Текст книги "Blind Date "

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Chapter Eight

In the past seven days, I’ve ordered everything I need to overlook the renovation of the restaurant. I’ve spent endless hours on the phone to suppliers and companies and artists. Turns out Carter Hughes has a pretty bottomless wallet and wanted to commission a number of original images for the walls opposed to me buying generic ones from a store.

Apparently he likes to be unique.

Anyway, that’s accumulated in four different images from the same artist, triple his usual price, and I’m to collect them on the final day of the redecorating. I agreed simply because I had no other choice.

I have a feeling the artist, Kevin Peters, won’t be sleeping very much.

Now I’m on my way to the restaurant and hoping that everything will be removed and I’ll be walking into what is essentially a blank canvas. That’s what Carter promised me on the phone yesterday at the very least.

I’m hoping he was telling me the truth.

I’m also hoping the flooring guys are there, ready to rip up the old linoleum floor. I don’t have the time to wait for them. I’m about to go into crazy bitch mode like I always do. Thankfully the guys I work with on a regular basis are more than aware of this and tend not to judge me. Most of the time at least.

I sigh as I step out of the cab. Thankfully there are vans parked up outside the restaurant, and instantly, my anxiety eases. Someone’s here at least. I can deal with that. Someone’s better than no one, after all.

I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it back from my face. The main door to the restaurant is open, and I clutch both my purse and my file to my chest tightly as I take a step through. All the furniture has been removed, except the host’s counter and the bar. I’m almost certain they’re coming out after the flooring though, so I’m not too worried on that.

“Bee!” Dave Baxter, one of my usual builders and life-long friend, comes up to me covered in dust.

I take a step back. “Don’t even think about hugging me, you dusty bastard,” I laugh, holding my hands up.

He stops, a grin stretching across his face. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.”

I drop my purse and file on the bar after sidestepping a tool box or two. Or three. “Talk me through the plan once again.”

He wipes his forehead with his hand and launches into it. I listen as he goes from floors to walls to bars to tables and everything else in between. “After that, it’s down to your decorators, darlin’. Mr. Hughes only designated four days to us so we’re workin’ on a tight schedule.”

“Got it. Do you have enough time to do everything?”

“Sure we do. When have I ever let you down, Bee?”

I pat his arm, then when I step back, I look at my hand. Yep. Dusty. Ugh. I flap it around until it looks like it’s clean of the pesky dirt. “I know, I know. Never. This is just a big contract and I want to make sure it’s all done correctly.”

Dave grins widely as I turn to my folder and flip the front cover open. “That all, huh?”

Raising one eyebrow, I flick my gaze back to him. “What else would it be?”

“Rumor has it the boss is handsome and rich.”

“Let me guess… You’ve been speaking to Charley.”

He holds his hands up. “Maybe, but everyone knows who Carter Hughes is, Bee. He’s no Superman.”

The clearing of a throat sounds from the door, and we both turn. And standing there, of course, is Carter Hughes, suited and booted in all his manly glory.

Awesome.

“Ah, but I could be Clark Kent.” Carter smirks, stepping into the restaurant. He glances around. “I see you waste no time.”

“No time to be wasted when you’re on a tight schedule,” I respond tightly. “Mr. Hughes, this is Dave Baxter, the lead builder on the project. Dave, this is Carter Hughes.”

The two men shake hands and exchange pleasantries.

“Got a minute to talk me through what you’re doing?” Carter asks him.

“Sure thing. Bee?” Dave looks at me.

“You guys go ahead. I’m gonna check I’ve got everything where it should be.” I smile and wave them off, turning back to my folder, finally.

Really should have asked for them to keep a stool for me. Christ. Standing in four inch heels is no joke. I flick through my designs for the restaurant, now blocked off into areas, and check everything against the schedule.

My mom always says I have a funny way of organizing everything. She’s adamant that the phrase ‘organized chaos’ was created for me and me alone, mostly because my files and folders and indeed, office, make little sense to anyone other than me. I could find a week old pencil sharpening in my office while most people would struggle to find my computer. It’s just how I work.

I like a little craziness. I think everyone should have a little bit of reckless, crazy chaos in their life. It makes things exciting.

