What the fuck?
Then her last words trapped in his mind.
Who the hell was Stanley and why the hell was he coming here tomorrow?
Chapter Three
Mason thrust his hands into his suit pockets and stared at the empty dusty road.
Nothing.
Where the fuck was she?
He glanced at his watch. Forty-Two should have arrived by now. She was exactly seventeen and a half minutes late. And counting.
A sudden churning deep in his gut surprised him – was she coming? Maybe she’d reneged on the contract, and he needed to find Forty-Three in this God-forsaken bit of country.
Jesus. That prospect emptied his body of much needed oxygen.
No. He wasn’t going to entertain the idea. God knew he was no expert on the human psyche, but from the moment he’d met her, he’d sensed an openness about Forty-Two. If she gave her word, he was fairly confident she meant it.
“Hurry the hell up,” he said through clenched teeth. Waiting wasn’t something he did well. He nearly needed a bypass when a shopper with a cart full of groceries parked in the express lane.
He looked back at Wuthering Heights, as Forty-Two called it. The huge, teakwood house nestled between towering pines, which acted as a windbreak and protected the old farmhouse from wintry gale force winds. The sun hit the distant waves, casting streaks of white as thick and heavy as liquid glass across the ocean. His skin crawled in goose bumps, as if there were a change in air temperature.
He spun to find Forty-Two staring at him, her bottom lip snagged in her teeth.
Today she wore a new shade of beige. What was with her and brown? A shapeless dress hung to just past her knees. Same brown flats from yesterday. Her eyes reeled him in.
“Forty-Two,” he clipped out.
“Philbert,” she replied, a shy smile touching her lips. “Sorry, the Old Bastard had a bit of a struggle going up the hills. I wondered if you’d hear me yelling at him from here.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He turned and walked toward the house.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a black and white pony slinking out of Forty-Two’s car. He stopped and turned in time to watch a behemoth of a dog slink up behind her, his head down, glancing at him and then away.
“This is Stanley,” Forty-Two said, love shining in her eyes. “He had a hard life before we met a year ago. He’s always on guard, the old soldier. I’m worried he never properly sleeps. I haven’t heard him bark yet, so don’t worry about noise.” Apprehension coated her voice. “You do like dogs, don’t you? I can’t leave him on his own. He’ll panic and go through walls to get to me. I’ve put my house up for rent, and the real estate agent already has applications.”
“I love dogs. Always wanted one growing up, but they were deemed superfluous. I look forward to getting to know him.” The Great Dane tried to hide behind her, his tail tucked between his legs. “Is Stanley the only male in your life?” he asked without thinking. Obviously, his brain needed to send a memo to his mouth before it opened again.
“He is now.” Her comment last night, about the pain going away, still lingered. He picked up a pinecone and hurled it, and the muscles in his neck loosened. The dog went on an inspection of the grass. She sighed as she watched her dog. “You go. He’ll be forever before he figures out which patch of grass he needs to water.”
He went to move away but she continued talking. “Poor old Stan. I thought it was fate he ended up in my garden after being so beaten. I couldn’t send him to the shelter where he’d probably be put down.”
He stilled at the emotions flitting across her face and rummaged through his mind for the right thing to say before suggesting they get to work. But her next words caught him off guard. “Anyone in your life?”
Her voice cut through him, a thousand tiny wounds that stole his breath. He clenched his fists, determined to maintain control. “I believe I said last night there would be no personal questions,” he said, waiting for the sharp pain to dull to an ache.
She reddened. “Right, sorry. I was voted Miss Have-a-Chat in high school. I forgot who I was with. My apologies.”
“Time to get to work. We’ve got a lot to do to make this a minimalist retreat.”
She stared at him as if he were a mutant virus. “You’re serious about pulling this house apart?”
“In my head, it’s already done.” He rubbed his temple, impatient to end this delay. He pulled four ridiculously sized suitcases out of her car and hauled them up the stairs to the front door. “We’ll be working non-stop. Why do you need so much crap?”
