Reading my gesture perfectly, Mia shot me another look, this one grateful. Then she released my hand and resumed her part in the discussion at the table. As her family argued good-naturedly over seating arrangements for Marc and Aysia’s fast-approaching wedding—even laughingly asking me if I thought someone named Aunt Wanda would throw a fit if she had to sit beside cousin Freddy—my desire for Mia tapered off to a dull roar. There and ready, but in the background now. I couldn’t say the same for the other warmth. It was still thumping in time with my heart. Still making my smile hang on my lips, even when there was no good reason for it to be there. It was all well and good until I figured out why. Which took me a stupidly long time, actually.
I made it through the end of lunch. Through what was apparently a Diaz family tradition of each person choosing a dessert, then the whole table sharing bite-sized pieces. Even through a slow round of coffees.
It wasn’t until I sat back with my mug in hand, that it hit me.
I liked every damned thing about my insane Tuesday itinerary. Buying the soap with Mia in mind. Following Mia to the bathroom and using that small space to my advantage. Sitting with Mia and her family, and knowing I was carrying a secret for her, however small.
Then, as I took a satisfying slurp of my coffee, Mia’s honeyed gaze came my way. She was laughing at something her brother had said, but the muted heat in her eyes was all for me. The same heat I had banked. I wondered if she felt the other warmth too. I hoped she did. And it really hit me.
It’s not the crazy Tuesday you like, you idiot. What you like is her. Mia Diaz.
And like a giant chickenshit, I panicked. I excused myself to use the bathroom, then hid in the hall beside it instead.
Logically, I knew I was being ridiculous. Of course I liked Mia. If I hadn’t, I sure as hell wouldn’t have spent the night with her. It had to be all the other family shit that got to me. The laughs and private jokes. The genuine enjoyment of each other’s company, and worse…how they made me feel like a part of it without knowing a damned thing about me. The last bit made my palms sweaty.
How the fuck could I possibly conduct a normal business transaction with her?
For the first time in the ten years since I’d first come up with the idea for Burke Holdings, I questioned whether I was making the right decision. The self-doubt made the chickenshit-ness spread like a rash.
Slowly—knowing completely what a jackass I was being—I took a cautious step back into the dining area. Mia and her family were engrossed in one another, so I made a stealthy move toward our server, quickly picked up the whole tab, then took a breath and yanked my phone from my pocket and stuck it to my ear. Feigning a work call, I moved toward the Diazes. I mouthed what I hoped was a sincere apology, then cut out of the restaurant so fast that a cartoon blur probably followed in my wake.
* * * *
Mia
I was mad. Punch something mad. Insides coiled up and ready to explode mad. And it made no sense. Ethan had been nothing but nice to my family. He’d been nothing but nice to me. And paying for the entire lunch? It was unexpected and generous. And it annoyed me to no end. In fact, it made my insides pucker with sour irritation that hung on. Long after the meal was done. Long after I’d gone by my store to finish off the day, and even long after I’d taken what was supposed to be a relaxing bath.
Even now, as I flopped down on my couch in my pj’s, I couldn’t help but give the clock below the TV a glare. It was near eight o’clock, and I knew Ethan had to be boarding his plane about now. Likely in first class. Maybe with one of those little eye covers over his face. I could picture him being the do-not-disturb type on a plane.
“Right,” I muttered, viciously driving my finger into the remote control to change the channels. “And if I were sitting next to him, I’d snap the elastic on the side of his mask just to spite him.”
After a few more seconds of searching in vain for something to watch, I gave up on the TV and decided just to sit and stew.
My parents had liked Ethan. Aysia had too. Even Marcelo had grunted a grudging acknowledgement that they’d had a good time talking about their shared interest in sustainable resources.
And truthfully, I’d enjoyed having him in the otherwise empty seat at our table. He fit.
Even when he was talking in earnest about his company, and how it all worked, I felt comfortable. I’d been surprised at how forthcoming he was, actually, and found myself listening intently, curious about the process. In my head, he was a ruthless product hunter. A destroyer of small businesses. I hated that I was impressed, and I hated that I could see how he’d become as successful as he was.
The Ethan who laughed when my dad told him about how, as a toddler, I’d plugged one of our toilets with a rubber duck? That guy was a long way off from the man who’d sent me the demanding emails. The one who’d refused to take no for an answer. That guy hadn’t made me smile. He wouldn’t have made me smile. Or made me warm from the inside out as he caught on to the way my family tiptoed around me and kept his mouth shut about it.
I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers and tried to steer my mind in another direction. It was impossible. My brain wanted to analyze every detail. To write a compare and contrast essay. Or to jot down a list. Email Ethan versus In-person Ethan.
“Who wore it better?” I murmured with a self-directed eye roll.
