by Dawn Atkins
"Certainly. Fine." Now his voice held a chill.
She was about to get the telemarketer brush-off. She'd bungled the pitch. "Thank you for your time, Neil. I hope we'll work together one day soon," she said, then finished with their slogan. "And when you think business, think Business Advantage."
"You bet, Erin," Armbruster said on a sigh and hung up before she could correct her name again.
Ariel fought discouragement. Should she have backed down at his first hesitation? No. Persistence was key, Trudy had said in her last you-can-do-it pep talk in London. Gentle persistence.
She'd been gentle, right? But the slogan had been overkill. Oh, hell. She typed up the results of the call, then went to the next name on the list—Kids' World … growing childcare business. Owner … Rachel Hardy. Forty-ish, two kids of her own. Ready for expansion. Wants a family-friendly company. Suggest staff retreat to devise a vision statement and core values.
Ariel took a deep breath, closed her eyes, visualized the conversation to a successful conclusion, then dialed the number. She'd barely gotten into her pitch when Rachel Hardy interrupted her to say she was about to sell the company. Okay, no problem. Ariel made a note to call the new owner in a month.
Next there was a law firm, followed by a chain of martial arts studios, a growing electronics firm, a sign-making company and a wellness center. All dead ends. Then two disconnected phones.
Two more to try and that would be the last of Trudy's leads. Ariel's heart tightened. Don't panic. Her next task would be to call their former clients, focusing on the ones she'd worked with, to see if they needed help or could refer her to other companies. After that she'd have to really start cold. A flutter of despair shot through her and she realized she was chewing her lip again.
Forcing a smile on her face—a smile shows in your voice—she made the last two calls. A "maybe" and an "out of town for two weeks." Okay. It was a start. She put down the phone and realized she was dripping with anxious sweat. And she'd only been at this for an hour.
Jake should return any minute and they'd get her things out of storage. In the meantime, she'd clean up the kitchen. Under the sink she found a glorious cache of cleaning products and set to work…
Forty-five minutes later, she was oiling the antique wooden table when Jake returned, his faced flushed, his upper body gleaming with perspiration.
"What the hell happened?" Jake said, surveying the living room and kitchen, hands on his hips, looking baffled.
She followed his gaze. Every surface not covered by drop cloths gleamed. "I cleaned up a bit."
"It smells like a hospital in here."
"That's the chlorine in the mildew remover." She'd had time to rearrange the items in the cupboards so they made more sense, and cleared a space in the living room for her temporary office.
"A bit? I think those white cupboards used to be blue."
"So, can we get the truck now?"
"Absolutely. Let's go before you alphabetize the spices."
She glanced at her watch. "I'd like to be back by two so I can make some more calls."
"Whatever." Jake looked dazed by the improvements. She grabbed a clipboard, paper and a pen, so she could make notes for the promotional brochure for which she'd want quotes from former clients. When they got back, she'd start on those calls. She was being efficient, at least.
Until she put herself in laid-back Jake's hands. He was helpful, of course. Strong as an ox, he effortlessly loaded the furniture and boxes from the storage spaces into the truck, but he did it in the most leisurely way.
She curbed her natural inclination to issue timesaving orders and tried gentle suggestions. Jake rolled his eyes all the same. Eventually they finished, but her nerves were frazzled and her lip mangled. Then she made the mistake of mentioning she needed office supplies, and Jake insisted on taking her to the store, where he comparison shopped pointlessly with a pretty clerk, while Ariel grabbed computer paper, file folders and other goods.
Then he wanted to stop for lunch—she had to eat sometime, didn't she?—at his favorite falafel stand, where he helped a guy who needed advice on surfing spots. Then he took the long way home in order to show her Playa Linda's best deli, a seafood place with all-you-can-eat shrimp, the best-stocked video place, a bar with great live music and another with unbelievably cheap beer.
He seemed to think he was helping her feel at home, but each moment put her into a tighter knot. The bumpy truck made it difficult to write, but she managed to make a few shaky notes.
