by Nicola Marsh
He hadn’t crossed paths with Harper after he’d spied her looking so forlorn at the back of the hall, and he wanted to apologize again, this time saying it with flowers or chocolates. After a little reconnaissance via the Indian aunties, who knew everything about everyone, he garnered that while Harper was Nishi’s best friend, she also knew Pia and Samira well. He would’ve asked Arun, but the bozo was on his honeymoon with his new wife, hence his impromptu visit to another happy couple.
He knocked on the door and it opened a moment later, revealing a disheveled Rory holding a finger to his lips on the other side.
“Hey, mate, come in, but keep it quiet. Ronnie’s only just gone down for a nap, finally.” Rory rolled his eyes and dragged a hand through his messy hair. “Sleepless night with young Ronald and I’m knackered.”
“You look it,” Manny said, stepping inside and slapping Rory on the back. “Fatherhood suits you, mate. You look like you could do with a shave, a haircut, and a two-week nap.”
“You look like shit too but please, come in anyway.”
They chuckled softly, and after closing the door, Manny followed Rory toward the back of the house, where the family spent most of their time in a sun-filled rumpus room littered with baby paraphernalia, everything from early learning books to brightly colored blocks.
“Can I get you a beer?”
Manny shook his head. “I’m on call later, but you go ahead.”
“Nah, beer will really send me to sleep.” While Rory’s eyes did indeed appear blurry from sleep deprivation, Manny knew the exact second Samira entered the room, because her husband’s eyes lit up.
Manny turned to see Samira looking just as weary as Rory but sporting a glow best worn by a woman besotted with her man.
“Hey, Manny, good to see you.” She crossed the room and gave him a quick hug, before making a beeline for Rory and kissing him full on the mouth.
“Man, you two make me sick with all this mushy, gushy stuff.”
“You’re just jealous I chose this magnificent specimen of manhood over Dr. Dickhead,” Samira deadpanned, and the three of them burst out laughing.
When they’d first met, Samira’s matchmaking Indian mother had been determined to see her only child marry an Indian man, though an Anglo-Indian doctor would suffice. And while Manny never had a genuine spark with the lovely physical therapist, Samira and Rory were a fiery conflagration ready to set alight. Samira had lied to Rory about marrying him according to her mother’s wishes to drive the poor schmuck away deliberately, hence Rory’s jealousy and nickname for him, which the happy couple had let slip one night when the three of them were hanging out at a local Indian vegetarian restaurant.
“I can’t help it if you have exceedingly poor taste in men,” Manny said, with an offhand shrug. “I’ll have you know some women would much prefer brains over brawn.”
Rory bore a startling resemblance to Chris Hemsworth and had turned women’s heads around the country as the host of the newest reality show Renegades. The guy was smart too, considering he held an economics major, but they had fun ribbing each other.
“And some women prefer a guy with both,” Rory drawled, cuddling Samira close, and the three of them laughed again.
“Take a seat.” Samira waved at a chair. “What brings you by? We haven’t seen you in ages.”
“We saw him at the wedding yesterday,” Rory said. “Two doc sightings in a week is two too many.”
Manny flipped him the finger and Rory grinned.
“I’m actually heading to Auckland for a conference and thought I’d stop by because it’s been too long since we hung out.”
Samira studied him, her shrewd glance not missing a trick. “This is about Harper, isn’t it?”
Dammit, sprung.
Feigning nonchalance, he said, “This is about friends who are too busy with their baby to make time for their other friend, so said other friend has to make a trip from the city all the way out to Dandenong.”
“It’s thirty minutes, you dufus, not a plane trip.” Samira sank into the sofa next to Rory. “And cut the BS. I saw you checking out Harper at the wedding.”
And by the cunning glint in her eyes, Samira knew a whole lot more.
“Did Harper tell you what happened?”
“About what?” Samira’s eyes widened in faux innocence, and Manny knew he was busted.
“I acted like a jackass, and though I’ve apologized I want to send her something special.”
“If you think I’m giving you her home address, you’ve got rocks in your head.” She tapped her temple for emphasis. “Besides, Harper’s not one of your bimbos you can screw around with.”
“Harsh, but true,” Rory added, with a grin.
“Do you two ever have a nice word to say about me?”
“No,” Samira and Rory answered in unison, and laughed.
“Pathetic,” Manny muttered, and Samira finally took pity on him.
“Look, the best I can do is give her your number. I’ll explain what you want to do, and it’s up to her whether she wants the contact or not.”
“Fine.” He huffed out a breath. It wasn’t though, because he had acted like an ass from the moment he’d insulted her food presentation to kissing her like a caveman unable to control his impulses, and he seriously doubted he’d hear from the lovely Harper even after Samira gave her his number.
“Mate, take it from an expert in being hung up on a woman: there’s nothing you can do unless she wants you to.” Rory gazed at his wife in open adoration, and for a fleeting moment Manny wondered what it would be like to love a woman that much.
Before sending a silent prayer heavenward that he’d never find out.
As for being hung up on Harper, no way. It wasn’t his style.
