Selling Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 1) (34 page)

"But seriously, tell me," she whispered to me, as if every other woman at the counter wasn't straining her ears to listen in. "Is he still sexy? Is he married to anyone? You must have found out something!"

I started to open my mouth, but my eyes, and my brain, kept on getting distracted. "Della, can you seriously do something about that?" I asked, pointing at her chest.

Della glanced down into the miles of cleavage on display as she leaned forward on the counter. "What, the girls? Come on, it's not that distracting."

"I'm pretty sure that you could give a man a heart attack, as all his blood rushed elsewhere," I said. "I'm happily straight, but even I'm getting distracted by the sight! Are you wearing a corset or something?"

"Trying out a new push-up bra," she admitted immediately, beaming at me for noticing. "But fine, I'll straighten up. But tell me something, please, I'm dying!"

I really ought to have just clammed up and not told Della a thing. After all, I always told myself that I wasn't a gossip, and I shouldn't be sharing any information that wasn't mine to share. But still, gossiping was just so tempting, and besides, Sanford had to know that these details about him would get out sooner or later!

"I can guarantee that he's not married to anyone, at least no one living with him," I confided. "And I can see why. No woman could possibly handle more than five minutes with him before wanting to break up - or maybe just throwing him through a window!"

"Yes, but he's rich!" said one of the women sitting beside me, an older lady with her brightly dyed orange hair pulled into a swirling up-do on top of her head. She blinked at me through red-rimmed oval glasses. "A lot of girls wouldn't say no to a man who can support them, if you know what I mean!"

"Have you seen him jogging?" piped up one of the other women. "He could be broke, and I wouldn't kick him out of my house, if you know what I mean!"

The women hooted with wine-soaked laughter, and I laughed along with them. "But seriously, he's awful," I went on, once the laughter subsided. "Sure, it's a very pretty package, but he's a self-centered jerk, and acts constantly suspicious about everything. No one would be able to handle it. Heck, he probably would have his butler sleep with you, just because he couldn't be bothered to do it himself!"

Della sighed, pulling a mostly empty wine bottle from beneath the counter and refilling my glass for me. "On the house," she told me. "And that's too bad. It really is a pretty package, but he sounds like he's still a mess. I guess money can't fix all problems."

For a moment, I thought about my own problems. The money from the job was definitely fixing my the problem of my meager bank account, but this job wasn't likely to do me any favors in the romance department. I remembered that brief little flash of heat when Sanford had reached past me to open the door for me on the night when he hired me, but that definitely wasn't enough to even count as a single point in the romance category.

"For now, at least, I'm happy with just the money," I said to Della. "After all, if it lets me come out here and have a night on the town, it can't be all bad!"

Predictably, this comment roused another cheer from the peanut gallery. The topic of conversation moved on to how some minor local celebrity had stopped off in Britta's shop to look at lingerie for a female friend of his, and I relaxed, sipped my wine, and tried to distract myself from thinking about the job.

I'd finally finished that first room, and was on to the third room. Sanford had shown up again and complained about how slowly I was progressing, and I'd pointed out to him that part of the delay was because it took me so long to pull apart all the furniture on my own.

Of course, I hadn't actually expected him to do anything about it. But when I pointed out that I wasn't necessarily strong enough to separate all the heavy items without needing to strain myself and take frequent breaks, he immediately rolled up his sleeves and stepped up to the pile of furniture.

"What are you doing?" I'd asked, doing my best to not ogle his forearms. Cold and haughty, I reminded myself.

"Helping you, like you asked for," he answered immediately, reaching into the pile and grabbing a small end table. I just stared at him for a moment, feeling momentarily speechless.

That moment of speechlessness, however, ended as soon as I saw how he pulled at the table. "Hey, take it easy!" I burst out, reaching forward and grabbing his arm without thinking. "You don't want to damage any of the pieces!"

Only as these words were leaving my mouth, however, did I realize that I had my hand sitting on his arm, and that he felt warm and strong beneath my fingers. I jerked my hand back quickly, as if his skin was burning hot. Fortunately, Sanford didn't seem to notice.

He did roll his eyes at me, however, for asking for his help and then immediately telling him that he was doing things wrong.

Sanford stuck around with me for the rest of the day, helping out whenever I needed some extra muscle. He also spent a fair amount of time smirking at my own attempts, or rolling his eyes when I got all excited over some feature of a piece that we dragged out of the pile, but he didn't actually say anything mean to me.

And to tell the truth, I actually didn't mind him hanging around. Despite the eye rolls and the occasional little grin dancing around his lips that told me that he was laughing inside his head at me, he wasn't a bad working companion. Whenever he saw me struggling with a heavy item, he'd move forward and take up the extra weight without needing any prompting.

Besides, watching him move gave me a good idea of how he looked under those clothes - and it was the stuff of fantasies.

We took a break after a couple hours, and Sanford summoned Winston to bring us some snacks and water. He sprawled down on top of a couch that we'd just cleared, apparently not caring about how his landing on the old plush surface sent clouds of dust radiating out in every direction.

"You realize that you might be sitting on something worth thousands of dollars, right?" I asked him, watching with disapproval as he propped his feet up on a nearby chair.

"You realize that I wanted to throw all this stuff out, don't you?" he answered me, but there wasn't any rancor in his words. "Look, it's great that you care about all this old stuff, but I just want it handled. That's why I'm helping you."

"Oh, you're not just here to check out my body whenever I bend over to grab something?" I retorted without thinking.

I meant for the words to sound sarcastic - it was clearly a joke! But Sanford hesitated for just a fraction of a second before interesting, and although the light in the room wasn't perfect, I could have sworn that I saw him blush a little, as if I'd actually caught him in the act.