When they finally off-loaded the last box at the cottage, it was four-thirty. She should be able to make at least two calls before five. She went straight for the phone.
"Come with me to take the truck back to Ed," Jake said. "He's got a great garden. We can sling back a brew and hang."
"I have calls to make," she said.
"Come on. The work day's over."
"Not yet," she said grimly, looking at her watch. "I have twenty-six minutes." She'd never sleep tonight if she didn't accomplish something. Without even pausing for courage, she dialed Wendy's Cookies … and got voicemail. Wendy had gone for the day. She left a detailed message and hung up to find Jake standing behind her, holding out a beer. "Drink. It'll take the edge off your voice."
"Edge? I have an edge?" she asked, hearing it herself. "An edge and a glint … doesn't sound good." She took the beer and a long swallow.
"I think the idea is to attract business, not tackle it to the ground."
She forced herself not to snap at him—he was trying to be helpful—and said, "How about if you stick with construction, and I'll handle my business?"
"Ouch," he said with a fake wince. Then he grinned and left her standing there holding a beer, watching the muscles of his behind clench and release as he headed away. She took a long, slow swallow of beer. What the heck was wrong with her?
She was still staring after him when he returned with one of his surfboards. "Great waves right now. Care to come with? I could teach you."
"No thanks," she said. "I've got an office to organize."
"Free lessons … roommate special."
"Thanks, but no." The day she took surfing lessons from Jake was the day pigs flew … or she developed a death wish.
"Another time then," he said and trotted down the porch stairs and across the beach, the board under his arm, looking like a poster boy for California sun and fun.
Ariel took another long swig of beer and turned to the phone. Except it was five after five. No more calls today. She wanted to blame Jake, but Jake was just being Jake. She'd voluntarily put herself in his hands and he'd dragged her into his surfer dude time-space continuum. She realized that not only had she accomplished little today, Jake hadn't lifted a trowel on the cottage or made a call about another place to live.
She tried to think calming thoughts of oceans and timelessness and how things just worked out. But she wasn't Jake and for her nothing worked that way.
* * *
Chapter 6
«^»
After some damn fine surfing, Jake took the truck back, then caught up with Brice and his buds for some poker and big talk on Lady's Day, Brice's boat. He worked for Brice at his shop, Water Gear, teaching scuba and sailboarding, captaining charters and manning the cash register on the rare occasions Brice would leave his pride and joy in someone else's hands.
Around nine, content with a hundred in winnings and the light buzz from the Coronas he'd drunk, Jake headed home. Brice had offered him two new charter gigs. That was good. His income had gotten erratic lately. He'd have to hustle to keep busy through the month. And where would he live when he finished the cottage? Now and then the idea of a j-o-b like he'd joked about to Ariel almost sounded like a relief. Those were the moments when he wondered if he was losing his edge.
Then he would think of his dad's harangues about stability and dependability and locking on your target, and he'd feel that stubborn need to throw open all the doors, consider a myriad of c
hoices, take nothing for granted—anything to avoid becoming the grim, duty-bound rock his father was. Hell, maybe he'd move to Florida—once he got Penny's trip squared away, that is. Lots of charters in Florida. His friend Dave talked about it all the time.
His life was fine. If he ever doubted it, he could imagine life as his roommate lived it. Anxious and frantic, afraid to rest for one minute. Work was her god. He could never live like that. Even if he did give up and get a job—teaching or something that fit his recreation education degree—he'd make sure to enjoy life. Ariel fought enjoyment like it was dangerous.
He wondered if she was asleep by now. All that nervous energy surely had worn her out. She was so jumpy it put his teeth on edge.
When they'd picked up her junk from storage, she was trying to be polite when she made her "suggestions" and "recommendations" and "it might be more efficient ifs," but the way she chewed her lip, gritted her teeth and the sparks in her eyes told him she was dying to issue a few commands. "Put that here, this there and make it snappy." God, he'd wanted to just kiss her into oblivion … or a different kind of energy anyway.