I shift my weight from foot to foot as I study everything. Before I know it, I’ve taken the bar over with my sheets and calendars and snapshots.

Damn. I need one of these bars in my office. Actually, ten. I need like ten. Complete with alcohol and glasses… Actually, scratch that. Alcohol wouldn’t come in bottles if it was meant for glasses. Right?

Right.

That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

Okay, Bee. Time to focus on the job at hand.

By the time it takes Dave and Carter to do a walk-through of the restaurant and for Dave to explain all the timings to Carter, there isn’t an inch of the old wooden bar top left visible, and I have my neon Sharpies starring and circling things like I’m a toddler with a blank piece of paper and mommy’s pens.

I get a lot of glee out of my neon Sharpies, okay?

Carter frowns at me, still shifting side to side. “Everything all right?”

“Hmm?” I question, underlining a prospective phone call with a fluorescent yellow line.

“You’re moving like you’re five years old and the teacher won’t let you use the bathroom,” he responds dryly.

Dave snorts.

I throw my Sharpie lid at him, but he catches it, and I realize what I just did. “Oh, shit! I need that!” I take it from his hand and shove it on the end of my pen. I wave it at him. “Thanks, sweetie. Your old baseball catching skills came in real useful here.”

Dave rolls his eyes, and instantly, Carter’s narrow. “You two know each other well?”

“Sure,” I answer, starring something on the sheet. “We went to school together. I’m not allowed to use anyone else for projects or he’ll hunt me down.”

“I didn’t say hunt you down. Besides, you wouldn’t dream of using anyone else.” Dave winks.

I grin. “I know. And since you’ve forgotten, you still owe me dinner from the last project.”

He groans. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“I’m like an elephant, Dave. You should know that. I never forget anything—unless it’s the price of shoes.”

He drops his eyes to my feet. “Obviously.”

I poke my tongue out and cap my pen. “I pay for that in pain, okay?”

“And that’s why she’s dancing like a kindergartener desperate for a pee,” Dave tells Carter.

A very annoyed Carter. “Are there no stools or chairs left?”

“Nope. All cleared out this morning on her orders.” Dave crooks his thumb toward me.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I didn’t plan to be here all day. I have to swing by Kevin Peters’ studio and check on the progress of his pictures, call the decorators to make sure the wallpaper will be here tomorrow, and then the electricians to see if my light fixtures are in.” I glance at my planner. “Oh, and speak to the tilers about the bathrooms to bring them up to date modernly like we talked about,” I say to Carter with a fleeting look. “And then I was going come back and berate you all for not tearing the floor up quickly enough,” I tease Dave, fighting my smile.

“You really need to hire an assistant,” he mutters.

“Why would I hire an assistant for things I can do myself? You’ve met Carlos. I asked him to order me a bookshelf last week and he had a wine rack delivered.”

“How did he do that?” Carter asks, his shoulders taut.

I shrug. “God knows. Asking him to do anything is like asking a toddler to do algebra and getting a picture of a monkey with three heads. Anyway. Point is—I don’t need an assistant.” Movement behind Dave has me sitting up straight. “Dave, tell Dan that if I see him screwing around again I’m going to take a piece of this flooring and insert it firmly between his ass cheeks.”

Dave turns and seeing the younger guy messing around, groans. “Dan!” he hollers, walking across the restaurant.

Carter leans around me and grabs my planner.

“Do you mind?” I ask, reaching for it.

He steps back without taking his eyes off the pages. “Not at all.”

I narrow my eyes as he continues to peruse it. “What are you doing?”

“You know Julia can help you with this, don’t you?” He lifts the spotted planner and looks at me. “She can go and check on Kevin Peters and probably check on the wallpaper. Since we’re closed she has a lot less work to do.”

“Again, I don’t need an assistant, so thank you, but no thank you.” I take the book back from him and set it on the bar.

“Don’t you trust her? She organizes me efficiently.”

“And I’m sure she does a great job at that, but I just like to handle things myself.”

“Ahhh,” he says in a low voice, joining me at the bar. He rests his forearms on the top and leans forward, turning his face toward me. “You’re a control freak.”

