Sarah replied back in an instant. Think of getting your degree and think of what you’re doing for the town. They need the trees. Excellent research on the Historic Heritage Act, BTW. Genius.
She agreed, though she hoped it didn’t backfire.
She stared down at an incoming text. Mason.
Where are you? Get in here.
“Really,” she breathed out, her blood starting on a slow simmer that promised to turn into a rolling boil. She was tired, so tired she wasn’t sure how she was standing upright. And she didn’t doubt the cyborg she worked for would want to pull another all-nighter. A headache formed at the base of her skull.
She walked the whole twenty feet to the office. Mason sat at his desk, head down, focused on the tablet before him.
“You couldn’t yodel or something? I was only in the kitchen. Do you have to text me?”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Yodel?”
“Yeah, yodel. Swiss Alps style. I’ll probably come a lot faster if you yodel rather than text me. I might even Can-Can into the room.” She bent her hip against his desk. He had to crane his neck to look up at her. Saturday morning, and he looked like he’d just stepped off Fortune Five Hundred’s hunkiest businessman magazine. Suit, shirt, polished shoes. Delicious. “Now what’s up that required a text?”
His eyes darkened. “There’s some shit going down with the council. They won’t return my calls. I’ve got Takahashi breathing down my neck about getting designs submitted, and there’s a ton of work to get through. Twelve weeks, Forty-Two, that’s all we’re here for. In. Out. Get it done.”
“Sorted, Igbert. I’ve spoken to the architect. The council won’t answer your calls because it’s Saturday. They got the plans you submitted last week by Forty-One. Mr. Takahashi is out of the country for three days as of this morning and won’t be contactable. He’s taking his wife on a surprise anniversary holiday.”
Surprise lit his powder-blue eyes, and that secret society admittance smile hinted at the corners of his mouth.
“Excellent.” He said, tapping his expensive pen on the desk. The almost-smile disappeared, and frown line puckered between his eyes. The man really was too young to have worry lines. He was rich, successful, gorgeous, and the most locked down man she’d ever met. She’d bet there were demons driving him, and by the look of heartbreak that occasionally flitted across his face, those demons kicked his butt often.
“I’ve been advised that the council are now in a closed-door meeting.” He spoke without looking up.
She bit her lip. “Oh. Are you sure there’s no way you can work the land and all the beauty into Mr. Takahashi’s plans?”
His eyes narrowed and he tapped his pen repeatedly on the desk. “Thought we’d gone over this. It isn’t going to happen. He’s agreed to the plans I’ve submitted to him, which don’t include a single tree, vine or hunk of fruit. Don’t get me started on the pinecones.” His eyes softened when he looked at her dog where he watched them from his bed in the corner, his favorite pink rubber flower beside him. “At least he makes piles of them, though he won’t chase the ones I throw.”
As soon as his eyes cut to her, the softness dissipated, and he was instantly in work mode. “Can you get me a copy of the blueprints for the electrician? He’ll be around later to pick them up.”
She nodded, rolled her eyes at Stanley, found the blueprints he wanted. She was so tired her brain was still in yesterday. She read through her to do list. Right, only another four million things to get done today. She stared down at the empty diet soda. She was going to have to start chewing coffee beans. She blinked and tried to clear her head.
“Phone Hank,” she said, reading from the list. She picked up the phone and was soon duking it out with the local hardware store.
“Hank. You can take me out anytime. You give me a good deal on the paint we talked about, I’ll wear a bikini and stilettos.” She loved old Hank, and at eighty-seven, he still thought he had a shot with every available female. Gladys, his wife of sixty-plus years, was probably rolling her eyes at him as he made his shoe preferences known. She laughed out loud, throwing her head back. Dirty old man.
She clicked off, still giggling, but then her shoulders stiffened at the vibe in the room. Mason’s dark, stormy eyes were locked on her and the look in his eyes was anything but friendly. If she were a cookie right, now he’d be wiping crumbs off his mouth.
