Chapter Four

The next Monday, Sera was up before the dawn, nervous energy filling her before her feet even hit her bedroom floor.

With time on her hands she scoured her extremely basic wardrobe in order to find something appropriate for her new position. Without any diamonds or sparkly high heels at her disposal she picked out black tights covered in tiny white spots, a long white top, a black blazer she’d found at an army surplus store years ago, and her favourite brogues.

An hour later she lucked out, wrangling her heavy old car into a park right outside Hazel’s place and behind a white Ute with a Murdoch Construction Group decal on the back window.

She curled her hands around the steering wheel as the engine ticked to a halt.

The logo was great. Not what she would have expected. It was big, black, and highly stylised; like a biker tattoo.

She wondered if Murdoch rode a motorbike. Or had a tattoo. Or a girlfriend.

“Down girl,” she muttered, nudging open her car door before slamming it shut.

If they happened to bump into one another again she’d be more prepared this time. No hiccups. No lusting.

She was here to do the very best job she was able. A big, hunky distraction that made her feel edgy and off-kilter was not on the cards.

A late chill had come over the city and a sharp wind cut through her tights and tickled her bare ankles. She let her hands fall into the sleeves of the soft, oversized shirt and zoomed up the path.

Only to find a chocolate brown puppy sitting on the lawn, a leaf stuck on the end of its nose.

“Hey, sweet pea,” Sera cooed, bending with her hands on her knees. The dog stared at her a beat before his tail started to wag. “What’s your name?”

She checked the collar. Saw the name Dozer carved onto a black metal circle.

Sera looked around for a frantic owner but only found a quiet street. Figured it might be another of Hazel’s furry companions to go with the caramel-coloured fluff ball she’d met the other day. She gave the pup one last tickle under the chin and headed up the path.

Not sure if she should knock, she tried the door to find it open.

The place was quiet.

Until it wasn’t. A drill whirred to life and she near leapt out of her skin.

Head down, she hustled past the decrepit rooms to the room of white. It was whiter than she’d even remembered. Bigger to. And – oddly – neither doorway into the room had an actual doors.

Her office at uni had been a fifth of the size, draughty and shared. Doors or no, this was an improvement.

A big white table in the corner looked out over the room, and behind it someone had moved the ornately carved white chair. She laid out her MacBook, her phone and a flash new leather-bound notebook Marcy had left on her front stoop over the weekend as a ‘new job’ gift.

The whir of the drill cut through the silence again, whipping unimpeded through the doorless holes in the wall.

And despite her best efforts Sera couldn’t help herself picturing Murdoch wielding the thing. Those big scuffed boots pressed hard into the floor, jeans hugging every bit of him they could. Dark hair curling out from beneath a beanie, the shadow on his jaw giving him a hard, earthy edge. Tool belt hanging off his hips in such a way –

Sera shook her head. She’s seen more tool belts in her life than most girls would in a lifetime. Heck, she’d owned a few herself over the years. There was nothing so special about Murdoch’s to have her imagining the thing in such intimate detail.

A little voice perked up in the back of her head. It’s not the tool belt; it’s how he wields it.

Sera blinked, and opened her MacBook with more force than necessary.

Likelihood was, he’d be in one room, she in another. And both had plenty to keep them busy. The end.

Still, she waited for the whir of the grinder to take up in earnest before ducking into the small kitchenette Hazel had shown her on the tour the Friday before.

Gaze flickering intermittently over her shoulder, she looked for a mug. Found a black one with the Murdoch Construction Group logo on the side, of course. She quickly put it back, trying not to imagine her fingers had touched somewhere the man’s mouth had been.

Taking care to pick out something pink and floral she made the fastest cup of tea possible and hotfooted it back to her office.

Opening her new, red notebook in order to make notes about the things Hazel would need – internet, printer, scanner, a subscription to a stock photo site, a business name – when the book opened to the first page, her pencil hovered over the white paper.

It needed a proper title page as all new notebooks do. From nowhere one popped into her head. She scrawled it down. It would work nicely until Hazel settled on the real thing.

For that she needed Hazel.

But Hazel never showed.

All morning it was just her and silence – punctuated by the occasional whir of a drill that had her stopping mid-thought so as to imagine a pair of big, brown, scarred hands holding on tight.

