That Mistletoe Moment (15 page)

He nodded, made a slow turn out the door. Side view showed his protruding zipper. A significant ridge. Based on her breasts. Her heart would've burst with happiness at any other time in her life. Instead she lowered her expectations and reminded herself she had a boyfriend. However pretend.

Hair combed, her teeth brushed—a drizzle of water, and the taste of toothpaste lingered—she next made the bed. Then found her way to the living room. Daniel had set the coffee table with two boxes of cereal, plastic bowls and spoons, paper towel napkins, a squeeze container of honey, and two bottles of water.

She crossed to the sofa, dropped down. He came to sit beside her. Closer this morning than the night before. “How's your cold?” she asked.

“Better, I think.”

She was a human thermometer. Without thinking, she touched her fingers to his forehead to check if he was overly warm. His brow was as cool as her fingertips. He arched one wicked-sexy eyebrow questioningly, and heat crept up her neck. She explained, “Mothers came into Baby Gap with cranky children, some were ill. I was often asked to feel foreheads for fever. Sorry, Daniel. Knee-jerk reaction. You're fine.”

A smile played about his mouth. One corner tipped. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Your concern for my health.”

“We can't have the boss sick, can we?”

“I'm not a good patient. I get ornery when I don't feel well. I'm known to growl.”

“More than usual?” Again, inappropriate.

“I'll let that one slide.”

She'd forgotten herself. They sat so casually on the couch, so at ease with one another, that it was hard to remember he was the CEO of Global Financial. Influential in economic circles. Respected in the community. A desired bachelor in the Twin Cities.

She suddenly wondered whom he had dated when he had social obligations or downtime. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. His cultural circle was out of her league and none of her business. Still, she wondered how often he brought a woman to his apartment. Her stomach knotted with the thought of him and a lover in the same bed where she'd spent the night. She licked her lips. Sighed.

Riley's expression spoke to Daniel. She was easy to read. He felt she had more on her mind than cereal. He side-eyed her several times, and with each glance, found her staring at the bedroom door. Intently. He wasn't sure why.

He was analytical. A few questions, and he'd have his answer. “Did you sleep well?” he began.

She nodded. “A deep sleep. One of the best I've had in ages.”

“You were warm enough?”

“Toasty.”

“I've always slept well there when I've spent a night in town.”

“Do you stay in the city often?”

“Not as often as my father. Mostly when I have a social function.”

She hesitated. “I'm sure you're a man in demand. Cocktail parties, charity dinners, fund-raisers, you and your . . . date.”

Date? He'd tapped in to her thoughts. She was curious as to the ladies in his life. Possibly even wondered how many had shared his bed. He'd never explained his personal life to anyone. There'd been no reason. He sensed her distress at having slept on another woman's sheets. A vulnerability. A part of him needed to clear the air.

“No other woman has spent time in my apartment.” He kept his voice even. “Other than Judith. And that was only when she organized my closet or dropped off groceries. She was never here longer than an hour. That was my rule. This is my private space, my sanctuary. A place where I can breathe when I need to escape. Where I crash when the day's gotten away from me.”

Her face softened. Her eyes brightened. He'd eased her mind. She looked at him as if he'd righted the world. She cleared her throat, said, “I hadn't meant to pry, but I felt awkward—”

“In a bed where I'd made love.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “More or less. You were voted one of the Twin Cities' most eligible bachelors.”

“I like being single,” he stated. “My wealth and heritage put me in the public eye. I work more than I date. I've never met that special someone to share my life with. Not like you and the doc.”

“Andrew . . .”

He heard the breathy catch in her voice. Such throatiness could only be love. He didn't want to dwell on the relationship she had and the fact that he'd never been seriously involved.

He moved on, pointing to the boxes of cereal. “Your choice.”

“Muesli. It's like granola.”

He went with Bran Flakes. Adding honey, they scooped and ate. The crunch of her eating the granola cereal was the only sound in the living room. He heard every oat cluster and nut. He smiled to himself. He enjoyed having breakfast with her.

