Can't Help Falling (8 page)

Peter cast his mind across the remaining three board members. All well-meaning, perfectly nice people, but totally ill suited to the task at hand. That was the whole reason he'd joined the board. Because even from a distance it was obvious that the status quo was going to lead to Anita's dreams for the charity going up in smoke. And that couldn't happen.

He tried to speak calmly, rationally. “Elizabeth, you and I both know that none of them are up to the task.” He attempted
to ignore the little voice in his head suggesting that wasn't the only reason he didn't want to give the role up.

“What I know is that I can't have the two key people we need to give us a chance at saving this place at odds with each other. Or with some kind of unresolved tension, whatever that's about. That's a recipe for failure right from the beginning.” She leaned forward and touched him briefly on the shoulder. The same lilac scent she'd had for years wafted with her. “Peter, I know this is personal. But you know I'm right. If this isn't going to be a viable partnership then we need to change it now.”

“Let me go and talk to her.” He put his hands on the chair's arms and stood, managing to unwedge his legs from their grip.

“I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“Please. And, after that, if she says that she would prefer to work with another board member, I'll step down. No questions asked.”

Elizabeth leaned back against her desk, considering for a few seconds. “Okay, but don't let me regret it.”

He could only hope he wouldn't either.

E
melia sat ramrod straight in her chair. Hands clasped in her lap. Waiting for Elizabeth to walk in and try to fire her. “Try” being an important word because there was no way Emelia was letting this job go without a fight. Not when she'd crossed an ocean for it. She'd left her door open. Figured she might as well see it coming.

Peter Carlisle. The whole crazy scenario made working with googly eyes or bad teeth or rampant facial hair look like a costarring role with Brad Pitt in comparison.

Her fingers ached to pull up Google. All she would need to do is type in his name and a few key words, and in seconds she'd at least have a clue what she was dealing with. Some kind of idea as to why, of all the charities in the world, he was on the board of this small, unglamorous, almost bankrupt one that couldn't even keep its website up to date.

She'd even typed in his first name before she'd remembered her vow to no longer snoop about people online and closed the browser, pried her fingers off the keyboard.

She'd almost called Lacey, but then she would've had to fill her cousin in on the whole backstory, and that really wasn't worth it with a girl whose guilty hobby was churning through Fabio-covered romance novels like they were Diet Coke.

So instead she sat, still as a statue, counting the seconds and waiting for the sound of Elizabeth's door opening.

Five hundred and eleven. That was how many she counted before the sound came, accompanied by heavy footsteps in the hall. Peter. She waited for his footsteps to head toward the exit, but instead they came toward her office.

For some insane reason she held her breath. Like it would—what? Cast some kind of invisible cloak around her?

The sound of his approach stalled as he got closer to her door. Emelia pictured him standing there, just out of sight. Well, she wasn't going to sit there like some kind of piece of prey. “So, are you planning to come in or just stay out there all day?”

Her voice was clipped, no-nonsense, betraying none of the breakdancing her insides were performing.

After a second or two, Peter's head came around the corner, followed by the rest of him. Between his impressive height and
muscular build, he took up the entire doorway. She took the opportunity to notice what she hadn't in her shocked stupor. The ugly sweater was gone, replaced by a dark jacket, V-neck T, and worn jeans. “I was wondering if you were going to throw something at me.”

Tempting. And not just the throwing part. Emelia gestured around her empty desk and sparse office. “That would have been a distinct possibility, but as you can see, I don't actually have anything suitable.”

Peter took a step into her office, his presence dwarfing her. She had to tilt her chin up just to see his face. “I, um, owe you an apology.”

“Are you sorry that you said it or just that I overheard it?”

His green eyes widened. What? Had he expected her to go easy on him? Brush it under the carpet? Pretend it hadn't happened? If they were going to have to work together it wasn't going to start out with her acting like a doormat. Even if it was all very
American
of her.

“I just—” Peter pulled out the chair opposite her desk and squished his frame into it. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands. He gave her a wry smile. “I'm definitely sorry that you overheard it. Elizabeth has just read me the riot act.”

Emelia said nothing. Just looked at him. That was his apology? His red hair stuck up at all angles. It hadn't been like that in Elizabeth's office. She could almost see him running his hands through it in agitation as if she'd been there.

“Look, I'm sorry. I was rude. I'm sorry for how I said what I did.”

Yeah, still not a real apology. “But you meant it.”

Peter looked trapped. She waited. She could already tell he was a terrible liar, so it would be interesting to see if he tried to bluff his way through. He huffed out a breath, shoulders dropping. “Look, I'm sorry that I was rude, I'm sorry that you heard it, but I can't pretend that I don't have concerns about whether an American can do this job. English and Americans, we're just . . . different. And, as I'm sure you've worked out, SpringBoard is in trouble. We can't afford to make any mistakes.” At least he had the guts to look her straight in the face as he said it. She had to give him that.

“You're new. On the board.” He could read whatever he wanted into her leaving his half apology on the table.

He gave her a look of grudging respect. “Yes. Just a couple of months.”

“How bad is it?” Her number one job for the week had been to try to put an exact dollar figure on what she needed to accomplish. She might as well take advantage of having a board member in her office to get the intel. And one who owed her. “How much do we need to raise between now and the end of the year to make it viable again?”

“One point one, give or take.”

A million pounds was roughly 1.5 million US dollars. It was worse than she'd thought. Emelia schooled her expression into neutral. Unlike the guy sitting opposite her, she was a great poker player. If worst came to worst she might well need it to supplement her paltry wage from this place. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I guess we've got our work cut out for us.”

“So you'll work with me? Even after what I said.” Peter ran his hand through his hair, sending the tufts in a different direction.

“If it's
not you, then it's one of the other board members, right?”

