Page 17 of Blindly Yours

“She’s very happy with Blakely Partners. But I reminded him to tell her about our twenty-year savings incentive,” I reply. “He’s probably only got three months left in him, Dad. It’s hard to prioritize sales in our conversations.”

“Well, then he’s probably thinking long-term for his children. And I know you’ve made a good impression that he’ll pass along.” He sets his fork and knife horizontally on his empty plate, perfectly aligned.

“I’m sure he will.” I smile.

“Oh, that reminds me.” He touches his chin. “I met a very nice young man today. He’s Mr. Windsor’s only son. He’s about your age. Just completed his Doctorate. I told him you’d love to have dinner sometime.”

I shove a bite of sole into my mouth.

“He has great lineage. And he lives right here in the city. It would be a great pairing.”

Even my mother—Malcolm’s greatest fan—looks intrigued. “Just think! A Windsor!”

I try to smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Mr. Windsor has a daughter too.” My father looks pointedly at Henry and George. “She lives in St. Cloud, but the drive wouldn’t be too bad.”

“You know I’m too busy to think about that, Dad,” George says as he wipes his mouth with a French embroidered napkin. “With the company’s transition, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

My mother raises a brow. “You can’t stay a nomad forever. I see the pretty women you parade around—youandHenry—” She looks pointedly at the younger of the two. “These are not going to be the mothers of my grandchildren. It’s time to settle down.”

Henry is shoving food into his mouth so he doesn’t have to speak, and George just sighs and takes a silent drink.

This is how family dinners go in our home. And this is why they rarely happen.

FOUR

Rose

The next morning, I opt for a pair of ankle boots instead of heels. The price I paid for them isn’t quite as excessive as my Louboutins, but they’re still cute and professional, and I won’t mind if they catch a little construction dust.

As I make my way down the hallway, I can already hear the whirring sound of a power tool coming from my office. I turn through the door to find Nate affixing new drywall to the ceiling. He stands on the ladder with his arms above his head, muscles tensing as he drills into the sheet. His shirt pulls tight around his shoulders but hangs loose around his torso, and between his teeth, he holds two extra screws.

Once he releases the screwdriver trigger and the sound dies away, he catches sight of me from the corner of his eye. “Mornin’ ma’am.”

I lean against the door frame and cross my arms. “You don’t have to call me that.”

He shrugs and pulls the screws from his mouth. “Judging from the other day, it seems you run a tight ship around here. Don’t want to offend.”

“It’s Rose, and you already accomplished the offending yesterday.” I raise an eyebrow.

His gaze trails down to my boots. “Those suit you better.”

I uncross my arms and point toward a tarp-covered shelf. “I need to get some files down.”

“Sure.” He slides his power drill into a hook on his belt and descends the ladder to lift the tarp.

I set my bag down and cross the room to search the shelf. Thank goodness I’ve organized them because Nate has to hold up the tarp while I do my searching. It’s a tight squeeze as I stand on my toes next to him, sorting through the dozens of folders.

He smells lightly of fresh soap and strangely, cinnamon. It’s pleasant in a way I wasn’t expecting from someone whose job consists of physical labor, and I breathe him in with an unplanned pause.

“I think that’s everything.” I clear my throat and collect my files, then back away as he repositions the covering.

He runs his hand through his loose hazelnut hair, pushing it back away from his forehead. “So, like I said before, I’ll finish patching up the ceiling today, and then tomorrow I’ll get to painting.”

I nod, holding my files quietly to my chest.

“I won’t need the full day. Come back at lunch and I’ll be out of your hair.”

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