“I am not a—” I pause when I realize just how close he is to me, “control freak,” I finish. I look away from him and focus on my planner so I don’t accidentally drop my eyes to the way his white shirt is hugging his muscular arms.

“Are you sure?”

“Wanting to stop by and personally check on Kevin Peters and his progress means I’m invested in making sure my client—you—has the best possible quality of work for his business. Calling the electricians and decorators myself simply means that if there’s a problem then I’m already on the phone and don’t have to rearrange my whole day to make extra calls.” I huff out a breath. “None of that makes me a control freak. It makes me dedicated.”

“I didn’t peg you for a control freak,” Carter replies, amused.

“And what does that mean?” I turn back to him.

Stupid Bee. Stupid, stupid Bee.

His eyes flare. “I’d tell you, but I’m not allowed.” He smirks and, with a wink, pushes off of the bar. “When are you planning to see Kevin?”

“Uh…” I shake my head to clear it from the implication of his words. “Right after I’ve checked that Dave has all his ducks in a row. They tend to waddle off.”

“Much like your own.”

“If you were anyone but my client, I’d tell you to fuck yourself,” I say under my breath, slamming my planner shut and walking to Dave.

I spend the next few minutes going over everything with him before he assures me he’s passed on my threat to Dan and insists I go do my thing before I break out in hives.

So I like to keep to my schedule. Just because my office looks like a department store threw up in it doesn’t mean my schedule does.

Carter’s leaning against the bar on his phone when I approach. He looks up, still typing. “Everything all right?”

“As all right as it can be,” I respond. “I’m going to see Kevin now. He said he was free late morning. Did you want to come?”

“Sure.” He presses a button on the side of his phone and slips it into his pants pocket. “You need a hand packing this up?” He waves his hand over the stuff on the bar.

I flap my own dismissively. “Just my planner. They know if they touch it then they’re dead meat.”

“You’re a feisty boss, aren’t you?” He’s clearly fighting a laugh.

I raise an eyebrow. “When you’re a woman surrounded by men in the workplace, being a wilting flower won’t get shit done. They respect me or they don’t work for me. They know that. Thank you,” I add when Carter opens the restaurant door and holds it for me.

I walk to the curb and he grabs my hand. “What are you doing?” he asks me.

“Getting a cab…”

He shakes his head with a wry smile and clasps my upper arms from behind. He directs me a few feet along the sidewalk toward a sleek black Mercedes waiting at the side of the curb. He releases me to open one of the back doors and motion for me to get in.

How the other half live, eh?

Sure, Mom and I make a ton of money, but not personal chauffeur kind of money. Must be nice.

“Thank you,” I say again, getting into the back seat and sliding along it.

Carter settles in on the other side and shuts the door behind him. “Where’s the studio?” he asks me, leaning forward.

I give him the address and he relays it to the driver, and getting an affirmative answer, slides the partition closed. Butterflies start up in my stomach, the stupid little creatures, and I swallow in an attempt to hide my nervousness.

So much for not being alone for more than ten minutes. It’s at least fifteen minutes to the studio and then a further fifteen back.

Agreement screwed already.

Fuck. I couldn’t have realized this before, could I?

“Dave seems to have a handle on his team,” Carter remarks, shifting so he can look at me. There’s a questioning glimmer in his eyes, one that doesn’t make much sense.

“I’d hope so. He’s been working with some of them since he was sixteen. It’s his father’s business, but he sticks to the office side more often than not now. Dave unofficially runs the show,” I answer.

He nods slowly. “And you’ve known each other since school?”

“Kindergarten. Our moms are close friends. They wasted five years trying to set us up.”

“And has it ever worked?”

My eyebrows shoot up at the personal question. “We went on one date. I got food poisoning and puked on him when he went to kiss me.”

Carter half-smiles. “Was that before you learned how to voice your aversion to commitment?”

“I believe that was the day I learned.” I smirk. “What about you? Aren’t you kind of young to have such an… exclusive… restaurant?”

“When my grandfather passed, he left me a trust fund. The only catch was that I had to invest it into property. I bought the restaurant when it was a run-down ice cream parlor when I was twenty-three and used the cash I had left to turn it around. I barely made a profit the first year.”

