Stanley lifted his head and gave Mason a mournful look.
“I know, old man, but it had to be done.” He opened the door that led from the make-shift office onto the deck. The fruit trees and vines in the distance salted the air with apricots, pine and rosemary. He hurled several pinecones for Stanley, who lost the mournful expression in two seconds flat. The tension holding Mason’s shoulders eased as he threw pinecone after pinecone to Stanley, who dropped the cones in a pile at his feet before venturing out for more. This was the only time the dog looked carefree.
“Stanley where are you? There’s a bone with your name on it,” Billie called from somewhere in the house. Her dog’s ears lifted straight up before he came to a skidding halt like a cartoon character. He gave Mason a look and galloped inside.
Mason hurled another pinecone, unable to get rid of the image of Billie, her head thrown back, calling his name.
He collected the pinecones the dog had gathered and took them to the kitchen, where he deposited them in the flax baskets by the huge AGA stove. He glanced around. Funny, even when this room was empty it felt full. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Light filtered through stained glass windows leaving pools of purple, pink, and orange on the floor. The smell of herbs had become ingrained in the long wooden kitchen table—cinnamon and the lingering smell of orange seeped from the old wood benches. The refrigerator hummed in the corner. A window was always open and the fruit trees released a sweet scent that carried over the land and on occasion flooded the room.
It was Billie’s favorite room in the house. When she was in the room with her music playing, the house felt like it was filled.
A loud bang overhead followed by a pain-filled cry kicked up his heartbeat, and he took the stairs two at a time to the attic. He threw open the door to find Billie on the floor rubbing her left knee, blood seeping through the thin material of her dress. She glanced up when he entered, and pain slashed through her eyes before she slipped on a blank look.
He advanced into the small room, side-stepping crates and boxes of crap left by the previous owner stacked nearly to the ceiling . Dust coated every surface so he couldn’t see her. “Are you hurt? What was that noise, and why are you bleeding?”
“I couldn’t budge that.” She pointed to a huge chest of drawers. “I wanted these prints, then it gave way, and I fell. Yes, I’m hurt but that’s not your concern. I’ll get myself sorted.” She didn’t look at him, but stood, gathered the frames, wincing slightly. “I’m not being paid by the hour here. I have a lot I need to get done.” Her eyes glanced his way. “Don’t want to lose sight of what’s important here do we? Getting this house sorted and dreams fulfilled.”
“Make sure your knee’s okay, and ask me if you need something heavy shifted.” He knew he sounded angrier than he meant to. The thought of causing her pain did not sit well.
Her mouth set in a straight line, her face unreadable. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to bleed over everything and cause you damage.” She gathered the prints. “I doubt I’ll need you for anything, I’m good on my own.”
He snagged her shoulder as she went to move past him, and she stiffened.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said in a low voice.
She shrugged out of his hold. “I know exactly what you meant, and believe me, it’s exactly what I want.”
…
He spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with his lawyer, Forty-Two a silent witness in the office when she was there. At nine o’clock, he took a break for dinner, looking forward to what she was going to bring to the table. He found her in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. She turned slightly at his entrance. Stanley rose from his spot under the table and stood beside him.
“I’ll bring your meal through,” she said in a quiet voice, steeped in tiredness.
He nodded and walked to the formal dining room. Soft lights illuminated the walls where the prints from the attic hung in honeyed wooden frames. Old black and white photos of the original home. Men in white singlets stood beside old crank-shaft tractors. A woman with a shy smile perched on a branch of what he guessed was the huge apple tree in the orchard. She looked at someone off camera, a shy smile on her face. An old sepia picture of the house taken from the hill he and Billie had picnicked on showed what looked like the whole country in the backyard, with huge metal buckets over open fire pits. Must be the jam festival.
He hadn’t noticed Billie leaning against the door. “This room doesn’t have any windows. I thought the prints gave it a soul. A window into the past, so to speak.”
