“Friends,” he said, as though he’d never heard the word.
“Yes, friends. And just like friends do, I’m worried about you. You hit a snag today, and I can tell it’s still pestering you.”
Duncan sighed. “I need her to know how sorry I am,” he said. “That house would have completely lit her sky if she’d gotten such an incredible birthday present. I don’t know what else to give her.”
“You don’t have to give her anything to say sorry. That’s the beautiful thing about apologies. If the rift is big enough, that one little word can have more power than any gift.”
His breath bottled in his chest. “Regardless, it’s her birthday. I’d like to get her a present.”
“That’s not hard,” Rosabel said without breaking a sweat. She even smiled, and the spark in her brown eyes struck a charge to his entire system.
“You don’t know my grandma.” Felicity Hawthorne was the woman who’d fired her housekeeping staff for failing to iron the sheets. Her exorbitant standards made royalty squirm. Was Rosabel right? Would a simple apology be enough? He’d tried to make amends while they’d been at his parents’ home, and Grandmother had waved off the attempt. “She and I were the closest of anyone in my family,” Duncan said. “She taught me how to read, taught me table manners, made sure I did my homework. She practically raised me.”
“And is she the one who insists you call her ‘Grandmother’ instead of ‘Grandma?’”
“You got it. So much of her is in me, Rosie. I was so angry Grandfather sold that house because I knew what it meant to her. Never mind what it meant to me. You can probably see that her birthday present can’t be just any gift. The gift has to mean something.”
Rosabel perked up, plastering on a smile that lit her eyes. A prick of interest struck him, but he worked to push it down. He couldn’t feel this for her. Hadn’t he been telling himself that for months?
She reached across the table and patted his hand. “It’s a good thing you brought me along, then, isn’t it? I’m great at shopping, and if I’m not mistaken, we passed by several adorable shops on our way through town. Let’s see what we can find for her.”
“I don’t know, Rosie.”
Withdrawing her hand, she slowed, eyes centered on the colorful tiles adorning the tabletop. “You know, my dad used to call me that.”
“Rosie?”
“Yes. Plenty of others have tried calling me that, but I always correct them.”
He shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you correct me?”
“I have before. I don’t know. I guess I feel like it’s something to verify our new friendship during this trip.”
Duncan pondered this as the redheaded waitress returned with Rosabel’s card. Rosabel had allowed him to call her that even before they’d left. He remembered the first time the nickname had slipped out. She’d parted her lips only a tad. Another time, she’d questioned him but had let the matter slide.
Needing something to do, he took a long drink from his glass. The cool water perspired down the cup’s side, wetting his hand along with his mouth.
“Look,” she said with a smirk. “You’re drinking the water here.”
Duncan chuckled, grateful for the plucky turn of conversation. “Think it’ll cure me?”
Her eyes danced. “I don’t think there’s anything strong enough to fix what’s wrong with you.”
In the spirit of teasing, he was half tempted to sprinkle some water in her direction, but his heart climbed in his throat. She didn’t withdraw her gaze, and neither did he. She really was beautiful, but outward appearance wasn’t the only appeal she held. Her kindness in this moment did wonders for his entire demeanor.
If he’d had this conversation with anyone else he was close to—Mother, Dad, even Maddox—they would have pointed out his flaws at every chance. His family certainly had launched every particle of blame they could at him.
Rosabel didn’t do that. She’d pointed out his imperfections, sure, and while it’d been slightly vindictive, she’d returned to her down-to-earth self.
He wasn’t sure how to tell her what that meant to him, so instead, he cleared his throat and stood.
Tucking her wallet back into her purse, Rosabel joined him and clutched his arm. “Come on, grump. Let’s find her a present and see if we can’t cheer you both up.”
12
Rosabel was moved to discover how much Duncan loved his grandma. Moment by moment, she started to get more of a feeling of who he was. He’d never shown much emotion on the surface—or at least not the softer side. He wielded the tougher, masculine, manly emotions and brandished them like a sword at every one of his business ventures. But when it came to matters of the heart, Rosabel suspected Duncan kept those close.
People probably misinterpreted his behavior just like she had, which explained why Duncan had very few friends. She wondered if even his family misunderstood his way of dealing with things. That could be why there’d been a rift between them for so long.
She found herself softening toward him at this discovery. Not that this in any way warranted the way he’d treated her and dozens of others, but knowing him better brought a new level of understanding, and that always changed people.
This newfound understanding of Duncan readjusted things within her as they walked together along Eureka Springs’s sidewalks, stopping at the antique shop, a quilt shop, a comedy club, and even pausing at the approach of a psychic reader who offered to foretell their future for free, to which Rosabel politely declined.
Deep down inside, Duncan cared about things. He’d worked hard at his business the best way he knew how; he’d donated to charities just like his parents had. Little pieces Rosabel had always noticed started clicking into place. She thought of a book she’d read once, about love languages and the ways people expressed and received love.
“I think you’re a gifts kind of guy,” she said as they passed a large window labeling the beautiful brick building The New Orleans Hotel. The building did, in fact, look like something that belonged in New Orleans, with its multi-level brick interrupted by iron balconies above.
