How to Look Happy (26 page)

“But—” I start, and she cuts me off.

“It’s an inconvenience, sure. But we still have the catering kitchen on Monroe for another two months. I was planning on transitioning the bakery’s operations over here slowly. We’ll just have to treat the party, and our first couple weeks of business, like a catering gig. Or a pop-up shop, which we do all the time anyway.”

I’m shaking my head and looking at her with awe. “You amaze me,” I say. “And it’s my
job
to troubleshoot.”

She holds up the gloves. “I’ve had time to think while sopping up Lake Michigan back there.”

“And this Thursday?” I ask, glancing toward the front room where we’re supposed to be installing Annalise’s artwork.

“Is still on,” she answers definitively.

I know it’s wrong, and completely incongruous with the disaster-recovery effort happening a few feet away from us, but my stomach does a little dance of excitement when I learn that I’ll get to see Todd on Thursday after all.

*  *  *

I don’t sleep well Monday night, what with the wreck and the bakery disaster and the situation with Brandon and the fact that every time I wake up—which is often—project schedules for three different clients are swimming in front of my eyes. Finally, at 4:30 I get up—
screw it
—and pad into my office to get some work done. I still haven’t come up with a sofa that meets Nestor Santiago’s approval, and I need to get a start on designing their master bath. I’m meeting the two of them again Wednesday afternoon, and I’m hoping for a firm commitment so I can start the ordering process.

I finally get too sleepy to keep my eyes open around 6:00 a.m. I fall into bed and don’t wake up again until Simon is licking my face, and the sun is streaming through my window at an alarming angle.

I shoot straight up in bed. “Shit. What time is it?” I say out loud and grab my phone. It’s 9:47.

“Oh, damn. Damn, shit, damn.”

I’m hopping around my bedroom like a Vegas entertainer on hot coals, pulling on the first items of clothing I see—a wrinkled linen skirt I need to take to the cleaners and a white blouse I hardly ever wear. There’s no time for a shower, but at least I don’t have any reason to be dressed up today. I’m due at Brewster’s house at 10:30 to oversee construction of the built-in bookshelves in his study.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pop in my contact lenses in record time, deciding to skip makeup—I’ll slap on some concealer and lipstick in the car. I really, really need to run by the office to grab a few things related to the condo project, but I don’t have time. Instead, I scoop up my Santiago project files so I’ll have something to do if there’s downtime at Brewster’s today.

Ugh.
Brewster’s today. All day.

I know I should be excited to have back the project that’s rightfully mine, but all I can muster up is a deep feeling of dread. I wish I’d never gotten myself involved with that man. Something about him creeps me out—even though I’ve barely seen him in person. Plus, I feel strange working in his house knowing Candace probably slept in it last night.

Once I’ve let Simon out and put food and water in his bowls, I slam out of the house and screech across town to Brewster’s mansion. From the start, everything about this project has thrown me off my game—I’m hardly ever late for appointments, but I always seem to mess up where Brewster is concerned.

When I get there, the workers’ trucks are already out front. I ring the doorbell, tapping my foot impatiently, and am shocked when not Aubrey, but Emory Brewster himself opens the door.

I’m so flustered that I stutter and start offering explanations that don’t even make sense. “So sorry…up all night…working at five this morning…my dog…no alarm clock.” Holy cow, I’m an imbecile.

Brewster opens the door wider, his eyes never leaving my face. His expression is both amused and condescending, and I imagine he must look that way a lot. A side effect of being a smarmy asshole who’s smarter than most of the people around him most of the time.

“Are you late?” he asks in a cool voice, looking at the expensive platinum watch on his left wrist. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He gestures with an arm into the interior of the house, and I move past him and then half walk, half run toward the study. My heart is beating hard and fast, and even though he’s just told me it doesn’t matter that I’m late, I still have that panicked feeling like I just missed my plane or no-showed for a final exam.

When I reach the study door, I hesitate, turning to face him. His phone is at his ear, but he’s not talking on it, and because of the way his eyes quickly rise to mine, I have the sure sensation he was just staring at my ass. My face grows hot, and I swivel again, walking into the study without saying a word to him. He follows me in.

Within a few minutes my heart rate returns to normal, and I’m in my element, hunching over a mahogany desk that’s been pushed into one corner of the room and marking up my sketches to make sure the carpenter and his assistant understand exactly what I want them to do. I’ve intentionally avoided any glances at Brewster, though I can see him in my peripheral vision and hear him making calls, one after another, and speaking in a low voice.

Why in hell’s name is he here? I was counting on spending the day with Aubrey, who’s still creepy but in a less overt way.

This house has a weird vibe—almost a pall. It’s like those V.C. Andrews novels I read as a kid…
My Sweet Audrina
meets
Flowers in the Attic
.
Ohmygosh. Are Aubrey and Brewster related?
Maybe she’s his niece. Maybe a cousin? That would explain a lot, like why she lives here and why she has a more-than-professional concern about his well-being.

But if she lives here, why isn’t she here today? And why is
he
here? Is he that particular about the installation of this damn cabinetry?

As the carpentry crew gets started, I feel conspicuous, so I pull out my phone and start going over my schedule for the rest of the week. I return several emails and then take my laptop out of my bag to go over my notes on the hearth room. I realize with dismay that I’ll have to break the radio silence between me and Brewster, who is
still in the room
.

“Do you mind giving me your Wi-Fi password?” I ask him through clenched teeth.

He glances up at me with the same amused look on his face that he’d given me earlier. I’m glad he finds my frazzled ineptitude so damned funny.

“That’s proprietary,” he says, and I glare at him.