She licked her dry lips and stared down at her lap. For a brief second, she wondered what it would be like to be that cookie. She looked up to find the room empty.
…
An hour later, Mason returned, panting. Running shorts clung to his thighs, and he wore high-tech shoes. She pulled in her bottom lip and quickly scanned his naked torso before turning back to her work. The man was a walking anatomy lesson. Taut mahogany skin, ripped muscles, smooth heaving chest. His shoulders looked like he bench-pressed small nations, and his six-pack had its own six-pack. Her breathing hitched.
He picked his phone off the desk and loosed an impressive string of swear words.
“All okay?” she ventured. Anger powered out of him, but he didn’t even glance her way.
Right.
The man was either running on fuel not of this planet, or he pushed himself to the brink of collapse. No one could work the hours he did then run what looked like a speed marathon and still be upright . He had to be hungry, but by the look on his face, tonight’s duck curry with garlic naan, fresh fruit, cheese, and crackers would wait.
“There’s been a delay,” he said, scrubbing his face with his hands. “That was an email from Councilman Andrew. They reviewed the plans Forty-One submitted for the overhaul of the grounds. They’ve been denied. They’re citing the Community Association clause under The Historic Heritage Act.” He paced the length of the room. “None of this was in the documents I signed. Forty-One fucked up, but I don’t know how. She did a thorough investigation of the legal holdings on the land. I don’t get what they want.”
Her stomach went to hang out with her knees then rebounded. “I do,” she said quietly. She folded trembling hands in her lap. “Tomorrow I’ll show you.”
Chapter Four
“I don’t have time for this,” Mason said the next day, not bothering to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
“Yeah, you do, there’s an awesome running trail up here. Not that I run. I’d rather offer myself up for sacrifice by cannibals who were having a lean year. Besides, there’s something you have to see,” Forty-Two called over her shoulder and carried on walking a few feet ahead of him on a narrow dirt path. Stanley marched between them, his big brown eyes anxious.
The only sound apart from the wind whispering through the grass was the crazed cackle of two magpies overhead, their black and white feathers smudged against an endless blue sky. The wind whooshed through the long, flaxen grass. Jesus, it was so quiet.
The early-afternoon light cut through the cotton of his assistant’s dull yellow, ankle-length dress, outlining the soft curve of her hips and the long length of her thighs. He itched to pull her hair out of the hard bun he’d come to associate with her and see it tumble in waves down her back. He’d woken with the memory of her moan and a hard-on, which had necessitated an extended shower.
Distracted and wanting to get back to work, he dug his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen.
Shit.
Trepidation crawled through him like fire ants. “I’ve got to go back. There’s no reception here.”
“One more minute. I promise. Can you give me one more minute?” She stooped suddenly to pick some plants from the side of the path.
“What are you doing?” He stared at the stems in her hand.
She grinned at him. “Dandelion greens for a salad.”
“They’re weeds.”
She rolled her eyes at him in mock dismay. “Yeah, but before we started processing everything, putting it in cans and boxes with expiration dates, we used to forage for food. Why, I
bet you’ve got an Uncle Cyril back in the day who used to slay a wild boar with a whittled spear.”
He frowned. “We evolved.”
She straightened. “You need to get out more. We could eat for a week out here.”
He looked at the plants in her hand. “I can tell you now, I’m not eating weeds.
“I bet you’ll love my dandelion and lavender salad.”
He didn’t answer. He probably would love her salad.
He looked at the trail leading back to the house, calculating the time it would take him to jog the distance. “Thirty seconds more, and then I’m going back,” he said.
“Take a chill pill there, Norman, we’re nearly there.” She disappeared around a bend. With itching fingers, he took his phone out of his pocket and sent a silent prayer upward. The bars on the signal strength now showed he had full coverage, but the phone lay strangely silent.
Enough of this shit.
