by Holly Jacobs
"Yes. That one. If you could show me where you keep it, I'll get started." Morgan looked around the small, cluttered office, then back at her mom.
She didn't meet her eyes. "It's not here."
"Where is it?" Morgan asked. "At the warehouse?"
That wouldn't make sense. Having a component there made sense, but not the whole system.
"Well," Annabelle said slowly, "you see, Auggie didn't buy the computer. We both decided the old system has worked for the last forty years, so why change it."
"Nothing's been updated? You're still using the old method?" Paper files, index cards, no sense of order. . .
"You know the old saying, if it ain't broke, don't fix it? Well, we didn't see the need. Look, I have all the recent files right here for you." Her mother nodded at a teetering stack on the corner of the desk. "Want me to bring you something to drink while you go through them?"
"How 'bout a Scotch?" Morgan muttered.
"What, dear?"
She tried to force a smile. "A cup of coffee would be great."
"Sure thing. I can't thank you enough for helping. I know I have decisions to make, but it's wonderful to have someone who knows more about business lending me some insight. . ." Annabelle hurried out the door, and a few minutes later Sunny came back with the coffee.
Her friend gave Morgan a long, sympathetic look. "It's not as bad as it seems."
"This system is antiquated beyond belief. It's going to take me most of the week to sort through all this and come up with some comprehensive picture of where the business stands."
"If it makes you feel better, I lobbied both your mom and Auggie for the computer system. But they're both technophobes."
"I'd say let's invest in one now, but if Mom's selling. . ." She let the sentence trail off. "Are you okay with the idea of her selling?"
"Tess, Nikki and Gi. . .uh, well, they would say that her selling and my losing this job would be the best thing that ever happened to me. I'd finally be forced to step outside my comfort zone."
Morgan decided to ignore Sunny bringing up Gina's name. Instead, she asked, "And you? What would you say?"
On the surface, Sunny would seem the most easygoing of their group, but Morgan had long since learned that her friend had a spine of steel when there was something she wanted, or didn't.
"I'd say that I like working here. I like the hours. I like that they let me bring Johnny in if I have to. Your mom's a hoot, and Auggie was the sweetest, most generous man I ever met. Did I tell you he set up a college fund for Johnny? Took out a life insurance policy when Johnny was born and put it in our names. It's left us financially set now."
"That sounds like Auggie." A neighbor and employer who, when he lost his wife, had built himself a family. Annabelle, Sunny, little Johnny. . . And Morgan knew she was on the list, despite the fact she'd left Pittsburgh years ago. Uncle Auggie had even visited her in San Diego, and she'd talked to him as often as she talked to her mother on the phone.
He had been her family.
They had all been his.
"So, to get back to your question," Sunny said, "I'd miss working here, but I'd be fine. Your mother has to do what's best for her."
"About this man who wants to buy the store? Did you meet him?"
Sunny just chuckled in a way that left Morgan feeling a bit nervous. When she finally stopped, her huge grin was almost as disconcerting.
"What?"
"Nothing." Sunny batted her baby-blue eyes, the picture of innocence.
But Morgan knew her well enough not to buy the look, and glared at her, which only made Sunny laugh again.
"Really, nothing. He seemed businessy and to the point when he came in last week."
"And?"
"And. . .I don't know if you remember, but way back when, during one Sunday brunch, we all came up with our ideal man, yours was a businessman. Black hair, blue eyes. I think you described him as Remington Steele, M.B.A. not P.I. A well-cut and polished sort of man."
"How do you remember these things, Sunny?"
She shrugged and grinned. "It's a gift. Ask me something I should know, and I won't have a clue. But the minutia. . .it's stuck rock-solid in my brain. And the second this man walked in, I remembered that conversation and thought, there he is, Morgan's man. He has this deep, commanding sort of voice. Actually, if I had to describe the guy's aura, that would be it. Commanding. Demanding of attention."
"A demanding man isn't what I'm looking for."
