That Mistletoe Moment (12 page)

She had a point.

“You, however, have an image to uphold. Only the best for you. Promise.”

“How do you see me?” slipped out. He wasn't certain if he was asking about suits and ties or something more personal.

She crossed from the bookshelf to stand before his desk. “Always dress to accurately convey who and what you are,” she said. “I see my position as identifying trends, gauging style, and developing overall looks that work for you. You're a serious man, and dark, tailored suits fit your position. White dress shirts are practical, but starchy. A hint of color would make you more approachable. On occasion, an abstract, geometric, or striped tie, so you stand out in the crowd. Snappy.”

“
Snappy
” worried him a little. He stood out by being CEO of Hayes Global Financiers. He'd never associated wardrobe with promoting his image. He was a corporate warrior; he wanted his clothes to be clean-cut, practical, suited for meetings and travel. Those in his financial circle dressed similarly. Riley wanted to take him out of his comfort zone. Make him more congenial. To whom? His executives and staff? His international peers? They already addressed him without fear.

His brow creased. He wouldn't voice his concerns, not now, at least. He'd see what she had to offer, and, if necessary, request she tone it down a bit. Oddly enough, he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

She sensed his doubt. “You don't trust me, do you?”

“Trust is cultivated.”

“I take my job very seriously,” she said with conviction. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, I want you to look your best. You're a man of stature, and wear clothes well.”

A man of stature. Her first compliment. Not that he was counting. He'd wondered what she thought of him. He appreciated her honesty. Stature was a start.

She eyed him speculatively, and he knew what was coming. “What happened to your previous personal shopper?”

“She fell in love with me.”

Her eyes widened. “You fired her for loving you?”

“I didn't return her feelings. The situation grew awkward.”

“How awkward?” Riley liked details. Putting two and two together, the way she did with her mysteries.

“Scissors-to-my-wardrobe awkward.”

“Fascinating and frightening.”

“More scary than intriguing, trust me.”

“This time around, you had Georgia subtly screen the applicants, didn't you? You preferred to hire someone already in a relationship.”

“Correct,” he admitted. “I knew you were involved.”

“I am. Deeply so.”

“We're good to go, then.” Somehow he didn't feel so great. He should be pleased she had a boyfriend. A soon-to-be fiancé. Yet a part of him felt he'd met her too late. Doctor Andrew Reynolds had found her first. Lucky man.

CHAPTER 3

R
iley was fortunate to have eaten a big lunch, but by six o'clock, she was once again hungry. She'd done laps around Daniel's suite, getting some exercise. It was a good-size office, and, with each turn, she stopped at the wide arch of windows and looked out over the city. Sheets of snow fell. She could hear the wind howl when she pressed close to the glass.

She crossed to Daniel's desk. He sat, shifting through a stack of papers needing his attention. He had a strong presence, even sitting at a desk chair, she noted. Wide shoulders, thick chest. He'd taken off his tie. Deep in thought, he'd run a hand through his hair and mussed one side. She liked him looking less than perfect. She remained quiet until he looked up, raised one eyebrow. The wicked-sexy brow that fascinated her.

Her breath caught. She stumbled through, “Is there a vending machine on the floor? Candy bars, sodas?”

He closed the file he'd been reading, set it neatly on the stack, and rose. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms over his head, and his shirt separated from his slacks. Skin. Four inches of sculpted abdomen. Riley couldn't help herself, she stared.

She had admired his height, his stature, his professional attire, but she had no clue what lay beneath his suit coat and starched shirt. Purely on speculation, she'd imagined him fit. There was a big difference between fit, ripped, and toned. He was all three.

His slacks slipped an inch, exposing his black Hermès waistband. The boxer briefs with the separate storage pouch. He shifted beneath her stare. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he turned away from her. But not before she'd glimpsed the swell beneath his zipper. Her heart skipped a beat. An erection? From her stare?

He spoke to her over his shoulder. “I can do better than junk food,” he offered. “How about a sandwich? Roast beef and Swiss on rye?”

“Where will you find a deli open in this weather?”

“Better than a deli,” he said, again facing her. “My kitchen.”

Her eyes widened. “Where?”

“Follow me.”

She grabbed her purse and was on his heels.

He crossed to the bookshelf, to the outline of a door she'd seen the previous day. It blended into the woodwork so perfectly, it was barely noticeable. He lifted a secret latch, the same color as the wood. Twisted it left. A door opened. He reached around the frame, flicked a switch. Lights came on.

“After you.” He nudged her forward.

Stunned, she stepped into an apartment. Small, but nicely furnished. “Where am I?” she asked.

“My father's home away from home. A convenience. He often worked late hours, and instead of commuting to the lake house, he converted the adjacent office, and slept here. It made his life easier.”