“It’s not crap. It’s shoes and books and Stanley’s stuff.” She invaded his space, and her hand curled around his, her voice clipped. “I’ll take care of my own crap, thanks.”
He stared down at her hand, surprised at the firm grip. “Let go. I’ve got this.”
Fire danced in her eyes, and fuck him if that didn’t just make him want to smile.
“I hauled them into the car. I’m perfectly capable of hauling them into the house.” She gripped his hand harder.
“Is this how it’s going to be? You fighting me every step of the way?” He straightened and stared at her.
She let go of his hand and crossed her arms. “No, that isn’t my intention.” She looked thoughtful. “I learned at a young age to take care of myself and not to assume that other people will do it for me.”
“Just let me get the suitcases,” he said on a long sigh. They didn’t have time for this.
She regarded him for a second and then a smile poured out of her like she’d seen pure bliss. For a second it stunned him. “Right-o there, Chester. I’ll leave you to it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Enough of you calling me idiotic names.”
She stuck her hand on her hip. “Back at ya.”
They stood like duelists at dawn, neither flinching, neither looking away.
He swore under his breath, turned, and hauled the bags and her dog’s bed into the house. He showed her to her room, and when she started gabbing he didn’t wait for her to get into a monologue. He walked out of the room, and her footsteps confirmed she was following. It also sounded like she was chatting to her dog. Poor bastard. He gave her a basic tour of the house and left her in the kitchen with Stanley trailing them, sniffing Mason’s leg as if he had contraband strapped to it. He’d tried to pat the dog, but he’d shied away and hung his head, his tail between his legs. Sensing the dog needed space, he left him to get comfortable on his own schedule.
Twenty minutes after leaving her in the kitchen, he was absorbed in emails at his desk. He vaguely heard cupboards being opened and closed. A breeze from open windows rattled the Venetian blinds. He swore and went to shut the window. He didn’t have to see her to know she’d come into the room—her flowery scent announced her entrance. She went to sit at her desk but stopped when she saw him.
“Do you always wear a suit?” Her lips were pressed together, and he’d hazard a guess she was suppressing a grin.
He walked back to his desk and sat. “Keep the windows closed in here while we’re working. It’s not happy hour.” He frowned. “I’m working, ergo, a suit.”
She made a detour to the window and nudged it open. “There’s no air in here. We’ll die of suffocation.” Her eyes locked on his, and she tilted her chin.
He moved his head left then right, trying to ease the tension building in his neck.
She went back to her desk and sat with a small smile. Her laptop and printer waited next to a tube of mints and what he guessed was a pot of lip balm. She’d pulled a wooden sign from her bag, and it sat on her desk. He peered closer and read the cursive scrawl. Wish upon a star, sail upon the moon. Dare to dream. Underneath was a fat cartoon cat giving a thumbs-up. Go for it, what have you got to lose (except for a few pounds).
Why would anyone want to stare at those words every day?
His phone chimed with a text message from the elect
rician.
“Forty-Two, bring me the blueprints from the architect for the formal lounge.”
“I’m on it, Purvis.”
A tic tensed at his eye, but he ignored it and his assistant. He tapped out a reply and was soon engrossed in reading tenders for the electrical work. At nine that evening, he leaned back in his chair. The smell of freshly cut mint and searing meat invaded the room, and Forty-Two was nowhere to be found. He’d been reading the fine print in the legal documents that had arrived from Japan via his lawyer and hadn’t realized his assistant had left her post.
He followed the scent to the huge farm-style kitchen. A roast sizzled in the oven. With her back to him, Forty-Two grappled with something in a high cupboard. He came up behind her and accidently brushed his fingers against the back of her neck as he reached up to grab the measuring cup she couldn’t hook. His blood flow stopped when a small moan slipped from her mouth. She stilled mid-reach.
“Need a hand?” Jesus, he needed his own about now. That moan reverberated around his body and ended up in one place.
