Love On My Mind

by Tracey Livesay

  She pulled her hair back, lifted the mass off her neck, and let the curls flow through her fingers. She needed to find a way to get back on track. She’d exhausted the good luck she’d acquired two days before. Why couldn’t the road have stayed closed longer? If she’d had more time, she would’ve found a way to broach the subject of his work again and parlayed that into another opportunity to offer her assistance and gain his trust. It’d been harder than she’d originally imagined. Most of the clients she worked with loved talking about themselves. Not Adam. He didn’t answer questions. He uttered monosyllabic grunts.

  If that didn’t make her job difficult enough, the man was too damn sexy. She trembled remembering his fierce gaze when she’d left his house. Was she a glutton for punishment? Maybe she was crazy? The fact that she found him so compelling made her question her own sanity. Hadn’t she matured past the folly of youth when the only attribute that mattered was a guy’s looks and not his personality? If not, how was she supposed to focus on the job at hand when any contact with him made her toggle between wanting to hit him or kiss him?

  Her phone beeped. She slid it from her back pocket and checked the screen. A text message from Howard.

  Progress?

  Crap.

  Chelsea stared at the phone and massaged her forehead with her available hand. Could there be a worse time to have to report to her boss? She dialed Howard’s number and waited for him to answer.

  “You got my text?” Howard asked, his voice a pleasing, smooth timbre, with no hint of his geographic origin. Or personality.

  “Yes. I was just with him.”

  “You’ve already established contact? That’s impressive.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time. The launch is in three weeks.”

  “Is it doable? Please, tell me things aren’t as dire as Mr. Black insinuated?”

  Oh, they were. But her motivation was stronger than anything in her path. She wasn’t ready to admit defeat. She straightened her shoulders. “It’s challenging, but I’ll get it done.”

  “Good.” His satisfaction purred across the line. “I knew you were the best choice for this assignment. Keep me posted.”

  She disconnected the call and sank onto the oversized sofa. She had to do something . . . and fast. She had less than a month to get Adam ready for the launch, and based on what she’d seen, she’d need every single minute of that time. She thumped her fist against her forehead.

  Think, Chelsea, think.

  How could she get close to him in a way that would give her time to catalogue his personality and figure out how to present him in the best light possible?

  But getting closer to him, spending more time with him, was a double-­edged sword. When she was near him, he gave off this magnetism that made thinking akin to trying to walk through knee-­high mud pits in four-­inch stiletto heels. She couldn’t explain it. God knows it’s not like he was blessed with a charming personality. But his intelligence . . . his intensity . . . his eyes . . . that body . . . Lord, he affected her more than any other man she’d ever met. He threw her off her game and made her lose her equilibrium—­which was crazy considering she was renowned throughout the company for her composure.

  Her phone vibrated against her hand and she jumped. She looked at the caller ID, expecting it to be Howard again and seriously considering ignoring it. She was surprised to see Adam’s name flash on the screen. Speak of the devil.

  “Hello?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” His deep, serious voice slid over her, causing goose bumps to rise on her arms and warmth to throb between her thighs.

  “I am.”

  “You have power?”

  “Yes, thankfully.”

  “Good.”

  Heavy silence blanketed the airways between them. She frowned. Who was she, a young girl talking to her high school crush? Get your head out of the clouds and concentrate on this job. She needed a reason to keep him talking, or at least to get an invitation back to his house.

  “Did they send you any other—­”

  “So, you’re in entertainment—­”

  They both broke off. What did he want to know about her work?

  “I’m sorry. You go,” she said.

  “Being in the entertainment field, you must have direct contact with the media. Have you acquired tips on how to deal with them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Though I appreciate your help with those questions yesterday, I’m now faced with a dilemma. They want me to do more. I wondered if you would be available for further assistance?”

  Adrenaline rushed through her like a fashionista at a couture sample sale. She executed a ­couple of dance moves. “No problem,” she said, careful that her voice did not betray her excitement.

  He paused. “There are other tasks with which I’m having difficulty. Would you consider helping me prepare for the launch I mentioned? I’d be willing to pay you for your time.”

  She gasped. It was the dream outcome. He’d invited her to do the job Computronix had hired her to perform. Short of telling him the truth from the beginning, there was no better scenario.

  “I’d be happy to help you,” she said, visions of corner offices, six-­figure bonuses, and social respectability dancing in her head.

  As for her burgeoning fascination, she needn’t worry. She never mixed business with pleasure. She’d worked with a lot of handsome men and to many of them, flirting was as natural as breathing. She’d resisted them; she’d resist Adam. Her attraction might make her task difficult, but it wouldn’t make it impossible.

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Adam asked when he found Chelsea on his doorstep late Thursday afternoon. This was the fourth time visitors had shown up without notice, and while a part of him acknowledged his annoyance at his inability to no longer control who visited his home, he couldn’t deny the jolt of excitement he experienced at her appearance.

