.
“They really need better branding,” she mused while Turner stepped in front of her to open the door. “That sign could use a makeover, and they really should have their hours of operation somewhere visible.”
Turner chuckled and shook his head. “You just can’t turn it off, can you?”
Ignoring the comment, she thanked him for holding the door, and stepped past her date into the inviting warmth of the restaurant. Mouth-watering aromas permeated the air, making her stomach rumble in a reminder that she hadn’t eaten since an early lunch at the office.
“Hungry?” Turner asked, shrugging out of his coat to reveal the same jeans and T-shirt he’d worn earlier during their meeting.
“Famished.”
Starla followed suit, grinning when he offered to hold her purse while she slid off her peacoat. Two wooden racks stood like sentinels on either side of the entrance, their spindly arms empty, much like the restaurant itself. A single patron, an older gentleman with caramel-colored skin and a silver beard, sat at one of the square tables, reading the newspaper while he enjoyed his meal.
“Welcome to La Casa de Locos,” Turner announced as he turned to drape their coats on the rack closest to him.
The Crazy House.
With its loud décor—shiny maroon tiles, canary-yellow walls, and accents of bright green—the quick-tempo music playing on the overhead speakers, and the chatter from the staff, the restaurant’s name fit. A feminine voice rose up from somewhere in the back of the restaurant, followed swiftly by a masculine rebuttal. Starla hadn’t retained much from her high school Spanish courses, but she didn’t need to understand the language to realize neither party was happy.
“They have the best pulled pork tacos,” Turner informed her. “The fajitas aren’t bad, either.”
Starla grinned. “What about vegetarian selections?”
She might have received a less horrified response if she’d suggested the cooks used puppy meat in the enchiladas. Turner’s eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and a thin vein in his neck throbbed madly.
“You don’t eat meat?”
“I do.” She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. “I just wanted to know my options.”
With a snort, Turner shook his head and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the cafeteria-style line. Through the glass barrier, she watched as a couple of teenaged girls prepared her tacos and piled rice into a Styrofoam box. At the register, she insisted on paying for both their meals since Turner had taken care of her parking. After considering her for a moment, he’d nodded once and stepped aside, holding her purse again while she dug her Visa out of her wallet.
Stacking her box on top of his, he carried both to a small, two-top table near the front windows. There, he held a chair out, waiting for her to sit before placing their meals on the chipped, green laminate and sliding into his own seat.
“How did you even find this place?” Starla asked, pushing his drink across the table with one hand while pulling her meal toward her with the other. “Do you come here often?”
Turner propped his elbows up on the table and shrugged, leaving his own food untouched. “My last foster home was a couple of blocks from here. The Mills didn’t have a lot of money, even with what they were getting from the state, but they cared.” He bobbed his head a few times and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Anyway, they’d bring us here once a month or so.”
“They sound like good people.” Lowering her taco back into the box, she crossed her legs under the table and leaned forward. “Do you keep in touch with them?”
“I do.” Turner grinned as he unsheathed a plastic fork from its clear package. “Cynthia moved to Indiana a couple of years ago to be closer to her kids after her husband died, but she still calls once a week.”
A hundred different questions chased themselves through Starla’s mind, none of them appropriate for a first date. Then again, Turner didn’t exactly abide by convention. “What happened to your biological parents?”
“We don’t talk.” Turner spoke in neutral tones without any hint of bitterness. “Eat.” He jabbed his fork toward her food. “It’s getting cold.”
Starla picked up one of her tacos again, but she didn’t take a bite. “Do you have any siblings?”
“I do. They’re not blood, but we’re family.”
His tone implied she wouldn’t understand, and Starla couldn’t argue. As an only child born to middle-class parents, she’d never had to struggle or sacrifice. College, her first car, the down payment on her house, and everything in between had been gifted to her. She had friends, of course, but they were just friends. She didn’t consider any of them family, didn’t invite them to reunions or barbeques or Sunday dinners.