Three hours into her new job, hair long since whipped into a messy low bun, foot tapping manically against the hard wood floor, Sera wondered how anyone in the private sector got anything done.

Despite the number of glitter images she’d bookmarked in her favourite stock photo site, the work so far was fun. And she’d taught this stuff for so long the coding was second nature. She’d be having the time of her life if not for the ostentatious, mock-vintage phone on her desk.

Its shrill tone had been snapping her out of her groove all morning.

She’d have told her students that such tasks were outside their job description unless otherwise agreed upon. Sera’s willpower on that score had lasted about half an hour.

“Hazel Hamilton-Hayes’ line,” she sing-songed, answering the phone with pen in hand and Post-it at the ready. “Sera speaking.”

Her husband’s business manager, a man named Finn, was on the other end. Lovely deep voice, if a little grouchy. Then again, most people who rang were trying to track Hazel down. Unsuccessfully, it seemed.

She added another message to the pile.

And then she scribbled another quick note Hazel suggesting that an answering machine might be a great idea. Better yet, a receptionist.

Another soul to fill the space between her and Murdoch would be most helpful to her concentration. Music played now, a tinny sound that drifted on the air. Right now, it sounded like he was dragging something heavy from one place to another.

But even without the banging and whirring and the occasional hum of his voice she could sense the guy, like an underlying rumble through the floor.

Sera shook it off. Shook him off.

And got back to work.

Tried, anyway. Her mind wouldn’t settle.

She messaged her dad, knowing it would bing on his tablet, reminding him that he had a physio appointment at three and his cab would be there by two.

Still, she couldn’t settle.

She scrolled over to the music files on her computer and found a little Elvis to anchor her. “Viva Las Vegas” would get her in the right mood. And – mostly because it cut out the sounds of hard, sweaty, manly work going on a few rooms over – it helped.

For a bit.

Finally, with nothing else to go on until Hazel made an appearance, Sera opened a drawer in her desk, looking for inspiration.

And found it by way of a pile of notes Hazel had written and tossed inside.

The top note – “Seven Signs He’s a Billionaire Not a Millionaire” – was written on the back of an eye-poppingly large bar receipt. Shopping lists itemised where to source things from garter belts to monogrammed paper. And beneath the lot sat a sheaf of expensive paper held together with a glittery bulldog clip. “The Paperwork” was embossed dramatically across the front page.

Hazel had scrawled across the bottom of the cover page: Serafina, darling, any way you can pop all this in your computer? xXx

Thankful that she wasn’t above snooping Sera took off the bulldog clip, lay the pages down and opened a form data template. Humming happily, she typed in the opening questions, starting with basic information – name, age, gender.

And, talking out loud as she typed – a learning trick she’d picked up when she’d started taking university courses in year eleven – read...

Sera’s fingers lifted off the keyboard as if burnt.

She leaned forward, read the sentence in her head this time. Wow.

Feeling like the time she and Sally-Anne McIntosh had spent a lunch hour hiding in the school library and reading all the dog-eared pages of Flowers in the Attic she read...

Computer forgotten, Sera grabbed the pages, turned the big, ornate chair a smidge at a time to make a little cocoon for herself between the desk and the corner wall, leant back in the chair and read on, her voice echoing softly in the big room.

What had she gotten herself into? Whatever it was, it was gripping – in a can’t-look-away-from-a-car-crash kind of way. She flicked the page onto the desk behind her and dived into the next.

And on it went.

Questions about adultery, shared bank accounts, and favoured sexual positions blurred into one another until, when the phone rang again, she picked up the handset and hung it up before she realised what she was doing.

“I’m probably not the right person to answer that question.”

A deep voice cut through Sera’s reverie. Frantically unwinding from where she’d curled up on the chair, Sera peeked around the chair to find Murdoch leaning nonchalantly in the doorway, holding a big, black mug of something steaming hot.

Today’s beanie was grey. A navy-blue Henley with the sleeves shoved to his elbows and the top button half way to undone fit him snug and fine. From what she could tell, he owned a veritable stash of jeans that fit obscenely well. The scenery was so glorious Sera did not know where to look.