  “I thought that would be obvious,” she said, smiling.

  That jolt was quickly squashed by another swell of annoyance.

  Obvious? Not to him. She stood in his doorway, a black bag slung over her shoulder, looking crisply professional in tan trousers, a white shirt, and an orange sweater. Once again, his white T-­shirt, running pants, and bare feet would be found lacking when compared to her.

  “Guess not,” she muttered, the smile morphing into a frown when he didn’t immediately respond. “May I come in?”

  He stepped back and opened the door farther, allowing her to enter his residence. When she passed, a tremor of awareness shook him. His body clamored to press against hers, magnet to metal. He’d experienced that feeling before, the night of the storm. What did they call that phenomenon? Déjà vu. That could explain his physical reaction.

  If one believed in that nonsense.

  Which he didn’t.

  He shook his head, irritated by the rare, fanciful thoughts invading his way-­too-­busy mind, and closed the door. This was the danger of having her in his space. She abducted his attention from his work and placed it squarely onto her curves. But he’d already decided to assume the risk. He needed her for the HPC and nothing was more urgent.

  He hoped.

  “I wasn’t expecting you until at least Friday.”

  She blinked. “Why Friday? I never specified what day I’d stop by.”

  “You said you’d see me in a ‘few’ days. Few usually denotes three or four and since I last saw you on Tuesday, I didn’t foresee your arrival before Friday.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Are you always so literal?”

  “Not always. Mostly. I’m improving.”

  She stared at him, her lips pursed, then burst out laughing. The sound swirled around him, bubbly and light. She tossed her hair and nudged back curls that, in her merriment, had flown in her face. He allowed a bri
ef smile, unexpectedly pleased that she’d gotten his joke.

  Her eyes widened slightly, then fell to his lips. He stiffened in surprise. He knew that look, had come to recognize it as it traversed the faces of many women and some men in the years since he’d grown into his body. Chelsea wanted him. Though he knew it was scientifically impossible, the air molecules around them seemed to expand and vibrate from the heat between them. Her tongue darted out, leaving a tempting sheen behind on her lips and causing his thumb to tingle. He wanted to reach out and sweep his thumb across her bottom lip before leaning forward and pulling it between his teeth. He tightened his hands into fists at his side.

  It was difficult enough to restrain himself when he believed the attraction was one-­sided, but knowing she wouldn’t spurn his advances . . .

  Just when he felt himself swaying toward her as he lost the battle for control—­God help them both—­she glanced away and cleared her throat. “I spent the past two days settling in,” she said, her gaze skipping around his foyer, before alighting back on his. “I drove down to San Mateo and thought I’d come by before heading home to see if you needed my help today or to get a timetable for when you’d like to begin work.”

  Work. Right. That’s why she was here. That’s why he allowed it. He waved her over to the staircase. “Come on up.”

  In the great room, Chelsea hung her bag from one of his mid-­back bar stools. Needing a moment to seek and settle into composure, he walked over to his desk and took a long drink of water from his glass. Self-­possessed once again, he set it down and turned to face her. “Do you recall my mentioning that Computronix is unveiling a new line?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re doing a presentation and for the first time, I’m participating. I’m not an in-­front-­of-­the-­camera person.” An understatement. “I need help with my demonstration before the media, in addition to drafting answers when I receive new interview questions.”

  “That’s feasible.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Can you tell me about the devices you’re unveiling? Would that include the HPC you’ve mentioned?”

  “Before that, you’ll need to sign this contract.” He handed her the written pledge he’d prepared the day he’d called her.

  This time her laugh rang brittle and coarse. “Good Lord, what is it with you ­people and contracts? You’d think we were discussing issues of national security.”

  Her words gave him pause. He rubbed his beard. “Have you signed another contract recently?”

  She stilled and her eyes widened. “Uh . . . no. Why?”

  He leaned his hip against the counter. “You said ‘you ­people.’ That implies more than one person.”

  “I meant it in the general sense, like business­people,” she said.

  He nodded. That seemed logical. She’d told him she worked in entertainment and because of business Computronix did with a studio four years ago, he knew how secretive movie executives could be when it came to the properties they had in the pipeline. His misgivings eased. “We can’t proceed if you don’t sign the paper.”

  Chelsea reached beneath the flap of her bag and pulled out a pen. With an excessive sweep of her hand, she signed the contract.

  “There.” She slid it down the smooth surface of his counter and he caught it before it floated to the floor. “Now, what is the HPC?”

  He confirmed her signature at the bottom of the page, and then deposited it on his desk. He opened the top drawer and pulled out the small black box. Excitement sparked to life in his body as he handed it to her. “Open it.”

  The corner of her mouth tilted up.

  Those lips. . .

  “Isn’t this a little sudden?” she asked.