But then I paused. Why not make a list? I mean, sure. It might not serve any real purpose. After all, Ethan was already on his way back to Toronto. And that kind of meant I won already. But the frothy anger didn’t show any sign of dissipating, and the thought of putting my feelings down somewhere had an undeniable appeal. It was organized and logical. Just how I liked things.
And it might even be therapeutic, I decided as I reached for my laptop.
But when I punched in my password and saw my email open and waiting, I couldn’t quite stop myself from doing something else instead. I clicked through to the blocked senders list and found Ethan’s name. I highlighted it. Then clicked again. Right away, every deleted email came up in their own little window. I bit my lip a little guiltily and tapped one at random.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Meeting
Dear Ms. Diaz,
It appears that we’ve somehow got off on the wrong foot. I truly think you’re making a mistake in not hearing me out. Could we schedule something on the phone?
E. B. Burke.
I read it. Then reread it. The words didn’t change, obviously. But they didn’t sting the way they had when I first read them, either. I narrowed my eyes and looked for something more.
More what? But I answered my own silent question as quickly as I asked it. More likely to have made you throw a mug?
I distinctly recalled it was the third time he’d told me I’d made a mistake. It was one of the last ones to come through before I set his address to bounce, and it was also one that’d tipped my temper over the edge. And it was only three lines long.
Feeling a need to justify my reaction—both then and now—I flipped back to the list of emails. I clicked another, this one farther up. I scanned it quickly, pleased to find that it was longer winded, and far easier to see as an insult. It talked about my lack of experience and lack of reach. About how much more Burke Holdings could do for me than I could do for myself. High-handed. That’s what it was. And it made me feel a little better about my current, riled-up state.
But that’s not really why you’re mad, are you?
I admitted to myself that it was true. While I still had zero interest in selling my business to Ethan, the emails and the demands weren’t responsible for my agitation now. This was something else entirely.
Frustrated, I started to shove the laptop closed. But my elbow bumped the arm of the couch, and instead of shutting the comp
uter, I accidentally opened up a reply window. I only stared at it for a second before my fingers started flying over the keyboard, drafting a letter that I had no intention of ever sending.
It took me a good twenty minutes, but I outlined everything that made me seethe. The bitterness at being assumed to be a bad businesswoman. The way sleeping with him felt like a deception, even though I was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t purposeful. How annoyed I was at myself for being glad he followed me into the bathroom. The fact that he’d charmed my family, and pulled me under the same spell. And how he’d more or less walked out without a word, paying for the meal like some kind of consolation prize.
The jerk.
When I was done writing, I actually did feel a little better. Not perfect, but at least like a small weight had been lifted. But as I sat back to read over what I’d written, my heart sank. Because I knew the truth. While everything in the letter was honest, it was really the very last thing that upset me the most.
Why did he leave like that?
I didn’t buy the whole emergency-at-work excuse. Sure, he could’ve had one. But I couldn’t believe that—even with an emergency in play—E. B. Burke would just walk away from a deal he wanted so badly. A deal he’d been willing to travel across the country to get. At the very least, it seemed like he should’ve threatened to follow up. Maybe stalked me to my two-bedroom rancher and sat outside my house sending in hostile takeover vibes.
I sneaked a glance out the window. My street was devoid of vibes. Almost disappointingly so.
Fighting an uncomfortable, itchy ache in my throat, I turned my attention back to the letter. I highlighted everything except the last bit, then made myself type again. This time, it only took two minutes. And while every word in the other letter was true, the new shorter one felt far more authentic.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: Meeting
Ethan,
I just wrote you a two-page email full of the reasons I resent you. Why I can’t stand you. Why you made me throw a mug. Then I deleted it all. Because I don’t hate you. I barely know you. But I’m still sure that if I were being really honest, I’d have admit that what I do know…it makes me like you quite a bit. And I’m sad that you left, because I wouldn’t have minded getting to like you even more.
Lu.
It was a simple email. To the point. Maybe a little embarrassing in that it was a grown woman’s crush confession. But it did the job. My anger was gone. Morphed into disappointment and intensifying the ache in my throat.
I swallowed, trying to rid myself of the feeling, and reached across the keyboard to hit delete. But just as my finger hit the right spot, a faraway siren wailed to life, startling me. My hand jerked, and the keyboard clicked where the soft part of my palm hit it. And all I could do was stare down in horror as the email flew off to Ethan’s inbox.
Chapter 9
Ethan
Normally, the mid-conversation ping of an incoming notification on my cell phone would’ve annoyed me. Right then, I welcomed it as an excuse to hurry along the argument with my assistant—who clearly thought I’d been abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person—so I could get my way and hang up. My headache was bad enough without adding something else to the mix.
“Julie, I need to move this along,” I said. “I’ve got a message coming in, and at this time of night, it could be urgent. So if you could just take care of the rebooking, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m still confused, Mr. Burke,” she replied, her tone agreeing heartily with her statement.
“I can tell,” I replied dryly.
“Did you really miss your flight?”
