by Olivia Miles
Chapter Eleven
Later that night, Charlotte glanced up from her laptop as the glare of headlights appeared in the window. Her heart skipped a beat as she hurried to finish her phone call with the only caterer available on such short notice. Not her first choice, but it would have to be good enough.
Charlotte bent down to where Audrey was sitting on the carpet, playing with her stacking blocks, and swooped her daughter into her arms. She glanced down to the floor in dismay; toys were littered all over the large Oriental rug, extending from the windows to the giant Christmas tree that Audrey was especially curious about. More than once, Charlotte had needed to put the caterer on hold to keep Audrey from tugging too hard on the branches.
Charlotte swept the toys and books to a corner of the rug with her toe and hoisted her daughter higher on her hip, rolling back her shoulders as she waited for Greg to come inside. She glanced to her laptop, wondering if he should find her working instead, and then, hearing footsteps from somewhere deep in the house, decided it was too late. She stood in the living room—at least, she thought it was the living room, but it was hard to tell with so many rooms to the house—and waited.
Moments later, Greg emerged in the arched entranceway, looking almost comically casual in comparison with the grandeur of the room. He’d loosened the knot to his tie and his striped shirt was untucked. His nut-brown hair was still slick with melted snow from his walk from the garage to the house, and it stuck up in tousled peaks, as if he had carelessly combed his fingers through it. He paused when he saw her, his expression blank before slowly allowing a semblance of a smile.
Charlotte released a pent-up breath. “Welcome home!” she said with decided cheer. Nope, nothing weird about this. Nothing weird at all. She gripped Audrey’s pudgy thigh, hoping he wouldn’t wonder why Audrey was here and not still with a sitter, and said brightly, “How was your day?”
Greg looked momentarily disoriented. “Okay, I guess. How about yours?”
Charlotte smiled a little easier. This wasn’t so bad! After all, it could have been worse. He could have walked in the doors and sent her packing. So it was a little weird, being in this strange home and all that. She’d get over it. She had to. And really, maybe it wasn’t all that weird. They were two adults, each fulfilling their end of a bargain. An arrangement, if you will.
Still. It was weird.
“Great, great actually!” She turned and grabbed her notebook and as best she could with one free arm, flipped it open. “I found a caterer, and they’re sending me the menu options. I also jotted down some ideas for the flowers. I was thinking we go with poinsettias based on the physical scale of the rooms here, but that we limit the table arrangements to black magic roses—those are red—and greenery. That is, if we’re even doing tables. I know we hadn’t discussed that yet.” She paused, but his eyes had glazed over. “Well, if not, arrangements would be nice for the buffet and end tables, something to add color to the room. Although, bar tables might be nice in the foyer, over near the bar. Oh! And I spoke to the caterers about the bar menu, and they’re sending that over, too. And—”
“My goodness!” Greg chuckled as Charlotte looked up, startled. “I can see you’ve been busy.”
“Time is of the essence, of course. And I want the party to be a success.”
He gave her an appraising nod. “Too bad everyone that works for me doesn’t have your…um, enthusiasm.”
Charlotte felt her confidence rise on his words. “I suggest we go with heavy appetizers and desserts, set up buffet-style.”
Greg shrugged and glanced down at a stack of mail in his hands.
Charlotte tried again. “Passed flutes of Champagne or a signature drink might be a nice addition. Especially since this is a formal event. I was thinking we can play on the word Frost…maybe some kind of white martini with a frosted garnish.”
Greg frowned at an envelope in his hand, tore it open, and then, catching the silence, glanced up to her. “What? Sorry.” He fluttered his hands in her direction. “Whatever you think is best.” He began reading the letter.
Kate had warned Charlotte about clients like this. At first it seemed ideal—they took a hands-off approach and let you design the event—but in the end, it almost always led to issues. Just because a client didn’t voice an opinion didn’t mean they didn’t have one. And then it usually came too late. The last thing Charlotte needed was more trouble.
She decided not to press her luck just now. She’d wait until he was in a better mood, less distracted. That was the thing with men, she’d learned. It was all about timing. Though no amount of timing ever seemed to work when it came to Audrey’s father.
“Why don’t we discuss this later? I should assemble the crib anyway.” There was no sense in looking overly eager after all…
Quickly, she shoved her notes into her bag, which was propped on the large, polished coffee table that Marlene had scrubbed at least twice today in Charlotte’s presence, no doubt eager to banish any fingerprints that Audrey left as she cruised around the room. It was an awkward, one-armed movement as she clung to Audrey, who had taken a painful grip of the fine hairs around her face into her tiny fist.
Greg dropped the mail onto the table. “I’ll set up the crib.”
He seemed so confident, so sure in his ability, but she knew it was trickier than it looked. “Have you ever set up a crib before?”
Greg shrugged. “How hard can it be?”
Charlotte just bit back a smile.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Greg sat gripping a drill in his sweaty palm, all too aware of Charlotte hovering behind him near the bed, where she was trying to keep the baby entertained.