He opened his mouth to tell her they were going back to the house, but as he rounded the bend, he stopped.
His bleached blond wooden house sat nestled between the pine and towering silver dollar gum trees. He breathed in the salt and eucalyptus that hung on the breeze, and the tension drained from his shoulders. A tartan blanket sat next to a picnic basket.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” Forty-Two said, coming to stand by his side, hands on her hips. Her scent of jasmine and light musk kicked his pheromones into overdrive. It wasn’t perfume. It was as if her body oozed the scent.
He stepped away. She edged closer. He’d figured that out about her. She liked to be close. Wasn’t his favorite thing in the world. He craved his own space, and plenty of it, but he’d gotten used to her sidling up. Besides, it wasn’t unpleasant to have her close enough to smell her shampoo, glimpse the soft breasts she camouflaged in beige, catch the swell of her hip.
He cleared his throat and scanned the area for a hidden clue before his eyes were drawn to the blanket and basket on the grass. “What do you want to show me and why is there a basket up here?”
Her fingers accidently brushed his, and a shiver shot up his arm. “Look down there.” She pointed to his property. “See all the fruit trees that extend from your property to next door and beyond?”
“Yes.”
“Every year, the community has a giant harvest. Everyone turns out to pick the fruit from the trees, bottle it, dry it, freeze the berries, and make jelly and jam. They use the pinecones to fuel the fires for the vats.” She turned her luminous eyes toward him. Today, they seemed more green than hazel. “This has been going on since Footsteps Bay was founded. Generations of families come every year to get to know each other all over again. People who have moved away return, sometimes years later, to remember happier times…maybe to mend a rift.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s where you come to heal.”
Her face shone with obvious love for this land, and she looked even more beautiful. Air cemented in his chest. He struggled to draw a breath. “And have you?” he asked quietly. “Healed?”
“Yes.” The sincerity in her voice stilled him.
He turned away from her and put his hands on his hips. It took all of his will, but he forced himself back into work mode, where he should be. “Let me get this straight. The council may have an issue with me developing my land because once a year everyone gets together to make jam? Are you kidding me?” He paced the grassy area, each step marking his increasing frustration. “It’s my land.”
“I know it’s your land. It’s the trees and what they symbolize that matter to the people here the most. Renewal, rebirth, keeping roots and traditions alive.” She paused as if weighing her next words. “Don’t you have a tradition that you keep alive? Something that you keep close to your heart?”
His skin tightened at her words. Yes, he had a tradition. A terrible tradition. Every year on the ninth of May, he covered Ruby’s grave with red roses. And then he’d stand there with his phone in his hand, punch in the number to Monica’s cell, and then hit END. He wanted to talk about their daughter. To tell her he’d let go of the only good thing in his life after the best thing drifted away in her sleep.
“No, I don’t.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “Progress can’t be stopped to make jam because people want to get together and have a healing party on my land.” He paused, assessing the situation, working out a formula that would give him an answer. “Why did the land come up for sale at all if they want it to remain the same? Why didn’t the town band together, get out the yoga mats, have a Telethon?”
She scowled. “It was part of a divorce settlement. One wanted to keep it, the other didn’t, so a judge decided. The townspeople can’t afford to buy the land. These are mostly farming folk who’ve been here forever. There’s been a lot of development of properties lately, and it would literally kill this community to see this property razed. Some things don’t need to be modernized. Keeping traditions alive is important,” she said in a quiet voice.
This wasn’t good. This wasn’t fucking good at all. A cold, hollow feeling settled in his bones. He’d gotten it wrong. The instinct he’d trusted to take a chance on this place was off. Venturing this far north from Auckland had been a bad move. He hated small towns. But when he’d seen the property on the internet, he’d been drawn to its possibilities and the certainty of a quick sale. Then Forty-One left in the middle of the assignment after following him here from Auckland. Unflappable Forty-Two, who was different from any assistant he’d met, turned the bundle into one neat disaster. This deal had been fucked from the start.