"Maybe I'm not describing him well enough, because when you see him, he's your Pierce Brosnan dream guy with a touch of Elon Musk incarnate."
Morgan laughed. "Pierce Brosnan meets Elon Musk? We'll see. Right now, I'm going to have to see if I can make heads or tails of this data."
"Holler if you need any help."
"I will."
Sunny left her with coffee in hand, a disorganized stack of files in front of her and a fantasy about her old dream guy playing in her head.
Suddenly, Morgan's quiet, boring time in Pittsburgh seemed a lot more lively. Making heads or tails of OCDR's records. Business meetings with Pierce. Pseudo business meetings with Conner, who definitely wasn't a clone of her Pierce fantasy. He was a scruffy photographer—a wonderful job, but not an M.B.A. sort of field. No, he wasn't the one, but he'd been the center of more than one lurid fantasy since they'd met.
Morgan was humming as she dived into the files and started compiling notes. This was what she thrived on—a busy, productive life.
She left the office at lunch to walk home and get her laptop. It might not have the business software she'd suggested OCDR buy, but she had a decent spreadsheet program to organize all the data.
When she opened the door, Gilligan lumbered into the hallway and seemed excited to see her. Well, excited in an aging bulldog, breathing-is-almost-too-much-energy-output way. He gave a wheezy yap of greeting.
Morgan knelt down to pat his head. She'd forgotten what it was like to have someone waiting at home to say hi. She and Marvin had never lived together, despite their long relationship. As a matter of fact, the thought had never occurred to her. She'd liked having her own space.
She grabbed a sandwich and let the dog out, then hurried right back to the office and dived in again, losing herself in the figures and information, feeling more and more at home by the minute.
"We're closing up," her mother said.
Morgan jerked her gaze from the computer screen to the clock. "It's five o'clock already?"
"When I asked you for help, I didn't mean you had to do this." Annabelle waved her hand, gesturing at the piles of paper. "I just wanted you to talk to Mr. Jameson."
"I can't tell you if his offer is a good one without knowing what the company's worth."
Her mother sighed. "Morgan, you worry too much. Whatever happens, it will be fine. Ultimately, the decision's mine. There's no right or wrong answer for you. I just want your impressions of Mr. Jameson and his proposal. Whatever happens after that I'm sure will be the right thing. Life has a way of going where it should."
"I guess therein lies our greatest difference. You're the glass half-full, and I'm—"
"The glass half-empty?"
"No. I'm the get-a-bottle-of-water-and-fill-the-stupid-thing-yourself kind of woman."
Her mother laughed and kissed her forehead. "Do you want to do dinner tonight? It's on me. After all, I'm not cutting you a paycheck for all the work you're doing." She paused. "Unless you need me to? I mean, do you—"
Morgan shook her head. "I'm fine financially, but thanks."
Annabelle nodded. "If that changes, you know you'd just have to tell me."
"I do. And I'll tell you what, I have about ten more minutes of work here, then a call to make. If you run home and let Gilligan out, I'll finish up before you're back, then dinner it is."
"It's a plan." Her mother hurried out of the office with a backward wave.
Rather than return to the data she was collating, Morgan pulled a business
card from her pocket. She studied the number and picked up the phone, then set it back in place.
Conner Danning.
He definitely wasn't the Remington Steele meets Elon Musk sort of man she'd always lusted over. Despite the fact he'd had on nice clothes, it wasn't a suit and tie. He'd had five o'clock shadow and his hair had needed a good stylist. And a photographer wasn't a high-powered businessman. It sounded like a precarious job at best.
No, Conner wasn't the kind of man she usually dated. Then again, Marvin had been exactly the kind of man she usually dated, and look how that had turned out.
Their relationship was lackluster when it was on, and almost a relief when it was off.
So maybe someone who wasn't exactly her type was just what she needed, despite the fact she was telling a little white lie in order to meet with him.
Feeling resolute, she picked up the phone and dialed.
He picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Hi, Conner. This is Morgan Miller. We met at the reception this weekend. I wondered if we could get together. . . ."
