Page 2 of Never Let Me Go

He hadn’t meant the words to sound so curt.

A flicker of her eyelashes told him she felt the sting. “Of course,” she said, her tone formal and frosty. “I’ve already sketched out notes. Subject to your approval—of course.”

Was she mocking him?

The collar of his short-sleeved navy polo shirt felt unexpectedly hot. He’d dressed for a business meeting, which for him was still casual, even with neatly pressed khakis. His usual attire was a T-shirt and jeans. He spent his days overseeing his crew on various jobsites. No reason to get gussied up.

Today, though, he had made an effort. For her? Maybe.

Marisa didn’t seem to notice.

“What if we sit in the gazebo?” he said. “At least we’ll be out of the sun.” Thunderheads built in the distance, and the wind had kicked up. The breeze did little to cool things off because of the oppressive humidity.

“Sounds good to me.” She took off in that direction, her long legs eating up the distance and carrying her all the way up the gazebo steps, leaving him to follow in her wake. He tried not to notice the sexy motion of her hips or the way her jeans hugged a heart-shaped ass.

When they were seated—on opposite ends of a bench anchored to the gazebo wall—Jeff cleared his throat again. Unfortunately, that was becoming a nervous habit.

Hewasn’tnervous, he told himself. That was absurd.

“What did they tell you they wanted?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Probably the same thing they told you. The council has approved the construction of two temporary mini gazebos that will remain here on the quad, one on each side, from mid-September through mid-November. These refreshment stations will accommodate the tourists who show up for an ambitious series of events designed to bring visitor dollars to Blossom Branch. Craft festivals, outdoor concerts, motorcycle rallies...”

He nodded. Marisa had summed it up nicely. “Yep. Same spiel they gave me. But one thing I don’t understand. Seems like this plan could adversely affect our local restaurants.”

Marisa made a face. “Doesn’t matter. Miss Ophelia wants it this way, and no one was willing to go toe-to-toe with her.”

“That figures.” He grimaced. Miss Ophelia’s great-great-great grandfather had deeded a parcel of land to establish Blossom Branch back in the 1800s. The way she saw it, the town belonged to her—metaphorically speaking—and thus her opinion carried a heck of a lot of weight.

“It’s not ideal,” Marisa said, “but the snack stations will offer just that.Snacks.Hopefully, the diner and other sit-down restaurants will still get foot traffic for meals.”

“Maybe so.”

One gold sandal tapped the floor. “You’re the carpentry expert,” she said. “It will be up to you to draw the actual plans. But here’s what they asked of me. The first two pages are a list of items that will be offered for sale. Drinks in one mini gazebo, food in the other. I’ve indicated how many electrical outlets we’ll need and how much counter space. Everything else is up to you.”

He took the list and studied it, careful not to touch her. Already his gut was in a knot. Her casual beauty messed with his head.

Because she rattled him, he made himself focus on the list and read it very slowly. One of the mini gazebos would be simpler than the other. It would offer a variety of coffees, also hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps—or marshmallows—and hot toddies.

He looked up at her. “Why does the customer have to get a drink in one spot and then cross over to the other gazebo for snacks?”

When Marisa tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, he told himself not to fixate on her suckable earlobe with the tiny diamond stud. He started to sweat.

She studied him curiously. “Several council members had the same question. It’s part of Miss Ophelia’s grand plan. She thinks it will keep lines from getting too long. Plus the streamlined menu at each gazebo will make it easier for the servers to move quickly.”

“What kind of snacks?” he asked, reminding himself to pay attention to the paper in his hand instead of trying to decipher the unexpected vulnerability in Marisa’s eyes.

“Cake. Lots of cake. Homemade granola. And fruit cups.”

“Supplied by?”

“Me,” she said, suddenly seeming self-conscious.

He frowned. “From what I remember, you work long hours. How are you supposed to handle this, too?”

“I’m shifting my focus,” she said, lifting her chin as if he had implied criticism. “Less corporate catering. More intimate, casual affairs. By the way, that second gazebo will need at least three small refrigerators.”

No woman should expect to utter the wordsintimateandaffairsin the same sentence and not have a man get antsy. Jeff nodded, trying not to notice the way her breasts filled out that yellow top. “Makes sense,” he said gruffly.

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