“It’s perfect. Gives the room character.” He peered closer. “The apple tree has grown.” When she didn’t respond, he turned to find his dinner on the table. She was headed out the door.
He frowned down at the setting for one. “Why aren’t you eating with me?”
She paused and looked back at him. “I’ve eaten already in the kitchen. This isn’t a business dinner, ergo…”
His eyebrows rose. “Ergo what?”
“I’m not eating with you. Now if we’re done here, I’ve got four million things I need to do prior to collapsing and getting thirteen minutes of sleep before we hit play and start having fun with a capital F all over again.” She tilted her very lovely and very determined chin. “Actually, I’ll catch twelve minutes of sleep. The sooner this contract is done, the better, and I can get away from this.” She waved her hand dismissing him.
He leaned towards her. “You mean me or here?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Take it how you want. I’ve got a life to live, and I want to get out and start living it. I don’t know what your gig is. Doesn’t take Freud to figure out you’ve got some mighty big demons kicking around your head. I hope for your sake you get them sorted so you can get out and start enjoying life instead of working every minute of the day.” She clasped her hands in front of her.
He could do nothing but stare at her. Her pale face. Dark crescents around her eyes. Hair that should be down and free, scraped back from her face. Quiet determination came off of her in waves.
“Take the rest of the night off,” he said. “We’ll start early in the morning.” He glanced down at the plate. “And you’re going to eat with me.”
Color flared in her face and her eyes flashed. “I will eat where I choose, and that won’t be in here, John-Boy, and it won’t be with you. I will finish what I need to tonight, as we both know you’re not paying me by the hour.”
She walked out of the room.
The chicken pesto pie was awesome, but it would have been better with her sitting across from him. Even when they didn’t talk, it felt good having her there. He ate his meal in record time, made his way to the kitchen, washed up his plate, poured her a diet soda with a twist of lime, and deposited it on her desk, having watched her drink this countless times during the days they’d been here. Out the corner of his eye he noted a desk calendar, large X’s marked off, counting down the days she was out of here.
“Thank you,” she said, not looking up.
At midnight, he tapped out the last email, his body screaming for sleep. Right now, he could lapse into a coma and hopefully not dream.
“How much longer have you got?”
Billie looked up from her computer screen, her eyes red and bleary, her face unnaturally pale.
“About another two hours.” She flicked her hand at him. “Go. I don’t need you.”
“I’m not going if you’re not going.” He stood, stretched, stuffed his hands into his suit pockets, and stood behind her, resisting the urge to run his fingers across the smooth skin on the back of her neck. “What are you working on?”
“I’m collating the quotes for the guesthouse including the underground versus overhead wiring, plumbing, fit out etcetera, in a spreadsheet. Each part of the quotes has to be entered separately.” Her voice was a low monotone. She turned her head and looked up at him with dull eyes. “Could you save me some time and take Stanley out?”
He nodded and she looked
back at the screen.
After an age of Stanley sniffing everything but not doing anything, Mason bit his tongue and waited. Stanley decided the four hundredth thing he’d sniffed was acceptable and cocked his leg. By the time Mason came back inside, Billie was dead to the world with her head on her forearms. He watched her chest rise and fall. This wouldn’t do. She needed a good night of sleep. He plucked her out of the chair and held her to his chest. She didn’t stir, just burrowed in tighter and murmured something he couldn’t make out, and he pulled her closer. Her sweet, flowery scent filled the space between them. He walked down the dimly lit hall to her room, pulled back the covers, and gently laid her down. He would have liked to undress her, but he settled for pulling off her shoes before tucking the blankets around her. He pulled the elastic-band thing from her head and freed her hair, sifting his fingers through the soft lengths, finding a strange sense of peace when doing it. He wasn’t going to analyze it, didn’t even want to think about it. It just felt good to do. Stanley silently followed him and made a humph noise before settling in his corner. Mason watched her for a long time before he retired to his room. After lying in bed and praying for sleep, he finally drifted off only to wake an hour later, drenched in sweat, bolting upright in bed with the usual nightmare stuck on repeat in his brain.