“How’d you get from teenagers on first dates to sex in private booths?”

The grin that teases his lips is just pure sex. “I added hot food. More people started buying food than ice cream. I lived in the upstairs apartment and lived frugally. I renovated when I had enough money to get a loan from the bank two years later.”

“So you were… twenty-six.”

“Correct. It took three months, but when I reopened, it was with a better menu, and the area was becoming more exclusive. By the end of that year I’d paid off my loan and still had money to spare. When I was twenty-nine, I bought my house and added the bar. Four years later, I own my house outright, cater to people whose names I’m not allowed to mention in public, and have a bank account that would make many Hollywood stars weep.”

“From just one restaurant?”

“No. I have several. A handful in-state, then Chicago, Boston, Denver, and Seattle. I have one opening in Los Angeles later this year.”

“Impressive,” I say softly. “All that from a trust fund.”

“Yep. All he asked was when I made it, I’d put that money in a fund for my child or grandchild.” Carter shrugs a shoulder. “Seemed fair. It’ll likely go to my niece or nephew when my sister has a child. She’s the fairytale lover out of us.”

“What? You don’t think you’ll find your Cinderella? I’m shocked,” I say dryly.

He chuckles. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I’ll find her, but the chances of me returning her shoe are pretty slim. I’ll just send her a check for the cost or something.”

“I’d keep that to yourself if I were you.”

“What would you want? The shoe or the check?”

“The shoe, and then I’d thank you and slam the door in your face.” I smile sweetly.

His chuckle grows to a laugh. “And you doubted I’d find Cinderella.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. My shoes are far too expensive to leave behind.”

“I know. I have to buy Izzy a pair every birthday,” he drawls.

The driver raps on the partition and Carter leans forward to open it. “We’re here, Mr. Hughes,” he says.

“Thank you. Wait, please.” Carter opens the door and gets out of the car. He holds the door as I slide across the seat, then reaches down and takes my purse.

My eyebrows shoot up as I look up at him and put my hand in his offered one. He steadies me as I get out of the car and step onto the curb. He shuts the door before releasing my hand and passing me back my purse.

“Thank you,” I say for a third time this trip, mildly surprised by his actions.

He smiles slowly, his green eyes reflecting a flash of amusement. “It’s simple manners, Bee.”

“Of course.” I straighten my skirt as he reaches for the studio door and holds that open, too.

He touches his fingers to my waist as I come to walk past him and dips his head. “Some of us are still gentlemen, you know.”

“Nice to know,” I whisper on an inhale.

Acts like a gentleman. Talks like a wet dream. Fucks like a pornstar.

I’m. So. Screwed.

***

We leave Kevin Peters’ studio happy, and Carter with a further two pieces commissioned, this time for his house. Apparently the man is somewhat of an art connoisseur.

Me? I just want something to eat. I’m starving.

“Are you headed back to the restaurant to make your calls or your office?” he asks me once we’re in the car and heading back into Manhattan.

“The office would be great. It gets noisy when they start ripping shit up.”

He nods and checks his watch. “We can stop for lunch if you’d like.”

“Oh… It’s okay. I’ll order something in when I get to my office.”

“Are you sure? I know a really great burger place.” His eyebrows arch, and the upward turn of his lips are convincing.

“I’m not really dressed for a burger place,” I answer. “Honestly, I’m fine. Thank you for offering, though.”

He sighs and sits back. “You’re one of those salad-only types, aren’t you?”

“Only if I can order pizza the next day.” I snort. “Trust me. I watch what I eat but I’m not obsessive. I enjoy a burger as much as the next person.” I won’t tell him I ate almost a whole sharing bag of tortilla chips right before we met.

“So get lunch.”

I sigh softly. “That isn’t a good idea, is it?”

“Why? We’ve been successfully alone for…” He looks at the time. “…Almost two hours.”

I purse my lips. “Which is against what we agreed.”

He rests his arm across the back of the seat and levels his gaze on me. “Bee, I’m not asking you on a date. I’m asking you if you’d like lunch. Fuck, argue about buying your own if it’ll make you feel better. We have a working relationship and I’d never do something that’ll make you uncomfortable.”