“What does that mean?”
“That’s how you show you care. You like to buy things for people. I’m sorry about what I said before. I guess I always thought you thought you could just buy your way into anything, that having more than another was some kind of power struggle for you, but that’s your love language. Giving gifts.”
He scowled. “You say that like there are other … love languages.”
“Sure,” she said. “There’s acts of service. Physical touch. Mine is words of affirmation.”
“Words of … what?”
“I like to be told I’m pretty. Please and thank you. To be complimented when I do a good job.”
“You do a good job,” he said. “No—you do a great job.”
Her cheeks heated. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“I’m serious.” He paused near a sidewalk sandwich board with a white painted frame surrounding a chalkboard and the words “It’s the little things” scrawled with calligraphy. The neighboring shop was labeled Little Things Souvenirs and Gifts. He gestured to it, opening the door and waiting for her to enter first. “I could tell after a single day I’d never find a woman as capable as you.”
“If coffee-making is my only skill, then that compliment is severely lacking.”
“I know I mentioned the other woman couldn’t handle my coffee, but there were more issues than that. She didn’t organize the papers on my desk or open the blinds in my office so the sunlight spilled in. She didn’t turn my plant three-quarters so the other leaves got their fair share of light.”
Rosabel’s cheeks heated even more. He noticed her doing these things? “I never knew you paid attention.”
“She didn’t have a breakdown of my day ready for me—”
“How could she have known to do that if she didn’t plan your schedule the day before?”
“She didn�
��t greet or exchange jokes with the others in my office. She didn’t answer the phone announcing herself as my assistant.”
“You obviously didn’t train her to do any of those things,” Rosabel argued.
“I didn’t train you either,” he said. “You just showed up fully operational and hit the ground running.”
Rosabel tucked her lips under her teeth. “Boy, when I ask for compliments, I get them. You don’t have to take that whole love languages thing so seriously.”
“I’m not overdoing anything,” he said, flicking through several cups with the words Eureka Springs, Arkansas on them. “I’m being honest.” He didn’t allow her to say anything else before trudging to the back of the store.
Rosabel’s thoughts fled. She wasn’t just flattered. She was touched. Hyper-awareness stole across her entire frame, and her knees slowly transformed into jelly. No man had ever paid so much attention to her and then voiced what he saw and liked.
License plates from various states lined the back wall. There were trinkets and knickknacks, all kinds of various items for sale, but everything was too kitschy. Even though Rosabel didn’t know his grandma well, from their brief meeting she had the feeling Grandma wouldn’t be impressed with pig-shaped salt and pepper shakers or striped aprons.
Duncan seemed to sense the same thing. He meandered toward a collection of comic books filed in white buckets, and then inspected a few T-shirts, holding one up for her.
She had to admit she wouldn’t mind a souvenir T-shirt from a town like this. Rosabel gave in and joined him, reaching for a nearby pink tee. Standing shoulder to shoulder with him, she gave in to the curiosity welling inside of her.
“I never knew you saw me like that,” she said softly, holding up a brown T-shirt speckled with mountains. “I never knew you saw me as anyone other than an errand girl.”
He lowered the shirt, making way for her attention to center on him. Under the influence of his glance, she couldn’t look anywhere else. “You were never just an errand girl.”
“Then how come you never treated me differently?”
“I tried to, right at first. You struck me from the start.” He squinted over his shoulder at a pair of women tottering into the shop and lowered his voice. “But I think the cubicle giraffes noticed. I think that’s how the rumors about us started in the first place.”
She held the shirt to her chest. Memories of those first days surfaced, as distinct as stepping into snow with bare feet. Stark, obvious, and shrill. He’d been friendly. He’d been kind; he’d gone out of his way to speak with her. It’d been why she stayed at first.
Then the whispers started. He must have heard them too, because it was as though a switch had been flipped. He’d changed so instantly toward her, treating her with the same coldness everyone else received. By that time, she’d already gotten her first paycheck and it’d been substantially more than any other job she’d had thus far.
So she’d stayed. The Smith in her, Dad’s lessons of going the extra mile, of doing her best work no matter what, kept her trying her hardest in spite of her beastly boss. In her later frustration with Duncan, those early days had slipped her mind.
“In that case,” she said, “I’m going to remember that the rumors were your fault.”
“Part of me wishes I hadn’t stopped paying attention to you.”
She went rigid. Her mind filled with cotton as her thoughts turned inward. Duncan’s admission realigned with something inside of her, something she wasn’t ready to confront yet. She didn’t wish he’d paid more attention to her as well. How could she?
He thumbed through another stack of T-shirts, selecting a black one bearing the town’s name. He took her pink one and made his way toward the register as though he hadn’t just admitted he was interested in her as more than an associate.
Trembling overtook her. Rosabel couldn’t understand the sensation. Duncan had asked to date her before they’d even left Vermont, but she hadn’t taken him seriously for a second. She never would have believed he cared more for her than for himself. But now? In his humility, in this weird bubble of openness they’d blown around themselves, he was more genuine than she’d ever seen him, and the realization made her weak in the knees.