“You sure you don’t need any assistance?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said, even though the answer really should have been Hell, yeah. He knew the basics, how to use a drill and a wrench, how to unclog a drain, but he was far from handy, and times like this, he was reminded of the fact that he’d grown up without a father. Sure, nothing could have stopped a mother from teaching him how to use tools and fix things around the house, but she’d been too busy at the office. His grandfather had taught him a few things. How to cast a fishing line. How to dock a boat. Most of his time at this house was spent trailing the man from room to room, observing what he was doing, feigning interest in television shows he liked. Enjoying his company. If he’d known he was only going to get a few years, he might have asked for more.
He set down the directions and stared at the pieces of the crib that were still facedown on the floor, despite his efforts. He had a Harvard MBA, for Christ’s sake. And he couldn’t figure out how to assemble a crib. If that wasn’t proof that babies weren’t his thing, he wasn’t sure what was.
“Here.” Charlotte appeared next to him, her palm open. Reluctantly, he handed over the drill. “There’s a trick to it. It took me a while to figure out, too.” She grinned as she crouched beside him on the floor.
Aw, now, great. She was dancing around his ego. Trying not to come flat out and tell him he didn’t know what the hell he was doing and her patience had expired.
“Where’s the, um…” He looked around, and noticed that the child was sitting at the edge of the room, flipping pages in a cardboard picture book.
“Just let me know if she starts to move,” Charlotte said as she dropped down to her knees and began expertly maneuvering the parts of the crib.
Greg’s eyes hooded when he realized he’d had three pieces upside down the entire time. And that she’d known it. It must have taken everything in her to say nothing for the last thirty minutes. He glanced back over to where the baby was awkwardly holding the small book. “She seems happy for now.”
Charlotte grinned as she pulled an elastic band from her wrist and swept her hands through her hair until she’d made a ponytail. “She is happy. At least I hope so.”
Greg opened his mouth to inquire about her circumstances, then stopped himself. It wasn’t his busine
ss, he decided. And he wasn’t inclined to make this arrangement personal.
“Mind passing me those two bolts over there near your foot?” Charlotte asked as she quickly set to work. “The long ones.”
He did as told and handed over the metal hardware, blinking in surprise as she promptly fitted both and triumphantly secured the two large pieces of the crib together.
“You’re an expert at this,” he remarked.
“Oh, it’s easy. Anyone could—” Her cheeks flushed a dark red and she licked her lips, not able to meet his eye as she reached across his knee for a few more screws. She drilled two more before saying, “I didn’t have much of a choice but to learn how to do things like this.”
He frowned. He supposed she didn’t. Being on her own with a kid.
In no time at all, Charlotte had finished the crib, and Greg insisted on moving the mattress into the frame, even though it was fairly obvious by now that Charlotte could have managed it herself. And had before, no doubt.
Charlotte pulled a fresh sheet out of her suitcase and made up the crib before setting the baby inside with her books. One of them he recognized.
He smiled, reaching into the crib to take out the old book about the babysitter bunny. “My grandmother used to read me this book,” he remarked. He shook his head as he turned the pages, the images coming back to him now. “I hadn’t thought of this book in more than twenty years.”
“It’s one of Audrey’s favorites,” Charlotte said.
“I wouldn’t have even thought it would still be in print.”
“Oh.” Charlotte seemed nervous. “I picked it up at a rummage sale.” She opened another book for Audrey, not meeting his eye.
No doubt she bought a lot of things at rummage sales, Greg thought, feeling embarrassed by the grandeur of this house. It wasn’t a reflection of him. His apartment back in Boston was minimal. Devoid of showy material possessions.
Devoid of a lot of things, he considered.
But this house was his grandparents’ home, filled with their things. Their memories.
“You know, this makes me think of something,” he said. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to show you something downstairs.”
“Sure. Audrey will be content for a bit. Once the books start hitting the floors, we’ll know she’s ready to start wailing, though.”
She must have read the panic in his face, because she started backpedaling. “Oh, I mean…”
He held up a hand. He knew what she meant. Babies threw things. And they cried. A lot.
Just two reasons why he wasn’t interested.
Greg led her down the stairs and into one of the less formal rooms at the back of the house, where he liked to watch television. There were some old photo albums in here that might be worth setting out at the party, just to drive home that family feeling his mother was intent on showing.
The television was blaring, no doubt left on by Marlene, who liked to catch up on her soap operas while she dusted. He found the remote control wedged between two suede sofa cushions and directed the device at the television just as Charlotte blurted, “Wait.”
Greg paused, noticing the warmth in her smile, the adoration in her eyes as she stared at the screen. Following her gaze, he gave an inward groan. A Frost Greeting Cards Christmas commercial. The extra sappy one where the little girl with two pigtails and red bows bakes gingerbread cookies with her mother and then sends them to her deployed father, who forgoes the crumbling cookies at the end to read the card, emblazoned with the Frost Greeting Cards logo just below the little girl’s crude signature.
Greg stifled a yawn as the commercial finally faded. He turned to Charlotte, a wry grin already spreading over his face, when his breath caught. Were those tears in her eyes? They were. They most certainly were.
Oh, good grief. She was one of them. He should have pegged her. She was one of the millions of people who lapped up Christmas, loved everything about it, from the tinsel to the flashing light on Rudolph’s nose.