So why did the thought of not seeing her again make him wish for something he could barely contemplate?
9
Harper had fully intended to call her dad when she got home from brunch with her mom, but she’d ended up being so drained from the encounter she fell asleep on the sofa.
When her cell rang she jerked awake, hoping it wasn’t her dad because she needed her wits about her to field his usual twenty questions about Lydia. She didn’t recognize the number on the screen and immediately felt guilty for being relieved it wasn’t her dad. She hit the “answer” button.
“Harper Ryland speaking,” she said in her best professional voice. She used her cell for business, and an unknown number, hot on the heels of all her cards vanishing at the wedding, could hopefully mean more work.
“Ms. Ryland, it’s Wayne Storr.”
She didn’t know a Wayne Storr, but the name sounded vaguely familiar.
“Of Storr Hotels,” he added, for clarification, and she sat up straighter.
Storr Hotels was well-known throughout Australia and New Zealand, famous for their quirky rooms, luxe facilities, and high-end dining.
Her pulse raced with the implication of what this call could mean, but she managed to keep her tone well modulated when she responded with, “What can I do for you, Mr. Storr?”
“I was at a wedding yesterday and was highly impressed with the food presentation, so I wanted to call you personally. That was you, yes?”
“Yes,” she parroted, crossing the fingers on her free hand, the one not clenching the cell so tight she hoped it wouldn’t shatter.
“Great. In that case, I would like to offer you a job. I’m opening a new hotel in Auckland, and another in Lake Taupo, and we’re doing a full spread in major travel magazines that will be located in hotels all around New Zealand. We want to showcase the food in our restaurants, and your styling really impressed me, so what do you say?”
Harper wanted to yell, Hell yeah, but she settled for a sedate, “Thanks for the opportunity. If you could forward me the dates, pay scale, and exact locations, t
hat would be great.”
“I have your e-mail from your business card, so I’ll send through all the relevant information, including your remuneration, now. Look it over, let me know if it’s suitable, and we can move forward.”
“Excellent,” she said, glad her voice didn’t come out an excited squeak.
A job like this would catapult her career into the stratosphere and ensure bigger jobs to come. She could move away from the occasional cookbook or newspaper magazine feature and focus on what she really wanted to do: prettying up food for glamorous publications seen the world over.
“I’ll be in touch, Ms. Ryland.”
Before she could say, Call me Harper, he’d hung up, a brusque, busy man who made billions, who’d called her personally rather than getting an assistant to do it because he liked her food so much.
A man who’d just offered her a dream job.
With an excited squeal, she leaped to her feet and did a happy dance halfway between a dab and a floss.
Styling food for Storr Hotels in New Zealand.
A massive coup that could take her business to a whole other level.
Finally, a change in luck.
And a much-needed break from the ongoing drama in her parents’ lives.
10
It had been a day since Samira had texted Harper his number. Manny knew because he’d been there when she’d done it during his impromptu visit.
And nada.
Not that he’d expected an instant response, but his compulsive cell checking in case he’d missed a text was growing old fast. He never acted this way for any woman. And considering her over-the-top reaction to his offhand comments about her food, he should stay away.
Not that he wanted to date her per se; he merely wanted to apologize in a more demonstrative way. Then again, hadn’t a kiss achieved that more than a bouquet or a chocolate box?
Damn, he couldn’t get her out of his head, and rather than packing for his conference, he was sitting here mulling. He’d contemplated getting her information another way but had wanted to leave the proverbial ball in her court. But he’d always been a man of action, and sitting around waiting for anything bugged the crap out of him.
Doing what he should’ve done in the first place, he pulled up the search engine on his phone and typed in “Harper Ryland, food stylist.” It took less than a second for the hits to pop up, and the first one gave him exactly what he wanted: a website. He hit the link and waited for it to load. When it opened, a dramatic photo of chili peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes arranged artistically on an ebony plate popped up. He’d never seen vegetables look so good.
The site had a portfolio button, media, a bio, and contact information. As much as he wanted to read her bio, he clicked on the “contact” button first. And he had it. An e-mail address and a cell number. Bingo.
A lighthearted text would do the trick, hopefully, and before he could second-guess the impulse to contact her, his thumbs tapped at the screen.
DEAR MS. RYLAND,
YOUR WEBSITE IS MOST COMPREHENSIVE AND HANDY FOR PROCURING YOUR NUMBER.
I’M HOSTING A HIGH TEA AND HAVE HAD SOME TROUBLE ICING 50 CUPCAKES.
I HEAR YOU’RE A WHIZ WITH WHIPPED CREAM.
I WOULD BE MOST GRATEFUL FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE IN THIS MATTER.
NOT EVERYONE HAS YOUR LEVEL OF EXPERTISE.
YOUR FRIEND,
MANNY
He grinned as he hit the “send” button. Surely, that would get a reaction out of her?
With the text sent, he hit the “bio” button and sucked in a breath. The professional headshot of Harper standing behind a kitchen bench covered in artistically arranged fruit and savory platters and smiling at the camera had him bringing his cell closer to his face.