“Plans for today?” she asked between bites.

“Global Financial is expanding. We're hoping to merge with Fredericks International, a progressive corporation outside Washington, D.C. They would complement our long-term operating balance of current assets and liabilities with their short-term focus on managing cash, inventories, and borrowing and lending.”

Riley looked lost. So he modified, “I'll be bringing the founder to visit our home base here in Minneapolis closer to Christmas. I need to formulate an agenda. Show him how the company is run.”

“Is he as formidable as you?”

“Equally so. Perhaps even more so. Geoffrey Fredericks is an economic Einstein. He has tremendous ability and foresight. He's had a rough year. His wife passed away unexpectedly. He has a small son, Christopher. They will travel together when the time comes.”

“Personal shopper, holiday decorator, babysitter,” she assumed.

“Would you mind terribly?”

“I love kids. Perhaps a movie or a trip to the toy store. I could help him pick out a Christmas present for his dad.”

“I'm appreciative. Christopher is six.”

“Six is a great age. Six-year-olds are vulnerable, yet expectant. They still hug without being embarrassed.”

She finished off her first bowl of muesli, and went for seconds. She used her spoon to sift through the cereal box, picking out the dried fruit. He could only stare. The next time he poured out a bowl of granola, there'd be no dried cranberries, apricots, or raisins. He shook his head. She had a hearty appetite.

Riley slowly came to realize what she was doing. The spoon even with her lips, she blushed, “I-I've eaten—”

“I know.”

“Why didn't you stop me?”

He shrugged. “It doesn't really matter. I prefer the nuts and oat clusters over the fruit.”

“Really?”

“A single raisin might've been nice.”

She looked down at her spoon. Piled with raisins. Instead of pouring them back in the box, she ate them. Right in front of him. She chewed, swallowed, added, “They are good.” She scooped through the remaining cereal and found one raisin. She held it up for him. “You're in luck.” She rolled the raisin off her spoon and back into the cereal. Then resealed the box. Her grin broke. “Happy now?”

“Thanks for sharing,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

“I'll get a new box when I grocery-shop for you.”

He'd eaten the same cereal for years. A change might be nice. “Choose something similar to what I've been eating, but slightly different.”

“How different? Puffs, Chex, colorful circles, frosted, fruity, chocolate, cinnamon, Cookie Crisp, stars, marshmallows?” she rattled off. She knew her children's cereal.

“Nothing too sweet.”

“Maybe a peanut butter crunch.”

“Maybe . . .” He was hesitant. “Use your best judgment. I'm into nutrition. And I do like raisins.”

“Raisin Bran has two scoops of raisins.”

They'd both finished their breakfast. She rose, disposed of the plastic bowls and plastic spoons. Daniel leaned back on the couch and appreciated her backside as she stood on tiptoe before the cupboard and replaced the cereal and honey on the top shelf.

Riley Tyler was a small woman. Curvy. Cute. Full of energy and suggestions. She spoke her mind. He liked that best about her. No one had ever criticized him before. Unless it was behind his back. She was frank, and gave it to him straight. He didn't mind her candor.

He stood, said, “I'll be working at my desk if you need me.”

She crossed to the coffee table, lifted his wardrobe binder. “I'll be sitting in a chair facing you. I'm a visual person. I'll be making up a mental color palette. I want to go page by page and imagine you wearing the clothes. I'll take notes, and once the electricity is restored, I'll call in rush orders for the necessary purchases.”

Color palette? Made him nervous. He felt compelled to remind her, “There's nothing wrong with dark suits and white shirts.”

She gave him a thumbs-up. “I'm with you. Conservative yet fashion forward.”

That stopped him cold. One corner of his eye twitched, and his jaw clamped. “Riley . . .”

“I'm playing you, Daniel.”

“Not funny.”

“It is if you could see your face.”

