Page 38 of Sexy as Sin
Focus. Not on food, and not on a man you can’t have. On maths.She’d always rather think about food. That was why she wasinthis spot. “The login and password will do me,” she said, shutting her mouth on the torrent of explanation that wanted to escape.
“We change it all the time,” Amanda said. “Security reasons.”
“Whatever the latest is.” Willow forced her voice into calm even as every part of her wanted to back down.
Amanda sighed. “I’ll check to make sure and write it down for you, how’s that?”
“That’s perfect,” Willow said, took a breath, and thought,Thanks, Hunter. I owe you one.
Which she wouldnotrepay by barging into his house unannounced again. He was deliberate. She wasn’t. That didn’t mean she couldn’t learn.
Saturday evening at eight-thirty, and Brett was still working. Working, and waiting for Willow.
He could have eaten hours ago. She’d made his dinner in a slow cooker today, because she was working herself, catering a dinner party. She’d fixed him another Moroccan dish, a lamb stew whose heady, meaty aroma had been tantalizing him all day. Something about the spices slowly mingling with the juices, he guessed, because nothing about the complex layers of scent filling the house was harsh.
He didn’t have to wait, but he was waiting for her anyway. Two reasons: that she’d promised him something special tonight, and that he was tired of this.
For the last two nights, the laughing, quicksilver woman he’d met on the beach had vanished. She’d come over every evening, and this morning, too, had made him the best food he’d eaten in his life and even stayed for dinner with him, had asked about his day and answered his questions about her own, but after that? She’d cleaned the kitchen meticulously, practically using a toothbrush to get into the crevices, and then she’d left. Every time.
The first night, he’d thought she was tired, but last night, he’d realized it was something else, probably having to do with her showing up unexpectedly on Wednesday morning and him being on the phone. Which was ridiculous, as much interest as he’d shown, but then, getting dumped could make you vulnerable.
That was the third reason he was waiting for her. He didn’t like the shadowed expression he’d seen on her face, and he hated suspecting he’d caused it. Tonight, he was going to do something about it, even if it was just watching a movie on the couch with her. He wanted his movie. He wanted his girl.
So she’s vulnerable, and you’re going to exploit that, because she’s pretty and you’re bored?Half of his mind, the ruthlessly honest half, kept asking the question.
No. Because Idon’twant her hurt,the other half answered. It was probably a lie and made no sense, and he knew it. He went back to his spreadsheets instead.
He’d left the house today, at least, thanks to his driver, Dave’s, help, to meet with his Australian partners. The first phase of the development was already twenty percent sold in advance on the strength of their event, the architect’s plans, the slick marketing package they’d put together, and the site itself, but developments didn’t coast on momentum. You had to goose them along with a mixture of patience and assertiveness for which there was no formula, because the mixture varied with every day and every site.
Meanwhile, the financing was at a sticky point. Graham McDougall, his CFO, had looked even more mournful than usual on their call this morning, making Brett wonder for the thousandth time whether Graham had been voted Most Likely to Become an Undertaker in high school. After that, Rose Williams, his VP of Marketing, had told him in her faint, lilting Caribbean/British accent, “The bank’s board needs face time, Brett. They’re terrified about the rise in the Australian dollar, and they’re wondering who exactly wants to buy a luxury home in the dusty Outback, with kangaroos hopping in the red dirt and crocodiles wandering down the middle of the road. They’re out of their comfort zone, and they need you to come back and paint them the beautiful, sophisticated picture. They want you to explain to them that it’s a mixture of England, Abu Dhabi, and Wyoming, but with good beaches and more sharks. I’ve tried, but they don’t want me. They want you.”
“Two weeks,” he’d answered. “Meanwhile, you’ve got the ball, and we both know that you can carry it. Let’s run through the numbers again. And I just thought of something. I’m going to get hot-air-balloon footage and put it to music. This is about the prettiest place in the world. All I have to do is show it to them.”
“They’d like it better if you were in the basket of the balloon,” she said. “Narrating the script, too. Do hot-air balloons still use baskets? Showing them that Brett Hunter charm, sweeping them off their feet.”
“Did I mention that I’m on crutches?” He didn’t hate heights like he hated water, but he didn’t have a pressing need to go up in a hot-air balloon, either. Willow would probably love it. He’d send her. Willow up in a hot-air balloon with all her enthusiasm and life force, her red curlicues of hair blowing around her, talking in that voice like music about surfing and the birds and the flowers and the freedom? That would sell luxury homes.
“Think about it,” Rose said. “That’s all I’m saying. It’ll help.” Which was why he’d hired Rose in the first place. Confidence was easy to find in a salesperson. Humility to look beyond herself for the best solution? Much rarer.
That was all very well and good, but he knew he should be in Portland. And Seattle. And Sinful. And many other places. And all the same, that other stubborn part of him was right here, parked in his cream-colored recliner with his leg stuck straight out in front of him, listening to a kookaburra laughing like a maniac and the harsh calls of cockatoos coming to roost in the eucalyptus trees, watching the sky turn pink out the window and the occasional wallaby hop its slow, grazing way across a field with all the casual nonchalance of a cow in a pasture, thinking that Australia truly wasn’t like anywhere else on earth and he was a little bit in love with it, and waiting for Willow.
The sky was darkening to sapphire by the time Willow climbed out of the van for about the seventy-third time since morning. She hopped into the back to pull out her final delivery of the day and told herself,Nearly there. A hundred sixty-five dollars just for this.She’d put steel-cut oats into milk to soak for Brett’s breakfast before she’d left the house at six this morning, and once she’d arrived home tonight, had stewed some rhubarb with dark brown sugar, and prepared a mixture of tropical fruit and chopped, toasted pecans for him to sprinkle on top of the whole thing, together with a pitcher of light cream. Another dish that needed caramelized bananas to finish it, but she wasn’t going to keep running up here like a puppy looking for a belly rub. Once had been enough.
She saw him through the window, getting up and hopping forward on his crutches to open the door to her despite her telling him again and again that he didn’t need to. He’d said, “Good for me,” and nothing else, and hewasmoving more confidently, so maybe it was true.
“Hey,” she said when he had the door open. “You’re going well.”
“I am,” he said, closing it behind her. “Walked all the way around the house today, outside, three separate times. Tomorrow, I’m going down the driveway and coming back up. My physical therapist promised. Note the blase air with which I continue to pull off the PJs, also.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, laughing despite the length of her day, “you’re a natural.” His hair was a little long now, a lock of it falling across his forehead in a way that made him look so much more approachable than the man she’d first met, and the dark-gray knit PJ trousers and bare feet finished off the picture. His feet still looked terrific—as strong and disproportionately large as his hands—so that helped. “How did that go over for your meeting?”
“I couldn’t even wear a dress shirt. It would’ve looked ridiculous. I wore this. The T-shirt is black, though, if you notice. Formal wear.”
“In Byron, close enough.” How did he always make her laugh? “You must have had to wow them with your smarts, then. I’m guessing you managed.”
“More or less.” He eyed the cake tin she was holding. “I have a feeling I’m going to like what’s in there.”
She was already in the kitchen, peeking into the top of the stainless-steel slow cooker. “You didn’t eat any of this, though. Not appealing? Too rich?”