He tried to get a handle on his thoughts.
“Why didn’t this Heritage Act thing come up earlier? Why didn’t Forty-One know this?”
She busied her hands then flipped sunglasses onto her head.
He stared at her closely. Why was she avoiding him? “How do you know all this?”
“My ex-husband James and I bought an investment property here. I loved living here when I was little, and when a property came on the market I jumped on it. Being close to Sarah was icing on the cake.” She half-shrugged. “I was doing my culinary degree when he got sick, and we moved back here. Forty-One wouldn’t know about it unless she knew the area and its history.” She nudged him with her hip. “Are you going to be out there with a ladle, getting your groove on, making raspberry jam?”
He tried not to let the imprint of her soft hip against his side distract him. Something she’d said earlier pinged him. “What happened to your husband?” he asked, wanting and yet not wanting to know.
“A stroke,” she said quietly.
He blinked in surprise. “That’s pretty unusual, isn’t it, for a guy so young?”
“Not as unusual as you’d think.” She paused before carrying on. “We’d been divorced for a while. We married young. It was a mistake. There was no hate or anything. Just two people escaping their lives more than being in love. He didn’t have anyone else in his life after his family disowned him when he married me.” She blinked and gnawed her lip. “Sorry, forgot you don’t want anything personal.”
He nodded, acknowledging there were no right words to say when someone close to you died. He’d seen the pain and helplessness on people’s faces when Ruby had died and Monica left. He’d dried up, unable to fill the silence.
He turned away. Forty-Two was pulling out emotions he’d locked in a suitcase and thrown in lost baggage years ago. He needed to focus on this nose-diving deal, not an unchangeable past. “We need to get back now.”
“Come on, let’s have lunch. I’ve made an arugula and goat cheese salad with caramelized figs. There’s also ham and roast beef.” Forty-Two sat on a tartan rug, her sandals off, sunglasses flipped onto the top of her head. She unwrapped two foil packages, took a piece of ham from one. She held it to Stanley, who took it out of her hand as if she were handing him a grenade, and then she nibbled on the roll.
He stared down in surprise. “You pre-planned this jaunt, including lunch?
You came up here earlier and laid it all out?”
“Yeah.” She looked up at him with hesitant hazel eyes. “Would you have come otherwise?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. “Look, thanks for the history lesson, but we don’t have time for lunch.” He dug his hands through his hair, waiting for her to pack up this impromptu picnic and follow him back to the house. In his mind, he could see Takahashi walking away even though he’d agreed to the plans and paid a hefty deposit, and Mason’s reputation for bringing in a deal on time would be down the toilet. He needed to sort out the house in Coromandel he’d lined up after this, as well. Blood pounded hard in his brain.
She patted the space beside him. “Take a load off there, boss man. I made you an awesome roll with a capital A, and I made a ginger and lime cake.” She hesitated. “I don’t know what it will be like. I don’t have much success with cakes.” She looked mournfully at the plastic container. “Actually, I don’t have any success with cakes.”
She’d finished her roll, opened a plastic container and stared at a brown cake cut into wedges. After a few seconds, she looked up as if sending out a silent prayer, broke off a chunk, and popped it into her mouth.
Immediately her eyes watered, she grabbed a can of diet soda, popped it, and took a slug.
“Too much ginger,” she said between gasps. “Failure number seven hundred and I don’t know what. Well at least I won’t have to get out the Crunchmaster Sit-Up Demon Mean Machine and reclaim the rock solid ab I would have lost eating half a cake.”
He had no clue what the hell she was talking about, but he was losing his patience.
“What?” She looked up at him. “You didn’t purchase the pill that promised to make dieting a thing of the past? No split-ends gone forever? No, bum bra for you?” Her eyes strayed to his butt and color touched her cheeks. “I think you’re okay in that particular area, just quietly.”
Winning the Boss's Heart Page 4