Peter eased back in the chair. “Yup.”

“Well then, I choose you.” For some reason, when the words came out, it felt like they had a lot more meaning than she'd intended them to.

She was here for atonement, not for anything else. And definitely not with some guy who was practically her boss.

E
MELIA WALKED INTO WORK ON
Wednesday morning, her brain hazy and body aching. This week was it. No matter what, she was getting out of the ghetto B and B with the cray-cray landlady.

The night before had been the final straw. The TV in the room below had blared infomercials until after four. Then this morning a new boarder had eyed her up and down like he'd just done a ten-year stretch and she was the first woman he'd seen on the outside. She was done. She had two days to come up with a plan that would let her prove herself to Peter and she couldn't do that when she was so tired she could barely think coherently.

“You okay?” Elizabeth looked over at her from where she sat at the front desk, sorting the mail. Her boss spent most of her time in that spot since SpringBoard could no longer afford a receptionist.

“I . . .” Emelia rubbed the back of her neck. She didn't really want to admit how bad her living situation was, but it was her own naivety that had gotten her into it. Maybe she'd have better luck if she got some local help. “I need a new place to live. The one I'm in isn't working out so well.”

“Where
are you at the moment?” Elizabeth took a sip from the porcelain teacup that always sat wherever she was working and was never empty. Its pretty floral pattern reminded Emelia of the one she'd found in the wardrobe the night she'd met Peter.

Emelia sighed. “The Magnolia Manor.”

Phswew.
Tea sprayed back into Elizabeth's cup. She looked like Emelia had just told her she was sleeping under a park bench.

Reaching for her linen napkin—yes, she kept one of those on hand too—Elizabeth dabbed at a tiny spot of tea that had landed on her gray skirt. “I think that would be a good idea. I've heard it's not the most salubrious of establishments.”

The British. The epitome of understated.

“Any ideas?”

“I have to admit that I'm not exactly tapped into where the young folk find flatmates these days, but I'll ask around.” Her boss ran the napkin over the sides of her cup.

“I've been keeping my eyes on a few websites, but nothing I'm interested in is available for a few more weeks, and I'd like to find a new place sooner rather than later.” There was no chance she'd survive in the B and B for much longer without committing a felony.

Elizabeth scrunched her face up, then brightened. “Oh, I know. There's a bulletin board in the staff room. Occasionally, there's accommodation listings on that.”

Emelia checked the clock. Still six minutes before she officially started work. “I think I'll go and take a quick look.” Yes, she was that desperate.

Dropping her bag and coat in her office as she walked past, she made her way to the staff room. Which was a generous
term to describe the small kitchenette with a sink, microwave, and minifridge. Above the counter hung a corkboard, a hodgepodge of notices stuck to it. Some were so faded and curled, Emelia was sure they'd been there since the last millennium.

Housemate wanted. Female. Town house within 30 minutes' walk of university. 150 pounds a week + expenses. Available immediately. See Dr. Allison Shire.

Emelia looked at the date in the right-hand corner. It had been posted a couple of weeks ago. She was probably already too late. And one fifty a week would take a hefty chunk out of her paycheck. But she'd happily pay it for a room where she could sleep at night. Even if it was with a seventy-year-old spinster academic.

She pulled the stiff card off the bulletin board and walked back to the front desk, the edges of the card poking into her hands.
Available immediately.
The magic words.

“Anything?” Elizabeth's gray bob swung as she looked up when Emelia returned.

“Maybe. A Dr. Shire is looking for a female housemate. Or was, anyway. Do you know if she still is?” Emelia held up the card in front of her.

“No. I haven't had much to do with her. She's a recent volunteer but seems lovely. Rave reviews from the first school we sent her to. The kids adored her. Unfortunately, she's just here until September. She's a guest lecturer at the university. Specialty is Tolkien.”

Emelia almost choked. Was this some kind of joke? “Dr. Shire's specialty is Tolkien.” She didn't quite manage to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

A smile tugged at Elizabeth's peach-colored lips. “I know.”

“She's also kind of hobbit-sized.” Emelia froze as a familiar female voice came from behind her along with a gust of cold air. She glanced over to Elizabeth to find she was studiously staring at her screen like it contained the solution to world peace.

Emelia turned to see Allie's green eyes and freckles. In a stylish beige overcoat and high-heeled brown leather boots, she looked about ten years older than she had battling the copier. Allie. Allie. Allison.
Oh.

“Morning.” Allie smiled as she pulled a gray knit cap off her head, shaking her copper hair free.

“Hi.” Emelia's mind was still trying to wrap around the fact that the pretty young girl she'd taken for a student was actually a lecturer. Who'd just heard her mocking her name. Who'd been her one hope of escaping the ghetto anytime soon.

Oh, this was bad. She didn't need to feel the heat creeping up her cheeks to know she was turning as red as a blood moon.

Allie—Dr. Shire—shifted the pile of books she was holding in one arm. “Anyway, the answer is yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I'm still looking for a housemate. Are you interested?”

In living in Allie's cute town house. Was she serious? “Yes.”

“The lease is only through September because that's when my contract currently finishes up. And you can hassle my name all you want as long as you don't make the mistake of calling me Australian. We New Zealanders are a bit precious about that.”

“Have you been to Hobbiton?” The question was out before Emelia could stop it. Ever since she'd seen the movies, she'd wanted to visit. Allie probably got asked that all the time. Way to be original. She could've kicked herself.

“Many, many times. So rent is one fifty a week and power,
Internet, stuff like that usually adds up to another thirty. Excluding food. I hadn't really thought too much about that. I figure we can just buy our own breakfast and lunch stuff and see how we go for dinners.”

Under two hundred pounds a week. She'd gladly have paid double that and lived on noodles. More so with every passing second. “Sounds fine.”