Chapter 2

Six Weeks Earlier

 

I tried not to stare.

The guy didn't belong here, any more than I did. But here he was anyway, standing like some kind of bad-ass, where no bad-ass belonged.

This wasn't a place for brooding eyes and a fighter's build. It was a place of business. A place of art. A place where pompous posers made pompous decisions, all in the name of my overly famous dad.

A sad smile tugged at my lips. If my dad were alive, he'd totally hate this. Probably, he'd call it a crock – or, knowing him, something a lot more profane. But me? I'd been raised to be way too polite, unfortunately.

So, here I sat, with my hands folded and my face schooled into that familiar mask of ladylike interest. Except now, it wasn't just a mask, and my interest wasn't all that ladylike either.

It was real, and it was because of him, the guy who'd just strode into the packed boardroom.

From the room's opposite side, I watched with nearly twenty other people as the stranger exchanged a few whispered words with Beatrice, the grey-haired receptionist who'd just escorted him in.

From somewhere behind me, I heard a female voice whisper, "Talk about hot." 

A second voice whispered back, "No kidding. He can paint me any time." She stifled a giggle. "I hope he does nudes."

I wanted to roll my eyes. College interns. Funny to think, I should be in college, too. In fact, until a few months earlier, I had been in college – before the funds had dried up, leaving me with half an art history degree and no guarantee that I'd ever finish.

As the interns whispered back and forth, I wondered why I felt so much older than they sounded. Maybe it was the weight of responsibility. Like for one thing, the boardroom was actually inside my house, which meant that if interns started drooling, I'd be stuck mopping it up.

And yet, they weren't wrong. I felt my knees tremble under the table, and not because of the air-conditioning. I knew this, because the air-conditioning had been on the fritz for weeks now, and worse, I didn't have the money to have it repaired.

In cheerier news, we were in Western Michigan. It was mid-September. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t be needing any air-conditioning for at least nine months, maybe more.

I looked down as the flipside of that logic belatedly hit home. I'd definitely be needing heat though – a lot of it, considering the size of the estate. Searching for a silver lining, I reminded myself that at least that part of the furnace was working fine – for now, anyway.

Hoping to forget all of that, I returned my gaze to the dark-haired Adonis, who stood, watching Beatrice as she adjusted the lights, making them brighter on his side and darker on ours.

As for my gaze, it remained firmly on him.

Was I staring?

I blew out a quiet breath. Yes. I was.

But in my defense, it wasn't only because he was obscenely good-looking. It was because he looked so far out of place that I didn't know what to think.

This was a formal interview. But he was wearing tattered jeans and a black T-shirt that looked like it had been washed at least a hundred times. True, the shirt looked good on him – maybe too good. The dark cotton clung to his finely cut muscles, only to fall a shade too loosely over his slim waist and narrow hips.

Confused, I gave his jeans a better look. They looked good on him too, but that was hardly the point. They weren't exactly dress-jeans, assuming there was such a thing. I saw a hole in one knee and paint smears along his right hip.

I felt my eyebrows furrow. It was like he hadn't gotten the memo, literally. It was beyond odd, but not as odd as my unseemly reaction to him.

His clothes aside, there was something intriguing about his stance – too wide, too defiant, and definitely too masculine, at least compared to what I'd been expecting.

Shifting in my high-backed leather seat, I smoothed down my skirt, hoping to cover not only my skin, but my growing embarrassment.

After Beatrice left, the guy strode forward and claimed the usual spot, standing at the far end of the ornate conference table. His dark gaze scanned the room, passing quickly over the six of us seated at the table, along with the dozen others sitting in chairs behind us.

When his gaze passed mine, I sucked in a breath.

It suddenly hit me that I was nervous. For me? Or for him? Either way, this was a big deal. If he was selected, he'd have a shot at the kind of fame and fortune that most people could only dream of. The next year could literally change his life. 

Or, he could flame out like last year's crop of artist wannabes.

Still, I was rooting for him. Of course, I'd also been rooting for the ten other candidates that we'd interviewed today. But when it came to this guy? Well, I was rooting a little harder for reasons I couldn't quite understand.

It had nothing to do with his clothes, or how obscenely good he looked in them. It was those eyes, dark and dangerous, with a hint of sadness that tugged at my heart.