Instead, he'd deliberately slowed down, teaching her by example how to relax. He'd shown her the high points of town, but her smile looked pasted on the whole time.
She was her own worst enemy. And very different from the women he spent time with. His women traveled light in life. They had jobs, mostly, not careers. A few were models or flight attendants with free time to spend on the beach and superficial interests. They liked company for dinner and clubbing—he was a decent dancer—and easy conversations. The sex was pleasant and varied. And that was fine with him.
Ariel, on the other hand, was a force—always in motion. Headed somewhere. She didn't care if it was the wrong where, she was headed there. He frowned. He wasn't sure he liked coming home to bustle and rush in the beach house.
On the other hand, he kind of liked that she'd spiffed up the place. He didn't mind order—he just didn't see it as worth his time. He realized he was picking up speed, hurrying home in case she was still awake. It bugged him the way his body paid attention to her whenever she was around. The appeal of the forbidden, no doubt.
He found Ariel asleep in her "office" in the front room, her cheek on her desk, lamplight spilling over her dark hair, giving it streaks of golden brown. Her perfume rose to him, a light floral something that hung in his head.
She'd set up her desk and bookcase, filled it with books and binders, had her computer in place, moved the kitchen phone onto the desk. Hell, she even had file folders all labeled. He'd tried to tell her to wait until he got the sunporch done, but she wouldn't hold still. All his construction gear was lined up against the far wall in what looked like height order. Lord.
Maybe he'd be better off moving out, rather than put up with this little control fiend. Except she looked so cute, her hair curving across her pale face, her hands resting on the desk, a pen under one. She'd fallen asleep still working. The lamplight glowed on her unpainted nails and graceful fingers.
He angled his head to read what she'd been writing. Looked like two lists—"business todo" and "personal to-do." Near the bottom of the personal list, written in all caps, he made out the words, Pin Jake down about moving out. Tighten construction timetable. With several exclamation marks.
Lord, he'd made her list of chores. He was a little wounded. He'd done nothing but cater to the woman and all she wanted was him done and out.
He caught sight of his name at the bottom of the personal list—get Jake thank-you gift, followed by a reggae band he loved and an album he didn't yet have. She'd' perused his CD collection—probably alphabetized it, while she was at it. Still, that was thoughtful of her.
Then he saw the last thing on her to-do list—Don't let fear rule. Keep on keeping on—and his heart filled with tenderness. The poor thing had fallen asleep making some frantic list of what she had to do, scared to death the whole time.
He pulled up a chair to watch her breathe. In sleep, the tension in her face eased and he saw that her cheeks were round and smooth as a young girl's. Her lashes formed dark semi-circles on her cheekbones and her eyelids quivered—she was dreaming. Probably something terrible about sand blowing into her fax machine. She had a long, delicate neck and he watched her pulse beat in the soft hollow at the base of her throat. He had the sudden urge to press his lips there, feel the beat of her heart against his mouth.
As if she'd sensed his thoughts, her eyes flew open and she sat up, the paper sticking to her cheek. "Oh. Jake," she said softly, then brushed away the paper. "I fell asleep."
"You're working too hard."
She shook her head and smiled lazily, looking a little silly. She worked so hard at being efficient and competent it tickled him to see her foggy and foolish.
"You need sleep," he said. "Even business geniuses go to bed every night."
Fuzzy, she merely nodded and stood, then tipped to the side. He helped her upright and guided her forward. She let him walk her into her room, where she fell into the bed, burrowing into the pillow. This bed was much bigger and softer than the one in the guest room. He had the overwhelming urge to join her, hold that firm little body against him and make love to her.
Get a grip, Renner. She'd completely freak at the suggestion. And even if he did talk her into it, she'd probably tense up into a knot of performance anxiety and not enjoy a minute of it. He'd have to work his way off her to-do list—maybe get some work done on the cottage. He'd like to smooth the way for Penny to come out for a visit, too.