“You already asked me that, and I already answered you.”
“I know. But…”
“But what?”
“You missed your flight!” The words burst into my ear, and I gritted my teeth.
I didn’t need the reminder. I’d been stunned enough by the fact when I woke up an hour after I should’ve boarded.
Though maybe I should’ve expected it.
After I’d run out of the restaurant—far more embarrassing than missing my flight—things had gone steadily downhill for me. As much as I’d worked at ridding my thoughts of Mia Diaz, it seemed to be an impossible task. The simple acknowledgement of liking her had been enough to throw me for a huge goddamned loop, apparently.
I’d actually had to physically remove myself from her little corner of Vancouver just to stop myself from sitting outside her shop. I’d paid a town car driver an insane amount of money to drive me to Stanley Park, where I’d wallowed in the soggy trees for a few hours. The rain had suited my miserable mood well anyway. What it hadn’t done, though, was help me sort through any of my contradictory thoughts.
When I was sure Mia had to have gone home for the day, I had the car take me to Trinkets and Treasures. I sat outside, staring at the building for a good twenty minutes before coming to my senses. If heading back to the Memory Motel could be called coming to my senses. There, I’d used my phone to search out her home address. Good stalker that I was. I’d stopped just shy of calling the town car back so I could do a creepy drive-by.
Finally, I reached a decision. I’d fly home. Regroup. Get my shit together. Going home, spending some time in the comfort of my own office…it would get Mia Diaz out of my system and give me the recharge I needed. In a few days, I’d come back to Vancouver and pursue Trinkets and Treasures with as much zeal as I pursued everything else. After all, I’d only known Mia for two days. That wasn’t long enough for someone to occupy so much space in my head.
When I got back to the Memory Motel, though, she’d plagued me again. Her head on the pillow. Her speckled skin wrapped in the sheets. Her body beneath me.
Every time I closed my eyes—even for a goddamned blink—she seemed to be there. In fact, when I’d lay back on the bed to take a breather, her full lips and tempting freckles were the last thing I saw before jolting awake—erection back in full force—and realizing the time.
I’d cursed my cock for having a mind of its own. Cursed my dreams for being full of red hair. Then cursed myself for being so weak.
What made you think it’d be that easy to block her out? I chided. Nothing else about this particular venture has been simple.
“Mr. Burke, are you still there?”
Julie’s voice in my ear made my eyes fly open, and I forced my attention back to the phone.
“It can happen,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“What?”
“Missing a flight. It can happen.”
“Not to you.”
I refused to admit that I’d been thinking the same thing for the last two hours. “Except it did.”
“Mr. Burke…”
“Yes, Julie?”
“Is something else wrong?” she asked.
“What could possibly be wrong?” I said back.
Her voice dropped low. “Did you get arrested or something? Because I can call your lawyer.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t get arrested, Julie, and I don’t want my lawyer. I just need a new flight for tomorrow.”
“But you never need a flight rebooked,” she persisted.
I almost laughed. Apparently, it was easier to accept I might be out committing crimes than it was to accept that I’d screwed up.
I made myself keep the chuckle in. “I never rebook flights. I never miss them. I never call you at home, or wake you up in the middle of the night. Not once in six years have I done these things. But I’m doing them now.”
“Mr. Burke—”
“Do I need to call the goddamned airline myself?” I snapped, then immediately felt guilty, and took a breath. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be a complete ass here. And if it’s really incon
venient for you, I will do it myself. Just tell me one way or the other. Please.”
There was utter silence on the other end.
“Julie?” I prodded after a second.
“You never apologize.” She sounded genuinely concerned now.
Add that to the fucking list, I thought, while aloud I said, “Maybe all the rain here in Vancouver’s washed away some of the misery.”
“You’re not miserable.”
“No need for sugarcoating. I know what people think of me.”
“People?” she repeated.
I sighed, wondering if maybe Julie had been replaced by a pod person. While she usually didn’t mind sharing her opinion if asked, she never fought with me. She was hardworking and discreet. Unflappable in the face of my tendency to be a bossy asshole of a boss. She didn’t question my decisions, or call me out on the rare occasion that one of them went awry. She was the perfect assistant. Normally.
“Mr. Burke? Are you—”
“I’m fine, Julie. I’m just not infallible. I was distracted today by a…business matter.”
Do you even believe that yourself?
I ground my teeth together, and added, “Things are back on track. Or they will be. Once I have my flight rebooked.”
At last, she seemed to snap out of her astonishment at my mistake, and her normal efficiency took over. “Right. I’ll do it now. Do you want to stick with the next red-eye?”
I fought an urge to tell her to get me the hell out as soon as possible, and instead said, “I think my preferences are on hold. Whatever direct flight is available. Business class.”
“Of course.”
“Just give me enough time to get some sleep tonight.”
“I will. Do you need me to speak with the hotel?”
Until Dawn Page 10