CHAPTER FOUR
ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, AFTER Annabelle Miller had closed the store for the day, she studied herself in the mirror at home.
Not too bad, if she did say so herself.
And she did.
She'd never been a pretty girl. As she aged she'd decided handsome might be an appropriate description. But her looks had never stopped her from attracting the attention of men. She had a confidence that was instilled in her by her mother.
"Annabelle, honey," her mom would say in that soft Southern lilt. "Boys are simple creatures. You just be yourself, let what's in you shine, believe you're the most beautiful creature there is and that's just what they'll see—how very beautiful you are."
Annabelle had always tried to do just that, and it had worked.
Her husband, bless him and his not overly clear eyesight, not only didn't notice that she was simply handsome, he'd told her that when she'd walked into the reception she'd taken his breath away. He'd never seen anyone that beautiful.
Annabelle sniffed. She missed him, even after all these years. But she knew he'd be the first to tell her it was long past time to get on with her life and find someone else to love. Loving someone new wouldn't minimize the love she'd had for him.
She held up the red dress, then a bright yellow one, trying to decide what to wear.
The yellow one reminded her of Morgan.
Annabelle loved her daughter, but that wasn't so rare. Most mothers did.
She tossed the red dress down. Too here-I-am. And yellow was a color she kept buying, even though she knew it did nothing for her complexion.
She went back to rummaging through her closet, thinking of Morgan.
It wasn't just that she loved her daughter because she was her mom. Annabelle admired Morgan's tenacity, her single-mindedness—okay, it was more stubbornness than single-mindedness. And she loved Morgan's ability to organize things.
To be honest, now that she thought about it, she sometimes admired Morgan's stubbornness, and sometimes it just drove her crazy.
Take Morgan's ex-fiancé, Thomas, for instance.
Annabelle pulled out a brown dress, which was certainly more understated, and held it up, studying the effect in the mirror.
Dowdy.
Back to the closet.
She had tried to tell Morgan that Thomas wasn't the right man for her. He was her clone. A business-minded, organized sort of man. They would have bored each other to tears within a year of being married.
And that Marvin in California? Well, at least they fought now and again—that type of friction was probably what had kept their relationship going so long. But still, he was another button-down bore of a man.
She took a white dress that looked virginal until she held it up to herself. She smiled. Yes, this was the one. It had black trim, which meant it was proper. . .well, proper enough.
She slid it over her head and sat down to do her makeup.
Morgan might think that a business type like Thomas or Marvin was what she wanted, but Annabelle knew what her daughter needed. Someone to keep her on her toes. Someone who would fill in the gaps in her life and draw Morgan out of herself.
All that was why she hadn't planned to ask Morgan to talk to the potential buyer. B. Mark Jameson was a most decidedly button-down type of man. But after Sunny had let it slip that Morgan had a case of lust over some photographer she'd met at the wedding they crashed, Annabelle had reconsidered asking for Morgan's help.
If Morgan was already interested in another man, then it was probably safe to let her scope out Jameson's offer. Annabelle felt it was a good omen that Morgan had met the new interest while crashing a party.
Plus, a photographer wasn't a nine-to-fiver. If Morgan was interested in him, then maybe her tastes had changed. Which meant it was definitely okay to send her out with the wannabe buyer.
Annabelle surveyed her outfit in the mirror. Tasteful, refined and. . . She leaned forward and flashed the mirror a chest full of cleavage.
Hot.
Yes, the old girls were still her best feature. They did her proud in this dress.
She pirouetted one more time and glanced at her watch.
Morgan was with her photographer right now, then meeting the potential buyer for dinner. Which meant she'd never notice that her mother was slipping out.
Annabelle had promised Morgan she wouldn't crash any more receptions. But a blowout sixtieth birthday party certainly didn't count as a reception. It was a celebration.
And if she happened to celebrate along with a bunch of strangers, that wasn't really crashing, it was just being a warmhearted sort of person who wanted to share other people's joy.