…
Billie looked down at her desk in despair. She was so tired it was a chore to pull breath. Takahashi, back from his eco-friendly holiday, now wanted solar panels for the roof. She’d added it to the list of things she’d get to when she had a spare nanosecond. The low voices of Mason and the painter drifted through the open window. All this was better than having the night with Mason replay over and over in her brain. Just hearing his voice had her mashing her teeth against her lower lip. She thought it had been beautiful. She thought they’d connected. But he’d told her bluntly exactly what it had meant to him. Zip.
Last night, she’d fallen asleep at her desk. This morning, she’d awakened in her bed. Since Stanley wasn’t generally able to pick her up, she assumed Mason had deposited her there. She had no idea why he didn’t just leave her at her desk. The humiliation of being his booty call when she stupidly thought it had meant something sat in her blood like tar. She hadn’t expected a marriage proposal, but she’d thought they could discuss it like two adults and move on. The cold dismissal, like she was an annoyance, negated the amazing experience he’d delivered. Because of him, she knew her girly bits weren’t defective. Just a victim of incompetence. She had him to thank for that.
The sharp trill of her mobile pulled Billie out of the mess in her head. She put her phone to her ear. “Hey, Sarah.”
“You know the reason I’m calling. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
“No, honey, I’ll be there. I promised, and I don’t break my word.”
“Thank you.” She could hear Sarah’s smile. “I wouldn’t do this without you. I’ve got to think though, Bills, that there’s going to be some lively bids for you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. If I get one bid for a dollar I’ll be lucky. You know I’m only doing it for you. Auctioning myself off to all the available males in the area is kind of bizarre.”
“Is your Heathcliff coming?” Sarah asked.
“Who?” she stalled for time, waiting for the prickle of heat across her skin to subside. She went to stand by the French doors and, with the phone tucked against her ear, opened a window, inviting a playful breeze into the room. There was no way she was ready to share with Sarah what had happened last night. Maybe when there were tequila shots and a chance Sarah wouldn’t remember Billie’s confession in the morning.
“Hello? Living in Wuthering Heights with the smoking hottie of the year who looks all broody and smoldering, and is therefore your Heathcliff?”
“Ah, no. He’s not my Heathcliff. He’s not my anything.” She swallowed and stared sightlessly at her feet.
“Bring him,” Sarah continued. “He’s the best thing this district’s seen in a long while. Give the ladies on the jam stand something to talk about, and if he can wear package-hugging clothes, all the better.” The sound of a shop bell echoed over the line. “Gotta go. Customers. I’ll see you later on.” Billie hoped tonight Sarah would get a slice of happiness she deserved.
Billie couldn’t but help smile as she ended the call. For a woman who rarely dated and who bailed when anyone showed interest, Sarah sure did love the male form.
“Going somewhere?”
Billie turned around at the sound of Mason’s voice. His eyes trained on her, but she didn’t miss the tension lines etched into tight skin.
She tilted her chin. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’m taking a few hours off. I’ll make up the time so you don’t have to worry about me slacking or anything. I’m meeting Sarah at the local A and P show later on this afternoon.”
“What’s A and P?”
“Agricultural and Pastoral. The fair. People come from miles.” She moved to the kitchen hoping he wouldn’t follow, sat on a stool, and cupped her face in her hands, lost in the memories of shows she’d gone to as a child, soft pink mounds of cotton candy she’d consumed, a rare and illegal treat. She’d held her mother’s hand, loving that Mum seemed happy for once.
Mason sat across from her, and she carried on, intent on sharing the day her mother had actually been a mother. “There are dressage and show-jumping rings. Prizes for the best woodcarving, best cheese, best fruitcake, and the dog who looks most like their owner.” Nerves clutched at her stomach with her next words. “Each year, the council picks a person or group in the area in need, and they have an auction. This year, they picked a little boy who needs a guide dog, and I volunteered to be auctioned.” She moistened dry lips. “I hope someone bids a dollar for me.”