“How did your mother feel about him staying in town?”

He contemplated before saying, “She decorated the apartment for him. At the end of the day, I think she would have liked to see more of him,” he said honestly. “But she accepted the fact that global finances was his second family. His life centered on the company.”

“A lot of responsibility, I imagine.”

“I'd go into detail, but—”

“It would go over my head,” she finished for him. “I'm more right brain than left.”

“My mother's right, too. Intuitive, imaginative, creative, an artist.”

She assumed, “You and your father are left brain. Rational, logical, and intellectual.”

“More or less.”

He went to check out the food in the refrigerator, which allowed her time to look around. She viewed the night through tall, narrow-paned windows. Mother Nature shivered. The chill off the glass had Riley rubbing her arms briskly. A long navy upholstered couch and two overstuffed chairs edged a hand-woven wool rug of vibrant blue, gold, and cream hues. A pale blue glass coffee table appeared liquid.

Spectacular artwork decorated two of the walls. Oil paintings, one of ice skaters on a frozen lake; the other, farmland and homestead covered by drifting snow. Lenore Hayes had signed the paintings. Daniel's mother. She had talent and a gift for detail. The chipped blade on an ice skate. The bleakness of a bird sitting on a bare tree branch. The hint of wind on a weather vane. Inspiring.

“Something to note, Riley,” he informed her. “My personal shopper buys the occasional groceries. There's a list in the top right drawer of what I keep on hand. I often take lunch here. Saves time.”

She liked to grocery-shop. “The closest store or marketplace?”

“I like Ridgeway Square. Six blocks east. Traditional and gourmet. They have an open-air market when the weather warms.”

She made a mental note. She'd be forced to drive to the square in the winter, but come summer, a stroll down the sidewalk held appeal. The sun on her face. Breezy blouses and gauzy skirts.

“Can I help you do something?” she asked Daniel, as he removed packets of meat and cheese from the refrigerator. Then pulled a loaf of rye from the bread box. Scored a bag of wavy potato chips from the cupboard. Located paper plates.

“You can fix your own sandwich, if you like. No lettuce or tomato, but there's mustard and mayonnaise.”

She worked beside him at the Indian blue granite counter. Swirls of gold and silver made the counter seem three-dimensional. She ran her hand over the surface. Very cool. An eighteen-inch color television fit beneath the kitchen cabinet, tucked flush against the wall. Next to a single-serve Keurig.

An easy silence stretched between them. They shared a surprising familiarity and compatibility considering they'd known each other such a short time. She didn't overanalyze, merely went with it. She fixed her sandwich with a slice of beef and one of cheese. He stacked his own mile-high. She slipped her hand into the bag of chips and took a handful. He then shook half the bag onto his plate.

“Soda, iced tea, or bottled water?” he next asked her.

“Tea.” He reached in the fridge and handed her an Arizona raspberry tea. Then snagged a Fiji for himself. Napkins. “Dad never got around to buying a kitchen table, so we'll sit on the couch.”

He set his plate and water on the coffee table, then returned to the kitchen. He opened and closed cupboard doors until he located several jar candles and a book of matches. He returned with them to the sofa. He dropped down, two wide cushions away from her. “You don't want to catch my cold,” he said. Considerate on his part. He then clustered the candles at one end of the coffee table. Matchbook in the middle.

She side-eyed him, and he explained, “I'm not setting the mood. The candles are merely precautionary so we'll have light, should we lose electricity.”

She liked a man who planned for emergencies. She breathed easier. Took a bite of her sandwich.

He ate alongside her. Napkin over his lap. Mannerly. He kept their conversation going. “Tell me about Riley Tyler,” he requested. “Something not on your résumé. Other than the fact you have a boyfriend.”

What to tell? How much to tell? “Born and raised in Elmwood, North Saint Paul.” Middle class.

He took a drink of his water, said, “Elmwood City Council has yet to pass the fiscal budget for next year. Continued debate on taxes and revenue.”

He surprised her. “Obviously you follow all the news, both global and local.” She was impressed.

“I follow finances. The smallest town's financial base can affect international economics.”

Another bite, which she chewed slowly. Moving on, she said, “My parents own a local café, Tyler's Corner. I have four sisters and two brothers. I'm the youngest.”

“The baby.” The corners of his mouth curved. “Protected by your older siblings?”

“Stifled, sometimes. Loved, always.” She then asked him, “How about you?”

“Only child.”

“You never had to share toys or wear hand-me-downs.”

He shook his head. “No, I did not.”

“With a large family, you learn to appreciate ‘new.' ” She used finger quotes. “I always looked forward to Christmas, when I would get a gift just for me.”

“Did you have a favorite present as a kid?”