He chuckles and gives me his network name and password. “Thanks.” I bury my head in my computer again.

But it’s too late. I’ve opened the door for conversation, and now he crosses the room and sits on the arm of a large, rolled-arm reading chair just to the right of me. He cranes his neck so he can see my screen. I resist the urge to turn it away from him, even though all I’m looking at is a scanned rough of his kitchen and hearth room.

“Whatcha working on?” he asks in a patronizing tone, like an uncle asking his five-year-old niece to explain her crayon drawing.

I don’t look up from my screen, avoiding a glimpse of his unnerving aqua eyes. “I’m going over the furniture plan and schedule for your hearth room,” I say. “Now that the hardwood’s ready, I’m getting in the marble guys to reface the hearth before we start installing furniture and accessories.”

“You’re very efficient,” he says, and there’s something unfinished about the way he says it. Like he’s comparing me to his previous design team, who clearly didn’t fit that description. I’m burning with curiosity over his relationship with Candace, but I don’t want to open the door for any personal questions.

Neither of us says anything for a few long minutes, but I can feel his eyes on me, and he doesn’t move from the arm of the chair. The silence is uncomfortable, and so is his proximity.
I thought he was busy and important.
Why is he spending the day lounging alongside the designer he’s paying to run this project for him?

I look up from my computer screen and glance over at him. His caramel-colored hair is in a disarray that looks intentional, and he’s dressed more casually today than I’ve ever seen him, in tan dress pants with a sharply pressed crease down the front of each leg and a blue pin-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top few buttons are undone, and his chest is so smooth that I can only assume he has it waxed. The creepiness just doesn’t stop with this guy.

“Are you worried about how the room is coming together?” I ask him, finally unable to can my curiosity. The contractor walks through the door then with a stack of cut two-by-fours and barks a few orders at the two crew guys who are busy prepping the west wall.

Brewster’s brows knit together. “No,” he says. “I just told you that you’re very efficient. It’s clear that you’re on top of things, and I’m sure the room—the whole place—will come together just fine.”

“So…” I say, giving him an expectant look.

“So…?” He shakes his head, a question mark in his eyes.

“Why are you micromanaging me?”

He stares at me for a couple of seconds, and then his mouth forms into a slow smirk. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

I can’t believe I used to find Brewster attractive—sexy, even. Now, up close like this, I can see that his eyes, though a gorgeous color, are too close together and a little too narrow, his nose is pointy and bird-like, and the set of his mouth is too hard. He also looks older up close, maybe in his early fifties instead of his mid-forties like I’d thought.
Closer to Candace’s age. Hmmm… I wonder if he colors his hair?

“I don’t need to like you,” I say. “I just need to give you rooms that function well, look nice, and suit the way you live.” I’m not sure where my nerve is coming from. I guess since I’ve already lost this project once, I feel like I have nothing left to lose.

I’m not looking at him though. I’m back to staring at my computer screen.

“You’re not a thing like Candace Greenlee, are you?” The question is rhetorical, and I try hard not to roll my eyes. “I suppose that’s why she hired you.”

Though I’m working hard to not let him rile me, my head swings in his direction. “What does that mean?”

“She’s the face of the operation, the image,” he says. “You’re the brains.”

“Gee. Thanks.” So much for not letting him rile me. I don’t care that he doesn’t find me attractive—honestly, that’s a relief. But the comment is still annoying on so many levels.

“I don’t mean that you’re not beautiful,” he says. “You are.”

He shifts slightly closer to me on the arm of the chair. The hair on my forearms rises, and I feel a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. Even though they’re hammering and drilling and not paying the slightest bit of attention to us, I’m glad there are three other people in the room.

“But you’re not like Candace. You don’t need to use anything but your talent and your intelligence and your outstanding work to win people over.” He leans back, away from me, but I’m no less tense.

A million thoughts are running through my head, but what I say is, “How do you know my work is outstanding? We’re just getting started.” Oh, how I wish that was not the case.

I can feel him watching me, assessing my reactions. Actually, I guess he’s assessing more than that, because when I glance up at him again his eyes are roving my body—at least, what he can see of it, since I’m seated behind his sturdy desk. My limbs tense up again, and a shivery sensation runs down my spine.

“Did you not think I’d thoroughly check you out before contacting you and bringing you into my home?” he says. “You’re the most well-regarded interior designer in this city, though you don’t realize it.”

He glances over at the work crew before leaning toward me, reaching out, and running his fingers down my bare arm. I pull it sharply away from him and try to give him a look that reads,
Touch me again and die.

I fight the urge to jump up and run from the room. Instead, I calmly close out of the programs on my laptop and snap the lid shut. I don’t look at Brewster as I slide the computer into my bag, organize the renderings on his desk, and turn to survey the work crew.

“I know you and Candace have a…personal relationship,” I say, looking back at him. “Our relationship, though”—I gesture between him and me with my right hand—“is strictly professional. I was pretty sure you understood that.” I stand, pushing the leather desk chair out behind me. My body is rigid to cover up the fact that my legs are shaking.

“Candace and I have a business agreement,” he says. The statement is confusing, but I can’t spend another minute in this house to find out what it means.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, spin on my heel, and walk over to the project foreman to explain that I’m leaving and be sure he has what he needs to continue working. Once we’ve finished talking, I head toward the door, but I can’t stop myself from casting Brewster one sideways glance.

He’s leaning against the edge of the heavy desk, watching me as I walk away with that same damn smirk on his face. “Are you going to post this on Facebook?”

I pause mid-step for a half second. Even though my blood feels like it’s boiling in my veins, I bite my lip and force myself to keep walking.