I felt myself swallow. Yup, those eyes were definitely a problem. I wanted to get lost in them and forget everything else – the fact that I hated this whole process, the sad state of my financial affairs, and the awkward truth that, unlike my dad, I couldn’t even paint a bathroom, much less a string of masterpieces that had gained him worldwide fame.

It was official. My life was a mess.

Next to me, Derek leaned close and whispered, "I know what you're thinking."

God, I sure hope not.

Derek wasn't just the attorney for my dad's estate. He was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was tall and lean, with blonde hair and light blue eyes. If Derek did know what I was thinking, I'd never hear the end of it.

I reached up to touch my face. Was I blushing? Probably. If I was lucky, the dimmed lights hid the worst of it.

I lowered my hand and whispered back, "I'm not thinking anything."

Or, at least nothing I wanted to discuss.

"Right." Derek gave me a faint smirk. "You're thinking she could've been at least a little less obvious. Am I right?"

I wasn't following. She?

Into my silence, Derek continued. "If you ask me, she's slipping." He gave a small laugh. "But hey, don't tell her I said that."

Who on Earth was he talking about? I gave Derek a questioning look and waited for him to elaborate.

But all he did was smile in that old familiar way. It was the same smile that he'd given me on my thirteenth birthday, just before Aunt Gina had surprised me with a singing clown who stank of whiskey and fell down the front steps.

Oh, my God. Aunt Gina. My stomach twisted, and my hands grew clammy.

Suddenly, I wanted to crawl under the table. Today was my birthday. The big twenty-one. With growing dread, I snuck another quick glance at the stranger.

Insanely hot? Check.

Dressed in a way that didn't quite fit? Check.

Decidedly out of place? Checkity-check-check.

Oh, no.

She wouldn't.

I swallowed.

Would she?

But sadly, I knew the answer to that question. Knowing Aunt Gina, she would, even though she'd promised not to.

I closed my eyes and tried not to groan out loud. For a long moment, I kept them shut and wondered what would happen if I ran screaming out of the room.

At the sound of a low chuckle, I opened my eyes and looked. It was Derek, of course, who leaned close to whisper, "Aw c'mon. Be a sport. It'll be over before you know it." He flashed me that familiar grin. "No harm in humoring her, right?"

Oh, there'd be harm alright – to my sanity, if nothing else.

My face was flaming now. I didn't have to touch it to know. Probably, I looked like a human tomato minus the stem.

I recalled my last birthday, when Aunt Gina hired a stripper dressed as a construction worker to greet me at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the local art center.

The ribbon-cutter had been me, or at least that had been the plan – right up until the Hard-Hatted Hottie began shaking his tool, directly in front the mayor and fifty other horrified people.

Okay, so maybe the tool was covered in a G-string, and maybe not all of the onlookers were horrified. I mean, Beatrice seemed to enjoy it. But that was hardly the point.

I wouldn’t be invited to do that again, even if I was the only child of Braydon Blaire, the closest thing to a celebrity this town had ever seen.

I snuck another quick glance at the stranger. Growing up, I'd seen a lot of artists. None of them had looked like that. I should've known something was up the moment he walked into the room.

Damn it. My Aunt wasn't slipping. I was.

My shoulders sagged. There were so many things I needed – a new furnace, a new roof, or heck, even a better winter coat. But what did my aunt get me? A freaking stripper.

I wanted to die of despair.

Sure, her heart was in the right place. I knew that. But for once, couldn’t she just listen? Couldn’t anyone listen? I gave Derek a nervous glance. From the look on his face, he sure as heck wouldn’t be listening.

He looked beyond amused. And the show hadn't even started.

I felt my jaw clench. Screw this. This time, I decided, the show wasn't going to start, not if I could help it.

I jumped to my feet, sending my chair rolling backwards. Behind me, I heard a soft thud, followed by a female voice squealing out, "Ow!"

Wincing, I turned to look. "Sorry."

She was rubbing her shins. At my apology, she looked up. "Oh." She gave me a shaky smile. "That's, um, okay?"

As I turned back around, I heard her companion whisper, "Maybe he'll kiss it and make it better."

This was followed by a dreamy sigh. "I wish."

Pretending not to hear, I looked toward the front of the room. Everyone was staring, including the stranger.

I felt myself swallow. Now what?