Artistic License

by Elle Pierson

  She did. She was ten times more annoyed on his behalf than she would have been by a slur to her own appearance.

  Did he get that kind of comment all the time?

  Too late, she realised that Sean was looking at her with the dawning incredulous delight of a tabloid reporter who had just stumbled over the scoop of the season in his own backyard.

  “Well, well,” he said. For a moment, he reminded her so much of Dale at his most irritating that she had an inappropriate desire to kick him in the shins.

  Seizing her arm, he pulled it gallantly through the crook of his elbow and began to tug her to where Mick stood scowling at them. “Look what I found,” Sean announced with misplaced pride, as if Sophy was an inanimate object he’d personally unearthed to add to the collection. “I understand you two already know each other?”

  The question was positively saturated with innuendo.

  Mick’s return look was glacial. “Aren’t you supposed to be in conference with London?” he asked before nodding stiffly at Sophy. “Good morning, Sophy.”

  How warm and sincere. She might be the most despised of his maiden aunts.

  “Did you come for another look at the exhibition?” he asked, keeping his attention firmly away from Sean’s growing grin.

  Sophy ventured eye contact, and was both relieved and stomach-flutteringly nervous to see that the roiling emotions in his dark gaze entirely belied the impassivity of his voice.

  “Ryland shanghaied her for a meet-and-greet,” Sean answered for her cheerfully. “He wanted to play the grateful Lord-and-Master with the worthy subject.”

  If Sophy had ever smart-assed about her boss like that, it was ten to one that he would have been standing right behind her. She couldn’t resist an anxious peer over her shoulder. Nobody else was in hearing range of Golden Boy’s wise-cracks. Figures. He was definitely another Dale.

  “Where is Ryland?” Mick ignored his friend’s disrespectful comments with an air of resignation.

  Before Sean could reply, the pager on Mick’s belt beeped, and he unsnapped it and read the message. “Never mind,” he said grimly. “I have to go. Can you hold the fort here for a few minutes?” He looked at Sophy, started to speak, and then hesitated. “I’ll see you later?” he queried at last.

  She nodded wordlessly and watched him walk away.

  “And in the meantime,” Sean sounded like a large panther purring in the sun, “how about you and I get to know each other a little better?”

  Still holding her arm, he patted her hand, his fingertips lingering on her knuckles. His eyes were also on his friend’s retreating back.

  Mick, just about to disappear through the door, didn’t bother to turn his head as he spoke. “How about you find some work to do, and keep your hands to yourself?”

  The dry suggestion seemed to cap Sean’s satisfaction with the turn of events. Before he could commence an interrogation, Sophy did what she always did in awkward social situations.

  She excused herself to make a wholly unnecessary visit to the bathroom.

  She was a seasoned pro at taking interminable amounts of time to smooth her hair and reapply lipstick. She could probably string it out long enough that it would be almost time to meet Ryland for coffee.

  On the minus side, Sean might think that she had an embarrassing intestinal dilemma.

  She was weighing the options when she noticed there was a muddy paw print on the hem of her dress – and the paper towel dispenser was empty. Damn.

  Going into the end cubicle to grab a handful of toilet paper, she didn’t immediately pay attention when the bathroom door open and multiple pairs of feet clattered in. The doors of adjacent cubicles banged shut.

  “Is Sean bringing his one night stands to work now?” asked a voice in spitefully amused, carrying accents.

  Sophy froze, still partially hunched over the dispenser.

  A second woman replied, sounding torn between chastisement and humour, “I don’t know. I actually got the impression she was here with Mick.”

  There was a brief silence, punctuated by the sound of unrolling paper, and then a disbelieving snort.

  “You’re kidding. Is he seeing someone?”

  “Hey, you said yourself he was decent in bed.”

  Sophy’s fist closed tight, crumpling the paper in her grip.

  The first woman laughed. Her voice was an extremely pleasant contralto, which made the impact of her words all the more cruel.