She swallowed – before the first threatening hiccup could take a hold – for in that moment there was no talking herself out of the full-blown, physical, primitive reaction to the man. She had to swim in it. Or drown.

“Hi,” she finally managed, a pulse beating in her throat. “Can I help you?”

More importantly, how long had he been standing there? She glanced down at the last few sentences she’d read out loud and bit her lip to hold back a mortified groan.

Murdoch took a swig of his drink before easing himself into the room; all long, loose strides and that direct gaze she felt all the way to her toes.

His cheek quirked as he said, “I could hear you chatting away from the kitchen. I thought you might have gone a little stir-crazy in here on your own. Had to check everything was okay.”

“I could have been on the phone.”

An eyebrow twitched as he glanced down at the contraption which sat there quietly, surrounded by a growing pile of Post-it notes.

He held up his spare hand. “Word of warning from someone who’s known Hazel a long time. She is used to getting her own way. If it’s not your job to answer the phone, don’t.”

She nodded. He was right. He was also big and dusty and ambling her way.

And Sera realised all too late what he was about to see.

“The Paperwork” was spread out across her desk. Without flinging herself bodily over the lot, there was no way she could hide it all.

As it was Murdoch put his mug on the corner of her desk and grabbed a page that had spilled onto the floor. Then, his fingers big and brown against the white paper, he started to read.

Like her, he liked to read out loud.

Sera slowly, slowly, sat back in her chair, and scrunched her eyes closed. Problem was that in the darkness her other senses heightened. Her whole world smelled like wood dust and fresh cotton and everything felt exceedingly warm.

“Discuss?” he said again, and her eyes flew open.

“Not gonna happen,” she shot back.

She realised all too late he was talking to the paper. Frowning. His fingers tightening on the page.

As he read on, he unconsciously scratched a thumbnail along the skin above the beltline of his jeans, his shirt lifting a fraction, showcasing a sliver of tanned male belly, rippling with the kinds of muscles Sera had thought were relegated to movies stars and the wondrous depths of Pinterest.

The show was cut short as Murdoch let out a hearty oath. “What the hell does she think she’s doing?”

“Hmmm? What? Who?”

“Hazel told me this new project of hers was some kind of ‘women’s empowerment centre’. So, what the hell is this?”

Sera lifted out of her chair and snatched the paper out of his hand.

“Sorry,” she said, attempting to tidy them into some kind of order, “I’m not sure how many copies Hazel has and your hands are dirty.”

He lifted his hands, stared at the squared nails and the paint stained creases. They were big, and broad, tanned and strong. And scarred. They were gorgeous hands, in fact; lived-in and capable. They made her insides unfurl like a cat waking after a nap in the sunshine.

Sera’s right leg began to jiggle. “What did you think ‘women’s empowerment centre’ meant?”

When Murdoch’s gaze slid back to hers, it was dark. And glinting. His eyes flickered between hers and whatever he saw there made his frown ease off a fraction and his cheek kick up at one side. The firefly was back, bouncing about inside her belly and all lit up like New Year’s Eve.

He said, “I thought it safer not to ask. Which was exactly what she wanted.”

He ran both hands over his face. And growled.

The sound vibrated through Sera like a truck shaking the foundations of the house. And her insides stopped unfurling and flipped over till they were in full-on pounce mode.

“So, hit me with it,” he said, shaking his head, crossing his arms and bracing himself on both feet. “What exactly are we dealing with here?”

“I’m not sure I know all that much more than you, to be truthful.”

One eyebrow kicked north before his eyes slid to the pages gripped in her hands. She let the papers fall as if the questions mired within weren’t permanently branded into her brain.

“Maybe a mite more.” She shuffled forward in her seat and nudged at the trackpad so the screen was no longer a sea of stars. “From what I’ve managed to glean, it’s a matchmaking business, leaning heavily on old-style romance.”

“Old-style?” he asked, as if in his experience with romance was romance. Period.

Sera’s next breath in was a little shaky. “Like in old movies. Smoky rooms and chandeliers. Dressing for dinner and writing thank-you notes. From a time when women wore silk stockings and men wore hats.”

Murdoch moved around behind her to get a better look. She glanced up. His beanie was pulled down over the tips of his ears, the bulk creating shadows over his dark eyes, and she wondered why men didn’t wear hats at all times.