Catching his wide eyes, Charlotte gave a watery smile. “Sorry. That one gets me every time.”
“You and about a million others.” He flicked off the television and the room fell dim. “It’s our most successful commercial three years running.”
“I never really noticed it until this year.” Charlotte shrugged. “Now that I have Audrey, I don’t know, everything’s changed. When I see that little girl on the commercial, it makes me imagine how Audrey will be a few years from now. It’ll be so fun. Baking Christmas cookies with her…”
Greg just stared at her, then back to the screen. He’d seen this commercial a hundred times, maybe more, and never thought anything about it.
“I’ll let the market research team know they hit the sweet spot with this one, then.”
This seemed to please Charlotte, because she grinned until her dimple quirked.
Right. Back to business. Clearing his throat, he opened the lower cabinet of the built-in shelves and pulled out the photo albums his grandmother had kept over the years. He ran a hand over the cover, almost afraid to look at what was inside, at the years of his life he’d tried to push aside, at the part of himself he’d tried to deny.
This was his grandparents’ house, yes, but it was the closest thing to a real home he’d ever had. It was a big home, far from modest, but it was built through innovation, hard work, and a vision.
A vision he intended to see through.
“Tomorrow you should call Stacy at my office. She’ll set you up with a bunch of products from the warehouse. The more Frost Greeting Card items we can have included—subtly, of course—the better this party will be.”
“I’ll get on that first thing.” Charlotte nodded firmly. “This party’s going to be a great success.”
“It’d better be,” Greg mumbled, and a flicker of something that looked an awful lot like panic fell over Charlotte’s face.
“Perhaps in the morning we can go over some of the details,” she suggested.
“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” he informed her. Just thinking of lunch with the Burke’s executives and his mother made his stomach burn. He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. “A very important meeting.”
Charlotte blew out a sigh and looked him squarely in the eye. “Well, last I checked this party was important, too. To both of us. You need it to go smoothly, and I’m counting on the second half of that commission.”
“Don’t forget the other part of our deal,” Greg reminded her, even though he practically cringed at bringing attention to it again. It had been a nice evening, surprisingly. Until now.
“Oh, I haven’t,” she said haughtily. “But I’m more than just your fake fiancée. This party needs to be planned, and I meant it when I said that something like this usually takes considerably longer to pull together.”
“And I meant it when I hired you to plan it,” he said tersely. “So plan it.”
Charlotte huffed. “I intend to plan it. I’ve been working hard all day, and I’ll be doing the same tomorrow. But I expect you to cooperate; otherwise, you’ve lost your say.”
Greg turned back to her, frowning. “What does that mean?”
“It means that if you don’t want to give me your opinion, then you’ve waived your rights to complain when I do things my way.”
Now wait a minute here. Too much was riding on this party for him to relinquish complete control to a total stranger, regardless of her background or what he was paying her. “I’ll review your notes tonight and give you my thoughts tomorrow,” he said.
She gave a smug smile. “Good.”
From somewhere upstairs, he heard a loud thump, followed by another. And for the first time that day, he was happy there was a baby in the house. It was the only sobering reminder that Charlotte was just around for another two weeks and that he had no business wishing it might be a little more.
* * *
Charlotte stared at the crib, positioned sweetly near the window. It looked right at
home there, not that she’d be saying that part aloud. The books she’d given Audrey to read were on the floor, and the little girl was holding on to the rail, grinning.
Greg picked up the toolbox and stood near the doorway. “So…that’s it then? No…bolts need tightening?”
Charlotte considered how closely he’d dodged an innuendo and bit the inside of her cheek. “I think it’s all good. Thank you again,” she said, wondering if she should say something more. She eyed him carefully, noticing that from this distance he seemed more like a guy she might have met at a party or down at one of the hangouts near the marina, not like her client.
“Have you eaten yet?” Greg asked abruptly.
Charlotte startled, and quickly scanned his face, looking for a hidden meaning. Was she expected to cook dinner? That would be…a disaster, frankly. “No,” she said, and then, still unsure, ventured, “Have you?”
“No, and I missed lunch, too.” He tipped his head, giving a shrug that bordered on casual but was probably anything but. “How about dinner? Then we can go over more of the party details, and uh…the other thing.”
Thing meaning fake date. Fake fiancée.
She’d stick with thing.
“Might give us a chance to get to know each other a little better. If we’re going to pull this off, we can’t appear like strangers, can we?” He grinned.
Charlotte transferred Audrey to her other hip to keep her mind from getting the better of her. This is how it always began. A smooth invitation that led to a fling and, later, heartbreak. But not this time, she reminded herself. This was business. Nothing more. So what if Greg was mildly good-looking in a Patrick Dempsey sort of way? Even if he was interested in her, which he most certainly was not, she knew better.
Men like Greg just didn’t take women like Charlotte seriously. They took blond blue bloods seriously. Girls with country club memberships and private tennis coaches.
“Why don’t we try that place down on Harbor Street?” Greg suggested. “You know, the small one on the corner, with the red bistro tables in the summer?”