* * *
The next day, Ariel woke to her alarm, then heard the sound of rhythmic scraping and the blues. Jake was working. And early, too. That was good news. And she'd managed to sleep a full eight hours. More good news. She picked up the aroma of rich coffee. Mmm.
She showered and dressed and found Jake on a ladder scraping wallpaper off the living room, looking gorgeous, of course, in low-riding shorts, whistling along with B.B. King.
"Hi," she called up to him.
"Lox and bagels in the kitchen," he said. "There's more fruit, too. Hope you don't mind fixing it yourself. Work, work, work." He indicated the tattered wall covering.
"Great job," she said, grinning. Things were definitely looking up.
Three hours later, Ariel hung up the phone from another of her former clients. A solid maybe. She'd detected weariness in the man's voice—anything to get you off the phone—but that was all right. It was a possibility.
She'd downloaded some hints on closing sales from the Internet and practiced a couple of calls in the mirror, and that had helped her. All she had to do was get her foot in the door. Then she'd be fine.
In between calls, she'd devised a promotional package using the quotes former clients had been happy to give her while she probed their future needs for her services. She was thorough. At least that. And now she had a maybe.
She felt a little better.
She looked up to watch Jake stretch high to scrape the stubborn wallpaper, admiring the taut muscles from fingertip to toe. Each ripple trailed down his body like electricity. Gawd, he looked good. If only he'd wear painter overalls so he wouldn't be so distracting.
Lucky lay under the ladder, earning all manner of bad luck, panting, sand outlining him like the chalk at a crime scene.
She'd had to ask Jake to turn down the music twice, but then he started whistling. She made him stop every time she made a call. The rest of the time, she tried to ignore the noise.
Footsteps thumped on the porch. Someone pounded on the door. Jake turned at the sound—and caught Ariel still watching him. He grinned.
Hot with blush, she jerked her gaze away, then went to the door.
Two little boys and a twenty-something blonde stood with a mesh bag of sand toys on the porch. "Will you help us with a castle?" the woman called to Jake, barely glancing at Ariel in the doorway.
"How about it, Ariel?" Jake said, descending the ladder. "We could use a break, cou
ldn't we?"
"Not me," she said, returning to her desk. "And you either. Don't you need to buy the paint and tile I picked out?"
"You promised," one of the boys said to Jake. Jake looked at Ariel as plaintively as the kid was looking at him.
"Oh, go ahead," she said, irritated that he'd put her in the position of being the buzz kill.
"I'll meet you on the beach in a sec, guys," Jake said.
The boys hoorayed, the blonde smiled, and all three turned and headed down the steps.
Ariel shut the door and looked at him. "Why do I feel like the mean mom here?"
"Sorry. Don't worry about the painting. It'll get done."
"In my lifetime?"
"I won't let you down, Ariel."
"This is, what, the watched painter never paints?"
"Not bad. Good to hear a joke come out of you. You've been kind of intense on the phone."
"Intense?" Did she sound desperate?
"Maybe you should come with me."
"I can't." She sighed.
"Well, at least take your laptop and the phone onto the porch and get some fresh air."
"I'm all set right here."
"Think of it as a demo of the beach-office concept. If you hate it, fine." He grabbed her phone and the folder she'd been working on and headed for the kitchen door to the sunporch.
She groaned, but gave in, unplugging her computer and carrying it out to where Jake was brushing off two chairs with a paint rag. He gestured for her to sit on one. She did and he placed the other in front for her feet.
She put her laptop on her knees.
"Voila! Beachside office," he said.
"Thanks," she said, then glanced at the pile of ripped screen.
"I'll take care of that." He gathered up the pile and carried it down the stairs to plop near the trash barrel. When he returned he paused to admire her sitting on the porch. "See. Just because you're working, doesn't mean you can't be comfortable."
"I suppose not," she said.
"We'll be right over there if you change your mind," he said, pointing to where the two kids and the blonde had begun to dig in the sand.