When he bent closer – one hand on the back of her chair, the other on the desk near her elbow – she faced front. Swallowed hard. And clicked on the review button of her program. “This is what I have so far.”

The website-in-progress filled the screen. It really was coming together nicely. She’d spent a fair bit of time over the weekend refining her original pitch; the fonts, the block colours and light flare accents, were – to her eye – more sophisticated now with a hint of retro. She clicked through the pages, heat pouring into her cheeks as the data form spat up some of the earlier questions from “The Paperwork”.

“You’ve done all this today?” he asked, so close his breath washed over her ear.

“Pretty much.”

“Rubbish. I might not have a clue how to do what you do, but I know how to turn a computer on. I’d bet good money you’ve been working over the weekend and then some.”

On her way through the house that morning, she’d noticed the piles of rubbish in a couple of the rooms had been cleared, and work stations set up. “And you haven’t?”

His gaze slid from the screen to her eyes. He was close enough she could count his eyelashes (a million at least), the flecks of emerald within the deep, deep green of his eyes, every last speck of dark stubble.

“When do you sleep?” he asked.

“I don’t. Much.”

The discerning smile that tugged at his mouth took her breath away.

“So I’m doing this place up for a matchmaking scheme,” he said.

“Seems so.” Her words came out husky.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. It took every ounce of willpower not to lick her bone-dry lips.

“Hmm,” he said, the sound tickling over her skin like a bucket of chilled glitter. His dark eyes lifted back to hers. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but if what you say is true, then Hazel might have found her calling.” He angled his head toward screen. “And you, Serafina Scott, have found yours.”

Her hand lifted to her heart. “Wow. Thanks.”

His cheek lifted in the beginnings of an actual bona fide smile, and it changed his whole face. From dark and serious to pure rogue.

Then Pumpkin – Hazel’s fluffy little Pomeranian – skittered through open doorway, barked three times, chased his tail and took off.

Meaning Hazel wasn’t far behind.

Murdoch pulled himself upright and Sera took what felt like her first full breath in over a minute.

The urge to press a fist over her heart was overwhelming. Every part of her felt tight, and warm, and light, and energised. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before.

And after the way he’d looked at her mouth, Sera knew that he’d felt something, too.

As Hazel’s high heels clacked closer and closer, Murdoch moved to the wall, rubbing his thumb over a knot in a panel of wood.

“Darling!” Hazel called as she made her entrance. A vision in black and gold, her platinum hair falling in soft waves to the edge of her jaw, she looked like she was off to the premiere of a film in which she was the star. “Everything motoring along beautifully, I expect.”

Sera was halfway out of her chair when Hazel’s eyes landed on Murdoch.

“Sit, dear girl,” said Hazel, eyes twinkling madly, “before you pull something.”

Sera sat; the twisted chair squeaking awkwardly beneath her.

“So, here we are again. Did I interrupt something this time? It feels like I’ve interrupted something.”

“No.” Sera shot back. “Not at all.”

“Hmmm.” Unconvinced, Hazel swung a finger from one to the other before landing on Murdoch. “So, tiger, are you going to back her up or can I count on you to fill me in on why there is enough energy crackling in this room to start a fire.”

Tiger gave the wall one last rub and then swung slowly around, slouching casually against the wall as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Actually, Hazel, we were talking about you.”

Well, that hit Hazel’s sweet spot. She lifted a hand to her chest and said, “Me? Whatever for?”

Going with it, Sera spun the computer screen around. “I was filling Murdoch in on what we’ve come up with so far.”

Hazel’s sharp gaze found the screen. Softened. Brightened. “What is this?”

“Starting with the mock-up I showed you the other day, I’ve taken your notes, researched similar sites, found an angle that I think suits what you’re hoping to achieve, as well as placing you in a unique market position, and come up with this.”

It was bare bones. Not much more than a home page. But to Sera’s eyes it sang.

Hazel plucked a pair of reading glasses from somewhere on her person and perched them on the end of her nose. “That’s really mine?”

“Of course it’s yours, Hazel.” Murdoch tore off his beanie and ran his fingers through his hair creating sexy dark waves. “What else do you think she’s been doing in here since seven this morning?”