Ridiculous. He definitely wasn't checking me out.

But he didn't answer my question, and for the rest of the afternoon, he seemed to be taking extra-special pains to ensure that his eyes were never resting on me. Every time I glanced over at him, he was glaring down single-mindedly at the furniture and other antique pieces, as if they had wronged him in some way.

"So, you're being quiet."

I glanced up as Della popped back over to me, standing on the other side of the bar and watching me closely. "Just thinking about all the work that still needs to get done," I said, reaching out to sip the last of my glass of wine. "In fact, I probably ought to head home soon. I can't get much done tomorrow morning if I'm nursing a hangover."

"Uh huh." Della nodded, but her eyes lingered on me. "You know, you should try and draw him out of his shell."

"What? Who, Sanford?"

"No, your cat." She huffed, blowing a few errant strands of her curly hair out of the way from in front of her face. "Yes, Sanford! He's clearly withdrawn from the world, and that's not healthy. Try and talk to him."

"I don't think that he wants to talk to me," I answered, but Della just waved a hand to brush away this protest.

"Seriously. Just give him a chance, and maybe he'll open up," she insisted. "All these strong silent types are the same. Deep down inside, they just want someone to trust, someone who will listen to all the secrets that they lock away because they're afraid that those secrets make them vulnerable."

"And you know all about this, do you?" I asked her.

Della just shrugged, the motion making her whole body jiggle a little and attracting dozens of male eyes from all across the wine bar. "Just give it a try. You can thank me later."

After a moment, I smiled at her. I knew that my best friend had good intentions, my best interests at heart. "Thanks for the advice, Della," I told her, pushing the empty glass back to her and sliding off of my stool.

"And try to get a good look at his ass, too!" she hollered after me as I left, and I grinned to myself. That was more like what I expected from her!

Chapter Twelve

*

The next day, as Sanford grunted alongside me as we moved a heavy dresser out from against a wall so that I could look for markings on its backside, I remembered Della's words.

No, not the thing about looking at Sanford's ass - although I did get a couple quick glances of it as he flexed in his jeans, and I had to admit that it was the most perfect male ass I'd ever spotted. My fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and give it a totally inappropriate little squeeze!

But instead of committing sexual assault on my employer, I cleared my throat, trying not to cough from the dust clouds we'd raised, hanging in the air. "So," I said, doing my best to keep my voice casual. "Do you remember high school much?"

Sanford glanced over at me. Those dark, strong eyebrows rose slightly, but after the last couple of days, I'd developed a bit of resistance to his stony looks. "Come on, we're just dragging stuff around. We might as well talk about something, just to pass the time."

I thought for a minute that he'd tell me to just remain silent, that he wasn't paying me to talk. But just as my lips were forming an apology for even raising the question, he grunted and cleared his own throat.

"I remember high school," he confirmed, although he didn't say anything more.

"Do you remember me? I'm pretty sure that we overlapped by a year. You were a senior when I started as a freshman. Although you-" I closed my mouth mid-sentence, but he laughed harshly, already guessing what words I held back.

"Yeah, I dropped out," he said, grunting as he shoved the dresser across the floor. I winced at the scratches he probably left in the hardwood floor, but he didn't even look down to see the damage. "Not exactly the model student."

"Definitely one of the coolest ones, though," I replied without thinking, and I saw him pause. He faced away from me, but I saw the muscles in his back flex slightly as he stopped shoving at the dresser.

"Coolest? You little freshmen thought that I was cool?" Something about the idea seemed amusing to him.

"Well, yeah," I said, thinking back to those days as a teenager. "You had that leather jacket, hung out and smoked cigarettes and skipped class, and you skulked around with those dark glances. Everyone thought you were so mysterious, with the ripped jeans and dirty old shoes and everything."

This comment made Sanford laugh out loud, and he turned to look over his shoulder at me. "That's hilarious."

"Why? What's funny about it?"

For a moment, he hesitated, but then sighed and turned around to fully face me. "Back when I was a senior, I was probably at the lowest point in my life, that's why," he replied. "That was just before my mom passed away, although I knew it was coming."

"What??" My mouth dropped open.

"Every day, I hung around at school because I didn't want to go home and find her dead, sprawled out on the floor of our trailer," he answered, his lips still slightly curved up in a sardonic smile that held no actual humor. "I made it most of the year before she finally keeled over. Fortunately for me, the mailman happened to stop by and found her before I made it back home."

Holy shit. I just stared at Sanford, wondering if this was some sort of sick joke. He looked back at me steadily, however, and then shrugged, turning back to the pile of furniture. "What next?" he asked.

I couldn't spare a single thought for thinking about what furniture piece to examine next. "Your mom died in high school?" I repeated, still not totally convinced that he wasn't playing some sort of twisted prank on me.

He turned back to me, planting his hands on his hips. "Do you really want to hear about this?"

Yes. No. "If you're okay to talk about it," I finally said softly, wondering what can of worms I'd just opened.

He hesitated for a second, glancing over at the pile of stuff still in the room, but then shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, why not. Therapist said that I ought to tell someone, kept on insisting it, even up to the point where I fired him."

Oh. He'd been in therapy, too. Good job, Elaine, picking a real winner to totally develop a girly crush on. "I mean, I'm not a therapist, but I'll listen."

Sanford opened his mouth, but then paused and leveled a finger at me. "But this stays between the two of us," he warned, and this time his stony glare really did scare me. "No one, not your friends down at the bar where you drink, not your old gal pals, learns any of this. And if someone else starts talking to me about any of this, I'm not only firing you, but I'll also sue you for breach of confidentiality. Understand?"