  “Well, you can’t fault the body or the moves. Shame about the face,” she said, and added crudely, “I’d probably give him another go. If he stayed in the back or the lights were off.”

  “Jen, you’re such a bitch.” Her friend was stifling snickers.

  Amidst the sounds of flushing and running tap water, they joked back and forth, comparing their nights out in the weekend. Their attention was thankfully diverted from her, but Sophy caught a glimpse of them in the vanity mirror as they left and was unsurprised to recognise Mick’s female colleagues.

  She stood where she was for some time, feeling a bit sick.

  When she made her way back out into the foyer, Sean immediately corralled her. “There you are! Listen, Ryland is all done with his con… Sophy?” Sean bent and peered at her, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

  He hesitated and cast a meaningful glance at the ladies’ room. “If you’re not feeling well…”

  Sophy looked unseeingly at him. She touched her hair, turned slightly. Her movements were absent; she wasn’t quite sure what to do. “Um,” she said. “I don’t – I think…”

  “Here, come and sit down,” Sean said at once, urging her toward a pair of priceless Regency armchairs that probably weren’t intended as actual seating.

  “Sean.” She faltered. “Um. Your workmates… Jen?”

  Sean came to a dead halt, his face changing rapidly. He suddenly looked at least five years older and considerably more competent, the playboy persona temporarily shelved. “Jennifer Nolan?” he asked sharply. “Sophy, did Jennifer say something to you?”

  “No.” Oh God. She didn’t know whether to turn and bolt, or turn and grab the witch by the hair. “No. She just… She…”

  “Whatever Jennifer told you…”

  “Jennifer?”

  Sophy’s heart thumped. She swung around.

  There was a dull flush on Mick’s cheekbones as he glared at Sean and bit out, “Jesus, did you –”

  “No –” Sophy began hastily, and Sean spoke over her.

  “Of course I didn’t tell her,” he snapped. “I think Jennifer ambushed her.”

  “No –”

  “What?” Mick turned on her incredulously. “Did she –”

  “She didn’t say anything,” Sophy burst out, her fingers knotting and unknotting nervously. “Not to me. I…I overheard…”

  “Fuck.”

  Mick’s fists were balled. She wasn’t sure which emotion was dominating his expression: the anger, the defensiveness, or the bone-deep mortification.

  He was so hurt. She wanted to cry.

  “Mick, did she… Did you… I don’t…”

  The last vestiges of his control snapped.

  “Jesus Christ.” The words stabbed out like shards of broken glass. “I know that we’re friends, Sophy,” he said, and the sarcasm was awful, “but we hardly know each other. This is none of your fucking business.”

  For the second time in that hotel, she couldn’t breathe.

  “Mick.” Sean’s voice was sharp. He reached out a hand toward her. “Sophy…”

  She could hear him swearing as she turned and fled.

  She didn’t look back at Mick.

  When she got home and let herself into the house, her fingers were still shaking around the key.

  How pathetic was that?

  The mystery box was still sitting in the hallway, but the scarf was gone. She gave the package a cathartic kick as she passed. Walking into the living room, she dropped her handbag on the kitchen c
ounter, turned around, and jumped out of her skin as Dale looked up from the couch and lowered his magazine.

  “Oh my God.” Sophy pressed the heel of her hand to her leaping heart. “Dale. Announce yourself.” She gave him an exasperated look. “Are you living here now or something?”

  “I just like coming over for these warm welcomes.” Dale tossed the magazine aside. She saw that the scarf was draped over the arm of the neighbouring chair.

  “Is Melissa home?” she asked, listening for signs of life down the hallway. The more she talked and the less she actually said, the more normal she felt. “I thought you guys had some big presentation today.”

  “It’s this afternoon. We came back here to prep for it because some dickhead decided to start an indoor golf tournament in the office. Mel got called back in to sign a contract, but she should be back soon.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re using your time productively in the meantime,” said Sophy, raising an eyebrow. “And what are the ten hot new trends for autumn?”

  Dale was frowning at her. “Soph,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  And she was.