If she happened to meet an eligible man there, and decided to celebrate with him, well. . .
Annabelle smiled and picked up her purse. She was ready.
CHAPTER FIVE
E.J., I like to think of myself as a very honest person, but a fib doesn't count as a real lie. Right? I mean, that's why they call it a fib, and not a lie. . .
WHEN MORGAN ARRIVED AT THE small Oakland coffeehouse and spotted Conner, she was pleased to discover it was still there—that electric sort of awareness she'd had when she met him at the reception.
She had wondered over the last few days if maybe she'd just imagined the spark between them. After all, she wasn't the type who fell head-over-heels in lust.
But there it was. Big, strong and practically pulsating as she slid into the chair across from him.
Although now that she was sitting across from him, she wasn't exactly sure what to do about it. Even if he did let her tag along to a few events, she wasn't sure she'd have the nerve to let him know that she wanted him.
Her mother would simply tell a man that she felt something, but Morgan couldn't bring herself to do that, so she settled for saying, "Hi. Thanks again for meeting with me."
She was glad she'd done her homework about the OCDR. She clutched the file as if it was some sort of talisman.
She still couldn't figure out what it was that attracted her to Conner. Today he had on well-worn jeans and a plain black T-shirt that hugged his chest. It didn't look as if he'd shaved, and he'd slung a ratty brown canvas shoulder bag across the next chair.
It definitely wasn't the GQ look Morgan normally went for, which was why she couldn't figure out what this attraction was based on. But it was there, leaving her feeling a bit breathless as she ad-libbed after the waitress had brought her a coffee.
"The store rents out the basics. Chairs, tables, dishes, cookware, glassware, silverware, table linens. But there are untapped party avenues. Take a wedding reception, for instance. What other merchandise could we offer to rent. . .or even sell? Everyone's so busy. Going to multiple stores can take up a lot of time. Why not offer everything in one place? A one-stop party destination."
"Your store has room and the capital to expand to carry a full line of party items?"
Conner questioned.
"Maybe not. That's what I'm trying to decide—what we could carry and what we could afford to carry. Maybe we could simply work as middlemen. Rather than try to stock everything we'd need to sell—invitations, for instance—what if we worked with another local shop, carried their samples, allowed customers to shop with us, then turned the order over to the other store? We'd keep a percentage for having contracted the order. Or maybe it would be better to just do it ourselves. I don't know. That's where my proposal for you comes in."
"Ah, now that sounds intriguing," he said, chuckling. "You've got a proposal for me?"
Tingly.
She felt tingly all over at the sound of his laughter.
Marvin never made her feel that.
Annoyed, yes, but not particularly tingly—
She cut off the thought. Now, where was she?
Proposals. Ignoring the tingles, she continued, "Yes. I don't know how intriguing you'll find it. You're a photographer." She stopped and shook her head. "Like you didn't know that. Sorry. But given the nature of your work, you go places I need to research. I want to visit some other receptions. See what kind of items they use, and what ones OCDR could carry. I'd be your girl Friday. Help haul equipment. Whatever. I just want to scope out the parties."
"A free assistant. That's an offer I don't get very often." He smiled. "Okay, an offer I've never received."
The offer she wanted to make involved a lot of skin, a big bed and a long afternoon. But she didn't know how to go about making that type of suggestion without blushing or laughing. . .or both. So this was her next best option.
"So, what do you say?" she pressed.
"I say fine. I can't see how having an assistant could hurt anything. It would be fun."
"Great. So, when's your next booking?"
"Saturday." He took a business card out of his pocket and began to write, then handed it to her. "Why don't I pick you up and we'll ride out together."
Morgan glanced at the card, then stuffed it in her purse. She scribbled her address on a napkin. "That's great. What time?"
"It's a four o'clock wedding. So, about two? Photographing weddings is about more than just taking pictures at the ceremony and reception. Our day starts with photographing the bride getting ready, the groom, the attendants, and proceeds from there. It makes for a long day."