  What had he missed? “Excuse me?”

  “Little black box, like an engagement ring . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Oh. As if I were proposing.” He didn’t find her quip amusing. He would never get married.

  She lifted the top and plucked out the device, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?”

  “The HPC.”

  Her eyes widened, giving her an owlish demeanor. “I’m signing secret blood oath documents for something that looks like a Bluetooth headset with a slide antenna attached to its end?”

  “Documents?” he asked, placing emphasis on the s. “I gave you one sheet of paper.”

  She lowered her gaze briefly, and then smiled. “There you go, being literal again. Don’t change the subject. What is this?”

  She wasn’t the first person to comment on his literal-­mindedness and she wouldn’t be the last. He’d been told it was one of his more frustrating traits, but since his move back up the mountain, he hadn’t concerned himself with others’ opinions of him. He beckoned to her and she dropped it in the palm of his hand. “This is the prototype for the HPC, or the Holographic Personal Computer.”

  “This little thing is your next product?”

  “It’s going to change the world. I’ll show you.”

  He moved behind her, his eyes level with the curls on the top of her head. Unable to resist, he inhaled deeply and the rich, alluring fragrance ripped through his body, stirring the hair on his arms and on the nape of his neck. This woman affected him in a manner he found disconcerting. It was neither neat nor tidy.

  Why? What was it about her? And how did he stop it?

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and slid the HPC behind her ear. It sat snugly, similar to a hearing aid. She shivered beneath his fingers.

  “This side piece extends,” he said, his voice gruff. He pulled on the stem until it locked into place with a click, the clear tip protruding 3.2 inches beside her left temple.

  “Now, with a touch . . .” He pressed the button and the small computer transmitted the home page of a popular social networking site onto the air in front of her.

  She jumped, bumping back into him. He grasped her upper arms to steady her.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Indeed,” he said, squeezing her shoulders in response to the reverence decreasing the volume of her voice.

  “Is—­ What—­ Is that—­?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Yes? But . . . where is the computer screen?”

  “It doesn’t require one.”

  “How is that possible? What is it projected on?”

  “The air.”

  “The air? How do you—­?”

  Her hair was fascinating. What harm could come from touching one curl? He succumbed to temptation, watching it stretch from a coil to a spiral before springing back into shape.

  He pulled another one. “This conversation will continue more expeditiously if you refrain from repeating my answer to your preceding question before asking the next question.”

  She turned her head to the side, attempting to glance at him over her shoulder. The HPC projected the image of the website on to his kitchen cabinets. “How does it work?”

  “A broad question. Can you be more specific?”

  She planted her hands on her hips, though she didn’t turn to face him. “Seriously?”

  “I’m trying to ascertain what you want to know. There are many facets to the HPC and I could talk about them for hours. But what if I start with an area that doesn’t interest you and spend the next twenty minutes discussing the use of lasers to excite oxygen and nitrogen atoms, never broaching the subject you actually want—­”

  “Ugh!” she groaned in a theatrical manner. “Fine! How do I post my status?”

  He blinked. Her frustration with him was clear, yet she recognized his point and altered her initial query. No hysterics, no name-­calling, no judgmental pronouncements.

  His pulse escalated. Interesting.

  “Do you see the small keyboard icon in the bottom right corner?”

&nbs
p; She nodded and the image bobbed.

  “Move your right hand in that general location and motion as if to grab it.”

  She paused and he understood her hesitation. He’d found it odd the first time he’d executed the motion. He slid his hand down her arm and moved her hand toward the icon. She curled her fingers and the image glowed.

  “Propel it upward.”

  “What?”

  He thought for a second then said, “Throw it in front of you.”

  She did and gasped when a foot-­long illuminated keyboard appeared before the projection of the website.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Of course. I’m standing behind you.”

  She reached out and touched the image. A letter appeared in the air. She snatched her hand back as if burned.

  “It’s okay. Type.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you to do so if I wasn’t.”

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

  “Adam! I had no idea. I mean, this is incredible. You invented this?”

  He nodded, his chest expanding with pride.

  “You’re a genius!”

  “I know.”

  He tapped the power button on the HPC and the screen dissipated. He took the device off her ear and placed it back in the box on his desk.

  Chelsea faced him, her eyes bright, her lips stretched into a wide grin. “This launch has to be perfect. The HPC deserves nothing less.”

  “Exactly. I’m glad you understand.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll assemble the information you’ll need to compose the speech.”

  This was great. He headed for the storage room where he kept work-­related files. His previous worries had been absurd. He’d get her the specs and she could start drafting—­

  She tugged on his sleeve, halting his progress. “Wait. I’m not writing your speech.”

  He frowned. “You said you would help me. That’s the help I need.”

  She shook her head. “I think there’s been some confusion.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not on my part. I recall our conversation accurately.”