  She was interfering. Nosy. Over-sensitive. A complete failure at communication and confrontation.

  But, objectively, fine.

  “You don’t look fine.” Dale had unfortunately chosen that particular morning to develop his own sensitive side. She would have preferred that he continue the running streak of oblivious self-absorption.

  Her mouth twisted.

  “Hey.” He grabbed her hand, and pulled her down to sit next to him. His eyes were concerned. “Whoever it is and whatever they’ve done, Sophy, they aren’t worth it.”

  But he was.

  Damn it.

  Mick drove out to Lake Hayes with Sean’s admonishments still ringing in his ears. The resident Don Juan could do a bloody convincing turn as a shrieking fishwife. He had declared open allegiance to Sophy, whom he’d annoyingly referred to as his “rabbit”.

  “Sweet, pretty and twitchy,” was his irritating description.

  There had been no need for the lecture. Mick had been sorry the moment he’d overreacted.

  He still wasn’t sure what or how much she had overheard. Sean hadn’t been clear on the details, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to approach Jennifer about it. He didn’t want her particular brand of poison anywhere near Sophy. It had been jarring enough just to hear Sophy speak her name.

  He wasn’t proud of any aspect of that situation.

  He wouldn’t be patting himself on the back over his behaviour at Silver Leigh on Friday, either.

  Kissing Sophy had successfully rattled both his wits and his reserve, tossing every preconceived idea he had of the immediate future into a state of upheaval. There were kisses that were never going to lead anywhere but sex. And there were the more dangerous kisses, the ones that existed solely in and of themselves, that were about the pure pleasure of being close to another person, touching, being touched in return.

  One bloody kiss.

  The woman should come equipped with warning lights and an electric force field.

  Mick turned left when he caught sight of a signpost, rolling the car to a stop over crunching gravel. For a few minutes, he continued to sit, fingers tapping absently on the steering wheel, trying to be honest with himself.

  He had feelings for Sophy.

  No great surprise there. He’d jumped her at her parents’ house, in front of her dog, for fuck’s sake.

  And he’d spooked her. That was the fundamental point. He was never – ever – going to force his company where it wasn’t wanted, and she clearly wasn’t interested in taking things beyond the platonic between them. He couldn’t doubt that she genuinely found him attractive. The ability to evaluate other people’s states of mind, to interpret the cues of their body language and breathing patterns, to attempt to predict their next move, had been bludgeoned into him through sheer repetitive, gruelling, potentially lethal training.

  And Sophy, bless her, was not the smoothest operator. She couldn’t dissemble her way out of a paper bag.

  She was physically attracted to him. She seemed to enjoy spending time together. She did not want a sexual or emotional relationship with him.

  In the interests of honesty, he could admit it had rankled a little. She had backpedalled fast enough to break the sound barrier, and the sheer horror in her expression hadn’t exactly padded the blow. She was playing havoc with the ragged chords of his self-esteem, left open and exposed by his family, and severely twanged by Jennifer Nolan.

  He wasn’t even sure how deep his feelings for Sophy went at this point. All things considered, she was right. They were better off as friends. And she was his friend. Regardless of any complicating emotions, Sophy was already his friend. If he hadn’t shocked her into common sense by acting like a complete dickhead this morning.

  Taking out his personal phone, Mick pulled up her number and tapped out a brief message as he got out of the car.

  Sophy. I’m sorry. M.

  He shoved the phone back in the pocket of his jacket, beeped the car lock, and went inside to evaluate the business potential of the Hidden Oak winery.

  Ninety minutes later, he was shaking hands with the owner, Derek Hutton, when his pocket vibrated with an incoming text message. He bid the other man a good afternoon, accepted a thick file of financial statements and income predictions, and walked back out into the sunshine, shielding the screen of his cell to read Sophy’s reply.

  Single Scoop on the waterfront has really good gelato. Maybe I’ll get some this afternoon. At about 2.

  He smiled.

  “That was the single most blatant display of cheating I’ve seen in my life.”