“No, I’m good.” Her voice was low and gravelly. She reached up again and snagged a bowl.
He stood like a fool, breathing in her scent, bathing in her warmth, and wanting like hell to hear that moan again.
When she turned, her scarlet face gave her away. She skirted under his arm without looking at him. “I thought you’d want to eat in the dining room, since we’re still in work mode.” She scampered away as if fire chased her. “Coming?” she called over her shoulder, her composure back.
He followed her into the stark room. A huge black and polished steel rectangular table and matching high-back, black leather chairs dominated the room. Black and white prints of geometrical shapes graced the walls. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was off about the room.
Forty-Two lay slices of meat on his plate and spooned on sliced kiwi and mint salsa before adding a tossed green salad.
He looked down at his plate, the only one on the table, and frowned. “Where are you eating?”
“In the kitchen, where the hired help is supposed to eat.” Even though her eyes were bleary, her voice held strength.
He waved a hand at the chair. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll eat here with me.”
“Will I, now?” She raised her eyebrows.
The fork that was halfway to his mouth stilled. Along with the strength in her voice, her dark eyes held a challenging glint. Well if that didn’t surprise him. He’d never had an assistant challenge him before. It annoyed him but made his heart beat in a way it hadn’t in years. “It’s a working dinner.”
She returned to the room a few minutes later, and they ate their meal in silence. He couldn’t talk because the food was fantastic and he was starving. The lamb, sweet and succulent, was perfect with the mint and kiwi. The woman’s skill with food rivaled her attention to detail and efficiency. She’d already made a great deal of progress with the talk-to-text memos he downloaded to a flash drive. If he could reach into the transcription software, he’d throttle it. It totally didn’t get his voice and made up a lot of shit words. More than once while she edited, he’d look up and catch her secret smile. Like now.
Her eyes caught his and held.
“Isn’t this a working dinner? Shouldn’t we be discussing, with undisguised glee, the wonders of wooden versus mechanical pencils or the awesomeness of light fixtures?” A smile curled her lips. He wasn’t used to lighthearted mockery and wasn’t sure what to make of it, or her. His normally ordered thoughts lay like pick-up-sticks in his head.
“We’re done here.” He pushed back the chair and collected his plate. “I need to get back.”
“Leave it,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ll meet you back there in a few.”
He returned to the office and was soon deep in confusing permits. His assistant hadn’t returned yet, and he was losing his patience. “Forty-Two,” he yelled.
She arrived in the office within seconds, wiping her hands on a towel. “Keep your hair on there, Sheldon, I was only in the next room getting Stanley sorted.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s way past his bedtime, and I haven’t read him his story yet.” She cocked her head to one side. “Why do you bark so much?”
He glanced at her and passed her a notepad with design ideas for the architect. “I need some research on regional permit requirements for adding a ten foot wooden fence enclosing the property as a new addition to the plans. When you’re done, please meet with the architect to discuss, and I don’t bark.”
“A ten foot fence?” Her eyes were huge in her pale face. “Oh, no.”
“It’s a new addition from the buyer. He wants his privacy.” He leaned back in his chair. “It’s an addition to the plans. I don’t get why you’re upset about this.”
“I just don’t understand why you’d lock all this beauty away.”
He stared at her, confused.
“I’ll phone him in the morning,” she said in a quiet voice.
Hours later, he looked up to find her bleary-eyed and her face pale. “All good?” he asked, glancing at his watch. Two-thirty in the morning. He could push through a bit longer. He would push through because if he tired himself out, he wouldn’t dream. He was close. So very close.
Forty-Two was close to unconsciousness, though. She blinked long and hard.
“Yeah,” she breathed out in a long gush.
“Another half hour and then we’ll wrap up.”
She nodded and let her head fall to her left shoulder. She seemed to struggle to right herself, her eyes glazed. “Do you perchance hang upside down to sleep?”
“What?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
At five, he felt the pull of sleep. Perfect. He’d been so engrossed in emails that he hadn’t notice the time slip away. He stretched his neck. In this state, he could slip into a veritable coma.