Mason said nothing, just stroked Stanley’s head. The dog didn’t move from his spot beside Mason. She had to give it to her boss. When it came to her dog, Mr. Impatient would actually relax and spend time not working.
“What does the bidder win?”
“Oh, a night out with that person. I hope Hector wins me. He’s seven hundred years old, zips around on his tractor, and his idea of a night out is a pint at the pub.”
She ignored the dropping temperature in the room.
He continued to pat Stanley’s head while he watched her, nothing moving on his face.
“Right,” she said. She pushed back the embarrassment trying to surge into her face. The way her one-night stand looked at her, she might as well not even be in the room. He might as well be talking to a stationery clerk about an order of letter-sized paper.
His hand stilled on Stanley’s head. His face was so unreadable he could play high-stakes poker in Vegas. “You won’t have time to date while you’re here.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I won’t be here much longer if I have my way, so I’m good to go.”
“What time are you leaving?”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve checked, and we’re all up to date. No new emails or telephone calls have come in. I’m leaving in about an hour.” She paused. “Why?”
He stood, barely glancing at her before looking away. “I’ll meet you back here then. You said the council organized the auction, so maybe it’s time I met them in a non-work environment. Convince them to change their minds about the gardens so we can both be gone.”
Not a single muscle moved on his face, and his eyes cut straight through her. “Back here in one hour.”
“Right,” she exhaled at his retreating back.
She went to her room and started throwing clothes on the bed. What on earth do you wear when you put yourself up for auction?
…
Mason stood slightly back from the purple-draped fudge stand. Billie, balancing an armload of bags, was deep in conversation with the older woman behind the stand.
To his left, horses trotted in a large circle, the majority of them in a canter. A handful were doing a you’re-not-going-to-
make-me-go-faster trot with stony faced-girls on their backs. A dark-suited man with a bowler hat stood in the middle, studying them.
He and Billie were currently standing at the food section of the show. He’d already devoured a plateful of chicken piled on pita bread with tabouli drizzled in a tangy garlicky sauce. The vegetarian stand of feta and spinach triangles was doing a roaring trade. And from the Hangi line, the scent of traditional Maori sweet potato, flat bread, lobster, and lamb dishes cooked in underground ovens filled the air. He’d be back there later.
He’d refused to follow her through endless halls where jam and fruitcake were being judged. He had no interest in leather art, and the last time he’d been on a carnival ride he’d been a teenager. Instead, he’d waited with Stanley, trying not to blow a vein. The members of the council had so far proven elusive, but he was counting on running into one sooner or later.
After what felt like a year, Billie paid, he grabbed the bag from her, and when yet another man tried to stop and talk to her, he entwined his fingers with hers and pulled her away. At this rate, he’d be up for a new circulatory system by the time he turned thirty-five. The pressure in his veins must surely be causing a defect.
Everywhere he went, men tipped their hats or inclined their heads in a friendly greeting, each one wanting to chat about Mason’s plans for his gardens. One man had smiled while shaking his hand, telling him to watch what he ate, as there’d be a lot of upset people if the fruit trees were torn down. He didn’t know if the man was serious or not with his friendly smile showing too many teeth. When another man approached them, he pulled Billie away. He could understand why they kept coming her way. She looked gorgeous. A pale green skirt floated to her ankles and jeweled flip-flops hugged her feet. Her hair hung in loose waves, framing her face. She’d even put on light makeup, outlining her lips in soft pink. He almost didn’t recognize her when she wasn’t wearing brown.
He thanked the sun when it cut through the clouds and outlined her long legs through the cotton of her skirt. Legs she’d wrapped around his hips, moaning his name. The top two buttons were undone on her white blouse, and creamy cleavage strained against a lacy bra. He ripped his eyes away remembering her hand palming her chest as he’d powered into her.
Winning the Boss's Heart Page 8