Hazel didn’t even blink at the ‘since seven’ bit but Sera sure did. How did Murdoch know exactly what time she’d arrived? Could he sense her at the other end of the house the way she sensed him?

Keeping her gaze firmly locked onto Hazel – lest Murdoch get even the slightest clue about what she was thinking – Sera saw something unexpected. Vulnerability. Hazel’s strident bravado had been stripped away as surprise and wonder took a hold.

Empathy bloomed hard and fast inside of Sera. She surreptitiously swiped the Post-it notes from beside the phone and tossed them into the bin at her feet.

Which was when Murdoch laughed; a gorgeous, deep rumbling sound that had Sera’s gaze leaping his way. Only his eyes weren’t laughing with her. He looked...entertained.

He glanced at the phone and shook his head.

Sera poked out her tongue.

And Murdoch’s half-smile creased into the real thing. A visual feast of straight white teeth, creases bracketing his wide mouth, and eyes so green and beautiful they hurt.

“Your girl’s got talent, Hazel,” Murdoch rumbled.

There was nothing Sera could do to hide the heat rising up her neck and settling in her cheeks.

“Of course, she does,” Hazel said, coming to and pulling herself upright. “Only the best will do. Which is why I refused to let anyone else get their hands on this house but you, my gorgeous boy.”

“Is that right?” Murdoch levelled Hazel with a glare that made her smile.

Before Hazel could scarper, Sera said, “Hazel, sorry, but have you settled on a business name? It would allow me to secure all the necessary sites names for you.”

Hazel flapped a hand at Sera, before turning it upon herself so that she might inspect her perfect manicure. “Frank tells me I need to settle on that, too.”

“And you tell him you’ve never settled in your life.” That was Murdoch.

Hazel’s gaze for him was warm, and knowing. “Damn straight.”

And Sera wondered what their history was. How they’d known one another a long time. Hazel treated him like a favoured nephew, and Murdoch treated her with grumbling affection. Only there was something more. Something fragile underlying their interactions. Something that had Murdoch protecting Hazel, even while they butted heads.

“Business name, Hazel,” Murdoch said, his tone brooking no argument.

“Yes, yes. Fine. What about...” Hazel tapped a gold-painted nail against her lips. “At Last?”

Sera smiled.

Hazel frowned. “No, you’re right. If that doesn’t sound like settling I have no idea what does.”

Sera ate her smile.

“What about...Misters For Sisters? Fanning the Flames of...” Hazel threw up her hands. “I need input from you young people. It’s your generation I will be aiding with this endeavour. Murdoch?”

Murdoch said nothing. Probably couldn’t with the way his jaw was clenched so tight.

“You are a man of brains as well as beauty, what do you think we ought to call ourselves?”

Murdoch still had nothing.

“Fine. Serafina, then. Imagine yourself a young woman, a woman with options, a woman with interest coming her way, only you are surrounded on all sides by mates. Cocks of the walk. Shy guys. Boys who barely know one end of a woman from another.”

Sera started to shake her head, not keen on being at the pointy end of this conversation. Except with every word that came out of Hazel’s mouth she found herself nailed. Her entire dating history displayed before her in one fell swoop.

Hazel continued. “Imagine how it might feel to finally find yourself a man. A real man, a man who makes your toes curl, and your funny bone switch on and your intellect weep for joy.”

Murdoch cleared his throat behind his fist and Sera knew he was laughing. While her heart thumped in earnest.

“Maybe you’ve finally realised that you can’t find such a man at the local bar or in the fresh fruit aisle. You need help. You need someone with experience to teach you how to maximise your assets. How to lure the right men, like flies to honey. To help you find a man who can love you the way you want to be loved.” Hazel drew breath. “Are you imagining?”

Unfortunately, yes. She was. Sera’s heart beat so hard it hurt. And her bones were getting in on the action. Getting that feeling. Warm, familiar tingles spreading every which way.

Sera nodded, if only to get to the end quicker.

“If you were that girl, what company name would make you sit up and think – this, this is what I need in order to become the woman I am meant to be?”