“Two, actually.” Both memories made her smile. “When I was ten years old, Santa brought me a jigsaw puzzle of a ballet recital. So beautiful. Pink leotards, gauzy tutus, and satin ballet slippers. It was a gift to put together, take apart, and assemble again. Until my older brother Jared stole several inside pieces, then couldn't remember where he'd hidden them. I never got them back.”

“That's too bad.”

“Especially as the missing section formed the ballet slippers. My dancers no longer had feet.”

“Did you ever take ballet lessons?”

She crunched a potato chip. “No, too expensive. But I'd often stand outside on the sidewalk of Miss Rose's Studio and peer in the window during classes. I didn't have to participate to appreciate the beauty of dance.”

“The Metropolitan Cultural Center is featuring
The Nutcracker
over the holidays.”

“Have you priced the tickets?” Once the words were spoken, she blushed. Cost would matter little to Daniel. It only had bearing on her. Her bank account was not that flush. Even for mezzanine seating. “Someday.” She left it at that.

She removed the crust on one corner of her sandwich, contemplative. “The Magic 8 Ball was my second favorite present. At age twelve, it ruled my life. I'd ask a question, shake the ball, and take every answer to heart.”

He appeared amused. “What did you ask?”

“Did I have to do my homework? The answer:
It Is Certain.
”

He chuckled. “Understandable.”

“Romance was always a biggie. Did Ryan Moran like me?
My Sources Say No
. How about Luke Epps?
Better Not Tell You Now
. Will Lake?
Yes, Definitely
. Which wasn't quite true. He liked me, but he liked my school lunches more. My mom packed a great lunch box. Thick peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a bag of Fritos, fruit, and, best of all, Hostess Ho Hos. Two to a package. I loved the pinwheel inside.”

He knew the outcome. “You shared your Ho Hos with Will.”

“Until Mom replaced them with oatmeal cookies. Not Will's favorite. He then moved down the lunch table, sat next to Sally Young. She had Twinkies.”

“Fickle young boy. Did he break your heart?”

“For about a minute. Not much bothers me. I bounce back fast.”

“Resilience is good.”

After a sip of her iced tea, she asked, “How about you? Best Christmas gift ever?”

He was slow to answer, finishing off his sandwich first. “Monopoly,” he finally said. “I was eight. I always chose the car. My father turned the board game into a way to teach me commercial theories. Domination of a market, economic rewards, trade and developing properties with houses and hotels, collecting rent from opponents. Driving players into bankruptcy.”

Her jaw dropped. She stared, disbelieving. The man was cutthroat. “You and I played two different games. I played for fun, you played for fiscal dominance.”

He eyed her. “Bet you spent a lot of time in Jail. Landed on Income and Luxury Tax often, and lost all your money in the first thirty minutes.”

How did he know? “The dice were not my friend.” She daringly asked, “Your first train?”

He rubbed his forehead, thoughtful. “My sixth Christmas, my parents got me a LEGO deluxe train set. A bit old for me, but my father felt I'd grow into it. He helped me set it up on the hardwood floor in the library. There were”—he thought back—“curved, straight, and switching rails. An electric-powered engine. A flatbed and boxcars. The red caboose fascinated me most. I wanted to play with it separately. My dad explained that the caboose provided shelter for railroad crew, who were required for switching and shunting, and to keep a lookout for load shifting, damage to equipment and cargo, and overheating axles. I hooked it back on the train.”

“You were six,” she couldn't help but say. “How could you possibly grasp the purpose of the caboose?”

“No photographic memory, but I have exceptional retention.”

She pursed her lips. “Your father must be a detailed and disciplined man.”

“He once was. Not so much now. Dementia.”

“I'm sorry.”

He looked at her, then questioned, “How would you have handled the caboose?” Seemed important to him.

“I would've let you push the caboose by itself. All over your big old house. We would've named the caboose together, maybe Chug-Chug or Charlie. You could've taken it to bed with you.”

He exhaled. “You'll make a good mother someday.”

“My kids will be able to do and try most anything, and learn from experience.”

“You say that now, but I bet you'll be very protective.”

“No parent wants to see his child hurt. I'd try to shape awareness and sensibility. Foster kindness. Wisdom. Understanding.”

“I'd contribute logic and deductive reasoning. Business acumen.”

“Our kids would be balanced.”

“Stable and capable.”

“Happy . . .”

Together
. The wind slammed against the windows, a reality check, reminding them of the reason they were there in the first place. A rampaging blizzard. They'd gotten way ahead of themselves. Sounding like a couple, yet they barely knew each other. He was her boss. She, just his personal shopper. Then there was Andrew Reynolds, her pretend boyfriend. She would never have gotten the job had it not been for the good doctor. She kept that in mind.