She was beautiful, with those expressive blue eyes and wide smile, her makeup flawless and her hair glossy. Definitely more edible than her food.
He speed-read her bio, which didn’t tell him a lot. Born and bred Melburnian, loved food from a young age when she’d baked brownies and made lemonade for a stall outside her house, had worked in catering for high-end social events before following her passion for food styling.
All very interesting, but he wanted to know what else sparked her passion . . .
With a groan, he flung his cell onto the bed and resumed packing. Maybe a week away in New Zealand for a medical conference on the latest and greatest ER advances would be just what the doctor ordered?
The fact he was resorting to lame puns even in his own head reinforced his need to get away and stop dwelling on a woman for the first time in forever.
11
Harper had always had a thing for hotels.
Ever since she was little, her parents would take her away with them wherever they went. They’d been on family holidays to Singapore, Bali, and Vanuatu, and while those trips had been great, she’d enjoyed the staycations in posh Melbourne hotels just as much. She’d loved everything about those long-weekend stays, from ordering indulgent room service to the tiny toiletries, from crisply tucked sheets to pay-per-view movies.
So as she stepped into the foyer of the new Storr Hotel in Auckland, she exhaled in relief, like she’d come home. Glancing around the opulent lobby, she didn’t know where to look first. The funky curved stainless steel reception desk took pride of place along the far wall, which was covered in large asymmetrical wooden panels. A turquoise bar and aluminum-clad terrace to her right looked like the perfect place to chill with a drink while waiting for check-in. The striking red sofas and stylish white leather seats curved around low-slung Carrara marble coffee tables, while lush green plants invited the outside in.
She loved anything esthetically pleasing, and this hotel delivered. She inhaled, allowing the intoxicating smell of paint and new floor coverings to permeate her lungs, and knew this job could be the start of something big for her.
The hotel had opened last week, and she’d read rave reviews online. The restaurant, one of many high-end eateries around the world bearing the name of famous Scottish chef Jock McKell, had local diners flocking, and the thought of styling food for the major magazine campaign Wayne Storr wanted had her subduing an urge to dance a jig right in the middle of this plush foyer.
Jock McKell had been at the hotel opening, but she doubted she’d get to meet him. Probably just as well, as she’d had a major crush on the fifty-something chef ever since she’d started working in the food industry, and she’d rather not make a fool of herself when styling his food for photography was so important. She’d made enough of a fool of herself with that whipped cream incident at Nishi’s wedding, and Manny’s text on her cell had been burning a hole in her pocket since she’d received it four days ago.
She’d toyed with responding but couldn’t come up with something that sounded as witty and lighthearted as his text. She’d never been any good at trading quips, and the fact that she’d embarrassed herself so totally with him made composing a response even harder.
She’d half expected him to send a follow-up text, but her phone had remained annoyingly silent. Then again, isn’t that what she wanted? She needed to focus on doing a kick-ass job here and not dwell over a dashing doctor who’d annoyed the hell out of her but kissed like a dream.
After checking in and dumping her stuff in a room with a view of the impressive Sky Tower, she grabbed her laptop and headed for the function room where she’d be styling the food tomorrow. The hotel had several large banquet rooms they used for conferences, and judging by the number of men and women wearing immaculate suits with lanyards around their necks and heading toward the dining room, there must be a conference on now.
The head chef was waiting for her in the function room, and after introductions, he took her through the rundown for tomorrow: the order in which he’d be cooking dishes, the preparation times between each for photography, and any last-minute sp
ecifications from Jock McKell himself.
Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck as the implications of what she had to do set in, but the chef assured her the assistant they’d assigned her, a woman named Kylie, was experienced with food styling and the job would proceed smoothly.
However, she’d feel a lot more comfortable once she holed up in her room and studied up on Jock’s green-lipped mussels with garlic and parsley, rack of lamb with red wine jus, whitebait fritters, and stewed feijoa ice cream parfait. She knew real inspiration wouldn’t hit until she had the food in front of her tomorrow, but she always liked to prepare by studying various presentation methods online.
She’d touch base with the assistant too, because while she trusted the chef, she wanted to make sure there were no nasty surprises tomorrow.
After thanking the chef, she headed back to her room, where she typed Kylie’s number into her cell and pressed “call.” When the call switched to voice mail after ten rings, she left a message asking Kylie to call her back and hung up, trying to ignore the niggle in her gut. There could be any number of reasons why Kylie didn’t answer: she was in the middle of a job, she had an appointment, she wasn’t near her cell. But the chef had said Kylie was expecting her call and was free all afternoon, prepping for the job.
She was being silly. Kylie would call back and everything would proceed smoothly tomorrow.
She’d make sure of it.
12
As medical conferences went, this one had been more interesting than most. Manny liked keeping abreast of the latest updates in emergency medicine, and the speakers at this conference had been some of the best from around the world. Advances in treatment for acute pneumonia, deep vein thrombosis, upper gastrointestinal bleeding, prophylactic negative pressure wound therapy, and croup had kept him riveted for the last seventy-two hours, but he looked forward to having the next few days off.