Sera blinked. The woman she was meant to be? Until recently she’d been pretty sure she was already there. Content. Comfortable. Busy. And then her father hadn’t signed up for the Elvis convention and piece by piece she’d discovered the life she’d thought was so perfect was in fact riddled with cracks and strains.

Hazel went on. “Perhaps something cheeky and youthful. Along the lines of...oh, I don’t know, what’s that song my granddaughter wouldn’t stop playing a while back? Call Me Maybe? Or how about Seriously Sexting Singles? What is sexting?”

“You know what?” said Sera, running her now sweating palms down the sides of her tights. “It actually doesn’t matter yet. Truly. I can keep tweaking the branding in the meantime. And with ‘The Paperwork’ to input into the site, there’s plenty to do, so –”

Pumpkin yapped somewhere deep inside the huge house, and Hazel snapped upright. “Excellent. Another time then. Yes, this is all coming together beautifully. We are quite the team, are we not? And you, dear girl, are a modern wonder.”

Then, before Hazel made a grand exit, Murdoch perked up. Meaning he slowly peeled himself off the wall, yanked his beanie back over his curls, and – deep voice ringing through the room till even the air vibrated – said, “Then treat her as such. She’s not here to answer your phone and sign off on your deliveries. She’s here to save your Luddite ass. Get yourself an office assistant.”

Sera’s mouth popped open. Ever the peacemaker, she made to say it was fine, before Hazel said, “An assistant. Why didn’t I think of that? What a wonderful idea. Serafina, would that suit you?”

Sera nodded before she lost her nerve.

With a final nod, Hazel’s gaze caught on Sera’s brogues poking out from under the table and with a hearty sigh she shook her head and took her leave.

Sera dropped her face into her hands and for a moment wished she could click her heels together and transport elsewhere. In a workshop helping her dad recondition an old motor. Or cocooned deep within the safe, sandstone walls of the university. Surrounded on all sides by mates, cocks of the walk, shy guys. Blithely unaffected by all.

“You okay?”

Murdoch’s deep voice rang inside her little hand cave like a promise. She slowly came out from behind the wall of fingers to find Murdoch watching her; his green eyes warmer than was entirely fair.

“The job did seem too good to be true.”

He laughed, his head dropping back and the glorious sound filling the room. Her fluttering insides twisted beautifully and Sera gave up on trying to ignore it.

“She’s a handful,” he said, “but her heart’s in the right place.”

“If you say so.”

Murdoch’s eyes crinkled. And then he moved towards Sera’s desk. Sera held her breath as he...grabbed his now cooling coffee.

“I’d better get back to work,” he said, shooting her a shadowed glance. “And you need to get back to all those pressing questions.”

Sera glanced down at the pile, her gaze landing on: True or false – a man’s manhood is best measured by the size of his...bank account.

When she looked up Murdoch was thankfully already at the doorway. But there he stopped, his big brown hand curled around the white doorframe as he turned.

His gaze landed on the phone before rising to hers. “In case I’m not here to save you from yourself next time she tries to run roughshod over you, stand your ground.”

He smacked the wood twice, and then disappeared.

Leaving Sera to once again find herself staring at an empty hole in the wall.

Huh. In case he wasn’t there...? Nobody was running roughshod over her, thanks very much! She liked to be helpful. She was good at it.

And yet she couldn’t rouse a head of steam his comment deserved. Because he’d pinned her in one.

Which made her insides feel all twisty and turny. For all his big, gruff taciturn demeanour, he saw her. Saw that she tended to look after everyone around her before herself. Helping Marcy get through school. Keeping house for her dad. Making sure she always knew where the professor’s glasses were.

It wasn’t that often that people made the time to do the same for her.

And Murdoch was making a habit of it.

Because he’s a real man. Her toes curled in her shoes right on cue.

Yet he was so different from the easygoing guys she usually gravitated towards. He had serious charm. Unruffled charisma. Deeply-honed gruffness, as if his edges had been carved by sharp blows. And, beneath it all, a quiet reticence that made her want to climb the wall to see what was behind.

No easy pickings there.

In comparison, her life had been good. Easy. A life she’d long since thought was exactly as she’d wanted it to be. And yet – restless, mind racing, searching – she struggled to get to sleep at night.

Shaking her fringe from her eyes and her contrary thoughts from her head, Sera told herself to get back to work.