He paid for the shirts and met her by the door. “Something tells me my grandma wouldn’t appreciate a souvenir T-shirt,” he said.
She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yeah,” she said, sheepish, hoping he couldn’t read the fluttering sensations tingling through her. “Let’s keep looking.”
They walked up the street, and a new awareness of him strung through her. She noticed every step he took. She observed the way his hand swayed at his side, and the scraping of his shoes along the pavement.
More than sight, though, she sensed him there, sensed his warmth, his presence. Somehow, she couldn’t help but glance over at him, several times finding him returning the attention. That look was a shared secret, something valuable and new and unexpected.
Rosabel explored the shop signs, pausing at a store with elegant scrolling along its windows’ edges. Hats of every shape and size filled the display, and in elegant writing above the door were the words Le Chapeau: Hats and Haberdashery.
“Le Chapeau?” Duncan pronounced the words differently than she would have. Sha-poe. “That means ‘hat’ in French. Let’s go in here.”
“Okay.” Rosabel was eager for the distraction from the twisting turns of their conversation. The minute they entered, she knew they’d found the right place.
She was instantly enchanted. Below a decadent Tiffany-style lamp made of pieced glass in every color, stately stands laden with hats created a maze through the space. Hats were sorted by style, many of which she’d seen but didn’t know the names of, though she knew they weren’t worn nearly as often as they should be these days.
Men’s hats lined glass counters and were contained within the displays along the walls, while the women’s hats each claimed its own peg on the stands. This was a forest all its own, a forest of color and style. She had the sudden urge to play dress-up, to try every single one on and see how each accentuated her face.
“Yet another reason I love fashions of the past,” Rosabel muttered to herself with a kind of reverence.
“They are impeccable,” Duncan agreed.
A pair of older women tittered over a red straw hat with a colorful purple sash around its middle. Rosabel beamed at them and penetrated closer to the hat trees. Her hands were drawn to an elegant blue hat concocted with feathers and ribbon along one side. “For your grandma?” she suggested.
Duncan shook his head. “Not really her style. What about you? Which do you like?”
“Me? We’re not shopping for me.”
“Who says?”
Rosabel humored him. She inspected the selection and her view was instantly snatched by the collection of 1920s-style cloche hats, the kind that hugged the head and stopped at the ears like a bob. Several adorned faceless mannequins on the table: a cream one marked by a lacy band, a lavender one without adornments, a pink one sprayed with flowers at one side …
Captivated, Rosabel reached for the woolen gray cloche hat accentuated by a flat-seated bow at the back. Using the circular mirror on display, she fluffed her dark hair and situated the piece on her head.
“No, no,” a woman said from across the store. Her graying hair was cropped short and styled beneath a beret with a pom on top.
Rosabel’s hands flew to remove the hat. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked before trying it on. I—”
“Nonsense,” the woman said, waving her off. With delicate hands, she tilted Rosabel’s hat at a more defined angle on her head. It redefined the shape of Rosabel’s face and made her eyes pop. In an instant, she was a new woman.
“There,” the woman said in what Rosabel guessed was a French accent. She stood back to admire the shift. “What do you think?”
Chills trailed down Rosabel’s arms. She felt transformed, as though a lay
er she hadn’t known she possessed had been brought to light. “I love it,” Rosabel breathed, shooting a smile at Duncan and receiving one in return.
“This hat is definitely for you,” the shop owner pronounced.
Self-conscious, the moment shattered as Rosabel remembered why they’d come in. She removed the hat and placed it back onto its mannequin, catching a glimpse of the hat’s price tag and inadvertently stepping on Duncan’s foot in the process. One hundred and forty dollars? For a hat?
“Oh no,” Rosabel insisted. “We’re here for something for his grandmother.”
The woman’s almond eyes constricted. “I see. In that case, based on your formal attire, sir, I guess that your grandmother is a woman of class.”
“She is,” Duncan agreed. “Do you have something she can wear, that might go with just about anything?”
“But of course.” The shop owner slid with grace toward the store’s center.
Rosabel and Duncan followed closely, and Rosabel asked, “Do you make these?”
“Oui, I do. It’s a family trade.” She reached for a camel-colored wool felt hat distinguished by a black side bow. A gauze veil drifted from the front brim, not long enough or thick enough to really conceal anything. Clearly, its purpose was to tease. “This is perfect,” the woman said. “The wide brim will suit her for any occasion.”
Warmth spread through Rosabel. She shared a grin with Duncan before saying, “I agree. His grandma will love it.”
“We’ll take it,” Duncan declared, “and that cloche one as well.”
Rosabel gaped at him. “What? No.”
“I insist. Love language, remember?” He winked at her.
Duncan. Winked.
Her cheeks flared. The gesture and the inference of his words sent her stomach to her feet. Love language. She looked away only to steal a glance at him again. His eyes hadn’t left her. They were filled with secrets and confessions. The look was one she’d received before, in his office, when she’d had the sensation of being watched only to turn around and find his attention on her.
Rosabel And The Billionaire Beast (Billionaire Bachelor Mountain Cove Book 6) Page 10