He looked across the quiet room. The only sound was the grandfather clock in the hall softly announcing the hour. His assistant had fallen asleep with her head on her hands, lips parted. She was so lovely he could do nothing but stare at her.
Dawn light filtered through the room. They might as well get some rest before starting again in a few hours.
He walked to her desk. Half of her hair was still in a tight band, the rest lay across her shoulders. Without really giving it much thought, he pulled on the elastic, and her hair spilled across her shoulders. In doing so, his hand dragged across her neck again, and goosebumps erupted across her skin. He rubbed his hand through his hair and stared at her for a second before he squeezed her hand and waited until she trained her gaze on him.
“See you back here at ten. Sharp.” Without another word or waiting for an acknowledgement, he left the room.
…
Billie stared at Mason’s blurry back and then her eyes drifted to the laptop. Holy hell. Five a.m. This was why none of his assistants stayed. It wasn’t the work, it was the long hours of high stress. She stood, her muscles feeling like they were detaching from bone. She didn’t have the energy to stretch. Stanley’s huge eyes snapped open as soon as she stood.
“Hey, baby boy, let’s go outside.” She ruffled his head, and he immediately stiffened. She sank to her knees and hugged him. “I love you,” she whispered into his neck. When he softened his stand and relaxed into her, she smiled into his fur. A second later, he went back on guard.
She opened the French doors and stepped outside, wrapping her cardigan around her shoulders and shivering in the cool air.
Mist clung to the blades of grass like drops of liquid diamonds. The first fingers of sunlight glanced off her skin. The tranquility of the morning refreshed her despite her exhaustion. The rope swing on the century old apple tree swung loosely in the breeze. A line of black and white cows walked single-file toward a rust-colored shed in the distance. The distant hum of a tractor was the only man-made noise.
She swatted at her eyes. This place wasn’t a
minimalist retreat. It lived and breathed. It was Wuthering Heights, but he wanted to encase it behind a ten foot wall. Lock it away. It was everything to the community—love, renewal, forgiveness.
Fencing it in. Locking it away. She wondered if that’s how Mason lived. Fenced in and locked away from the world. She couldn’t let him do the same to this property.
There must be something she could do. If she could get the buyer to see the beauty of the land, give the townspeople time to convince Mason and the new owner what Footsteps Bay symbolized, tradition might yet live. A tic bothered her left eye. She rubbed at the spot and waited until Stanley had inspected seemingly three hundred trees and blades of grass before he made his selection. Billie went to the kitchen for coffee and returned to the office.
The word “fence” stuck in her head like a thorn. Something she’d read in the local paper ages ago was just out of reach in her failing mind. She opened her laptop, fired up. Google, and started researching.
An hour later, she found what she was looking for, buried in the archives of a neighboring local paper a couple of years back. She had no clue if this would work. She typed up an email to the head of council in Footsteps Bay.
Before she hit send, her finger hovered over the mouse button. A twinge of guilt lassoed her heart and pulled tight. All she wanted was time, and this would give all of them some time. She closed her eyes, drew a breath, and clicked.
After grabbing an hour of sleep and dashing into town for supplies, she spent the morning juggling emails, speaking to the architect in Auckland, emailing the additional plans for the fence, and planning dinner. It was well after noon and Mason, who’d been absent most of the morning, would no doubt be hungry, though he’d wolfed down three smoked salmon, cream cheese, and caper bagels. It was a mystery to her where the man put food. He possessed a runner’s body, all long, lean muscle. Clearly, he’d never need the bum bra or the miracle dieting pill.
Her phone vibrated, and she glanced down at her best friend Sarah’s text.
Are you loaded up on wooden stakes?
Billie tapped out a reply. Yep. Have yet to see if he hangs from the rafters in his room. Not sure how he has immunity to sunlight. Don’t know how I’m going to last. Just put the milk in the dishwasher.
Winning the Boss's Heart Page 3