“Okay, so why a toy store?” She bit into her taco while she waited for Turner to answer, moaning quietly at the combination of flavors that exploded across her tongue. “These things are amazing. Is that feta cheese?”
Turner winked. “Told you they were good.” He forked a generous amount of Spanish rice into his mouth and chewed slowly. Then he blotted his lips with a paper napkin and leaned back in his seat to study her. “The abbreviated version to your question is that I sold a video game, and that’s how I got the money to open Neverland.”
“Well, that sounds terribly boring.” Starla sipped her iced tea while she watched him over the rim of the opaque, plastic cup. “Might I hear the long version?”
“Maybe later, but I’ll warn you. It’s not any less boring.” They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before Turner spoke again. “In case I forgot to mention it, you look incredible.”
He spoke with sincerity, and while his words may not have been flowery and poetic, they were real. As far as compliments went, Starla thought it a damn good one.
“Thank you.” The small part of her prone to feminine sensibilities preened while her gaze raked over Turner’s corded neck and broad shoulders. “I worried I might be a little overdressed.”
Tuner shook his head, a crooked smile playing across his thin, pink lips. “You’re perfect.”
Again, he didn’t attempt to placate or reassure her. He didn’t digress into fanciful prose, comparing her beauty to the delicacy of spring blossoms or the radiance of a summer sunrise. He spoke matter-of-factly, and the directness of the simple compliment made it all the more poignant.
“So,” Turner continued, “we’ve talked about me. You’re turn.”
Starla finished chewing and swallowed before she answered. “What would you like to know?”
Leaning back in his seat again, he crossed his arms over his chest and studied her for a long moment, his eyes creasing at the corners while he watched her. “What’s your favorite color?”
“My, you cut straight to the heart of things, don’t you?”
Gracious, Turner had the most infectious laugh—a genuine, open laugh that seemed to emanate straight from his soul. Joy and happiness surrounded him wherever he went, creating an inviting atmosphere for anyone in his vicinity. He reminded her of the sun on a spring afternoon—warm,
inviting—brightening even the darkest of corners.
“I suppose I do. Now, tell me. It’s pink, isn’t it? I bet it’s pink.”
It was Starla’s turn to laugh. “Black.”
Turner wrinkled his nose. “That’s not a color.”
“I beg to differ.” Really, she didn’t have a favorite color, but she enjoyed teasing him. “Black is the presence of all colors, making it a viable option for favoritism.”
She thought he’d argue, but he just shook his head. “Well played, Miss Winters. Well played.” Gathering his wadded napkins, he tossed them into the Styrofoam box and closed the lid. “You’d make a fine lawyer.” He paused, chuckling under his breath. “Or a pirate.”
“Is there a difference?”
Turner grinned widely, showing off his pearly white teeth. His right canine had a small chip, barely noticeable, but Starla did wonder why he hadn’t seen to it. When he turned his head, the florescent lighting played over his mouth, highlighting a thin, blanched scar on his upper lip, just over his nicked tooth. Starla imagined the two were somehow connected.
“When you were little,” Turner began, resting his elbows on the tabletop and leaning toward her, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”
“An accountant.”
His mouth fell open, and his eyes rounded. “You’re messing with me.”
“Unfortunately, no.” Her cheeks heated at the admission. “My mother will tell you I was always a very sensible child. I liked numbers,” she added, as if that made her confession any less lame. “What about you? What did you want to be when you were a child?”
“A grownup.”
The smile he gave her didn’t quite reach his eyes this time, and those two little words told her more than any longwinded explanation could have. While he spoke fondly of his last set of foster parents, Starla hadn’t missed that they were indeed the last. She couldn’t guess how many had come before the Mills, or how many had actually given a damn. Judging by his reply, however, she imagined not many.
Her heart ached for the little boy who’d wanted desperately to grow up, but also for the man who craved a stolen childhood. Still, she knew without being told that he wouldn’t react well to sympathy or platitudes. Men seldom did.