He glanced toward the arched windows and caught his reflection. Creased forehead, tight-lipped, stiff-necked. He had the look of his father. A man set in his ways. Stern and serious. Inflexible.

Daniel released a slow breath. He respected his dad. Always had, always would. Franklin had conformed to traditional dress. Old-style suited him. Daniel, too. There was nothing wrong with basic and bland.

A hint of sunshine contradicted him. Pushing through the clouds, shades of pale yellow and gold streaked the dark hardwood floor, bringing warmth to a drab day. He watched the hues come alive, sparkle, and dance.

“Whimsical.” Riley stood behind him. “I won't go full kaleidoscope on you, Daniel, but color can be flattering, if only in a tie.”

His face relaxed. His expression was once again his own.

Riley walked ahead of him into his office, the big binder in hand. “I'll pull those pages for clown and circus trends. No Bozo for you.”

Daniel chuckled. Half-smiled.

Riley heard him. Grinned back.

Humor. They connected in that moment. A first for him with any woman. The ladies in his life went out of their way to impress him. To please him. Flirty, flattering. Phony. They tried too hard. Riley was her own person. Funny and quirky. Her comments uncensored.

He liked her.

Liking her stopped at friendship. He'd never pursue another man's woman, even if Andrew was halfway around the world. That relationship would never be compromised. Decency was ingrained in his DNA.

He was soon seated behind his desk. No computer. No laptop. No connection to the outside world. He withdrew a legal yellow pad from his top desk drawer. Located his favorite Parker ink pen, a gift from his mother. It weighed nicely in his hand. He started outlining a schedule.

Riley flipped through the binder pages, the sound mildly distracting. Daniel worked best quiet and alone. Ten minutes passed, and he sensed her gaze. He glanced up. She sat in the middle club chair and faced him squarely. She openly stared. Direct, intense, thoughtful.

He set down his ink pen, steepled his fingers, asked, “What's on your mind, Riley?” Better to know now than later.

“I was wondering what your favorite color is.”

“Why?”

“For your wardrobe color wheel.”

“Explain.”

“Choose a color and I'll build your closet around it.”

“Black.” That would keep his suits dark and conventional.

“Limiting, but workable.” She rose off her chair slightly and reached across his desk, stealing his pen. His
favorite
pen. She began taking her own notes. Then afterward went on to say, “I have a few more clothes questions, if you don't mind.”

“Aren't your questions answered in the binder?”

“All notations by Judith,” she returned. “I want to start with a clean slate. You telling me your preferences.”

His preferences. Difficult to say. He'd always depended on his personal shopper. That's why he had one. “Perhaps a bit later,” he stalled.

“I have all day.” Her gaze pinned him once again.

She would stare at him until he responded, he was sure of it. It was as amusing as it was annoying. He'd talk to her, if talking got his pen back. He nodded. “Let's do it now. You have five minutes.”

“Might take ten.”

“Seven, max.”

Her grin told him longer. Much longer. However much time she needed to dress him. A part of him liked the fact she was paying so much attention to him. Even though their discussion made him uncomfortable. He had no personal style.

“Run with it.”

She did. “My Qs are relevant to you, the man.”

“I'm listening.”

“Let's start at the top and work down. The collars on your dress shirts: point, spread, or button-down?”

He touched his collar. “Point.”

She made a notation in the binder, then tapped his pen against her chin. A rather stubborn chin, he realized, and one she lifted to get her way. It was up now. “You have a wide chest.” Her gaze touched on his shoulders, skimmed his torso. “We'll go regular over slim fit.” She jotted it down. “Until I order tailor-made. Fabric, Daniel. Royal oxford cloth, poplin, herringbone twill, white pique cotton?”

He hadn't a clue. Royal sounded good. “Oxford cloth.”

She nodded approvingly. “Nice choice. Shirt cuffs: French, barrel, or button?”

He vaguely recalled Judith mentioning that French cuffs added a touch of masculine elegance. A richness to his wardrobe. “Button.” He didn't want any memories of her in his closet.