I could really, really go for a burger right now. “Okay, okay. Fine. But I am paying for my own.”

The smirk that accompanies his side-eyed glance as he sits forward to tell the driver where to go informs me that my argument is entirely futile, but hey.

It feels good just to make that point… Even if it was a waste of breath.

After several minutes of silence ranging from comfortably looking out of the window to awkward moments of eye contact and an almost knee-brush, we pull up outside a burger place. Once again, Carter helps me out of the car, purse and all, before shutting the door. He places a hand on my lower back and guides me into the building with a gentle push.

A shiver runs down my spine, one I can’t control. His fingers twitch where his touch is burning into my skin at my side. My heart does a quick double beat as the smell of burgers assaults my senses. I do my best to focus on the rich scent, but I can’t.

The sensation of his touch is just too consuming.

He keeps his hand on my back as I stutter my way through my order and make a last-ditch attempt to protest about him paying for my lunch. I only breathe easily when he lets me go to pull out his card and pay.

I take the chance to run and snag a table. I just… need to breathe. It’s like he’s touched me once and through his fingertips, he’s drawn out every bit of oxygen I need to survive.

These feelings are insane. So what if we had one night? So what if I know all the things he wants to do to me and in all the places? Christ—this isn’t okay. Why did I let him talk me into lunch?

What’s it going to be next? He’s going to talk his way into slipping his cock inside me?

I don’t care if he is being a gentleman. I don’t like him being a gentleman. I don’t think I can take one more brush of his hand across any part of me, even if it’s my fucking shoulder or ankle something.

Hell, don’t even touch my purse, man. I’d probably shudder at that shit, too.

I need to calm down. I need to breathe. Nine more days of this—surely I can do this by avoiding him? Call ahead before I go to the restaurant or just hope he has other things to do? That works, doesn’t it?

Questions, questions, questions. It’s always questions with him, isn’t it?

Maybe Charley was right. Maybe I’m a dumbass for not fucking him again when I had the chance, when he was offering it right there and then. Would I want him less if I did?

Should I try—

No. I shouldn’t. I should not try and proposition him.

“It’ll be around ten minutes,” Carter says, taking the seat next to me and putting my water in front of me. “Tell me about Donnelly Designs.”

I take the bottle and uncap it. “What about it?”

“How did you start it? You’re part owner, right?”

Slowly, I nod. “My mom owns the majority. She started it when I left college.” I run through everything, and when I’m done, our food is here.

“So your mom controls it all?”

“Kind of.” I dab the corner of my mouth with my napkin and peer up at him through my eyelashes. “Thanks for calling her that time, by the way. She’s still bitching at me about my supposed attitude.”

His eyes glitter with restrained laughter. “My apologies. I’ll make sure to follow up and tell her how talented you are.”

I stare at him flatly. “Gee, that doesn’t sound patronizing at all.”

He grins and takes a bite out of his burger.

I kind of want to hit him in the face with mine.

Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, and we finish our lunch in amicable silence. Well, I say amicable… His silence is amicable. Mine is definitely pissed off. I think I’m learning he has this effect on me.

Turns me on one minute, pisses me off the next.

We make our way outside where the car is still waiting, and I glance over it. There are an abundance of cabs, several of which look empty, and I weigh up my options—another few minutes with him in a car or get a cab?

It isn’t hard to choose.

“Thank you for lunch,” I say to him, tucking some of my hair behind my ear. “I need to get back to the office now, but I can check in with you later to update you.”

“I’d appreciate that. Can I take you there?”

I smile coyly. “Until you’re in the driver seat, you’re not really taking me anywhere, are you?”

One of his dark eyebrows quirks up. “Well, any time you want me to hop into it, I’ll be happy to take you wherever you want to go.” His voice is husky, and fuck the goosebumps that are appearing up and down my arms. Fuck them so hard.

I step off the curb and raise my arm. A cab turns toward me almost instantly, and I grab the door handle, wrenching it open. “Noted, Mr. Hughes.”

“Have a good afternoon, Ms. Donnelly.”

Oh I will, I think as I get in the back seat and direct the driver to our office building. Especially since he won’t be in it.