  They were wandering side-by-side through the pop-up carnival that had opened on the town green. Sophy was admiring a pink plastic ring on her index finger. Mick thought it was hideous, but she had zeroed in on it at the ring toss like a periscope locating its target.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, smiling beatifically at her ill-gotten gains.

  Mick snorted and slipped a hand around her shoulder to steer her out of the path of a rowdy group of teens. “You might as well have just saved time and pushed the hoop over…” He broke off as she gave an exclamation and grabbed his hand, charging forward.

  “Gluten-free doughnuts,” she said succinctly, as if that explanation covered all.

  “We’ve already had gelato at the wharf, afternoon tea at the Skyline, and coffee in the mall.”

  “What’s your point?”

  He bought her the doughnuts.

  It was worth the incipient indigestion to have the pleasure of walking with her, watching her mood gradually climb the scale from sombre and withdrawn to light-hearted and teasing as the afternoon wore on. The sky was a bright blue, the water sparkled with hints of green and grey, and the atmosphere around the town was very summer-holiday, kids everywhere enjoying the last days before the school year began.

  Sophy left her hand in his as they wandered back to the lakefront, and he glanced down at the top of her head, a warm feeling tugging at the base of his chest. He had to lash down the sudden urge to pull her close and kiss the fall of shining brown hair against her temple.

  She had been waiting outside the ice cream store when he’d arrived at two o’clock, her arms and legs left bare by a t-shirt and shorts, her limbs deceptively long for her short frame. Her posture had been slightly hunched – defensive, self-protective – and her tension had hit him from a distance of ten feet.

  She’d beaten him to the punch with an apology, her words tumbling out in a sincere rush. “I’m sorry, Mick,” she’d said emphatically. “You’re right; it was none of my business at all.”

  “Sophy,” he said firmly. “I was a dick. Don’t apologise when you’re on the high ground. It won’t do you or your relationships any favours.”

  She hadn’t seemed to know what to say
to that, and they’d closed the door on the incident. She had refrained from mentioning Jennifer, and he was grateful for it. Rule number one of survival: you didn’t voluntarily roll over and expose your wounds and weaknesses.

  At her guilty remark that she had completely forgotten about having coffee with Ryland, and had left his boss high and dry, he had merely snorted, responding that the man would be more likely to take it as a provocative challenge than an insult. She would be lucky if he didn’t attempt to make her his fourth wife.

  Disconcerted, Sophy had changed the subject. She had become first determinedly and then genuinely cheerful, insisting that, as she’d monopolised most of his recent mornings off, they were going to be active and devoted tourists for the rest of the day.

  They had been up the gondolas to the Skyline, high above the mountains. He’d enjoyed the view, despite his reservations about the effects of the altitude on her asthma, and the wisdom of her going where the return options were limited to slow cable-car and wickedly fast luge. He’d been similarly reluctant to accompany her on the white water rapid jetboat ride, at which point she’d threatened to beat him unconscious with her lifejacket if he didn’t get over the “bleating nanny” attitude.

  He was trying. It was difficult when they’d met in circumstances that had her gasping into blue unconsciousness in his hold.

  The browse in the bookstore and slow wander through the leafy outdoor mall had been kinder to his blood pressure.

  It was close to dinnertime when he pulled the car to a stop outside her house, although he couldn’t imagine she would need feeding again for at least three days.

  “This was fun,” she said, turning that beautiful smile on him.

  He couldn’t resist reaching out to touch a gentle thumb to her lower lip in a brief caress. “It was,” he agreed.

  “I told you I can be fun,” she continued resolutely, as if the point had been in doubt.

  “You make an excellent friend.”

  She eyed him narrowly, as if wondering if he was being sarcastic.

  He wasn’t, this time.

  “Well, that’s true,” she agreed lightly, relaxing. “I am an excellent friend. I can produce numerous references to that effect. I’m a great listener. I never drunk dial people at three am. I bake a mean cupcake, and I’ll happily look after your pet when you go on holiday.”