Page 22 of Just The Way You Aren't

No, it is for the best that I was able to control myself and not kiss her. Control. Schedule. These are the pillars of my world.

“Yoo-hoo, Damien! Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Cynthia presses.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, you’ve been rescheduling a lot of appointments lately. Are you all right?”

I frown as I push my julienned vegetables around my plate. “The board says I’ve damaged the company’s image with that damn article and that Guardian Productions are considering pulling out of our agreement. They insist I restore our imageby getting involved with a charity. Apparently, donating money isn’t enough anymore.”

“Oh dear. So, you’re doling out food in a soup kitchen somewhere?” Cynthia asks.

I snort. “Hardly.”

Talking about my unwanted assignment only makes me think about Willow again. Still. I shake my head, mentally ticking off the list of things that aggravate me about her. She is disorganized, flighty, and stubborn. Exceedingly cheerful and indefatigable. Curvy in a most maddeningly attractive way. And those lush, pouty lips…

“Damien? Care to elaborate on what they’ve got you doing? You seem to have drifted off there for a moment.” Cynthia grins at me. “You’d think you’d met a woman or something.”

“She has no sense of time. No respect for a schedule. If she wasn’t running a successful charity, I’d wonder if she had a modicum of discipline in her at all.” I stop my rant only long enough to realize I’m continuing my list of Willow grievances out loud now. My family is staring at me, confused.

“Oh, my God, you have met a woman,” Cynthia squeals.

“What now?” I ask impatiently.

“Who is she?” my sister presses. ”Tell us all about her.”

My mother actually perks up a bit at this too, so it pains me to have to defuse the enthusiasm. “No, it’s nothing like that, I assure you.”

“Liar.” Cynthia gives me a knowing smile, which annoys the hell out of me.

“Look. I’ve been doing charity work for the elderly, all right? And the Executive Director of Silver Hearts is the most maddening woman I have ever met. I’m only thinking of her now because we need to work together, and she drivesme up the wall. Trust me, she isn’t my type at all,” I explain testily.

Cynthia raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re not the best judge of that. I’ve seen some of the women you’ve dated, Damien.”

I snort. “I’m not dating Willow Harper, so don’t give me that look. She’s disorganized. She’s passionate about what she does, but she refuses to set a schedule for anything. She has this attitude that things take as long as they take. What kind of lunacy is that? I mean, not to say she’s not a good person. She’s a wonderful person. But she dresses like a hippie and has this untamable riot of red hair. God that hair…”

My sister starts laughing hysterically and my mother beams at me. She hasn’t beamed over anything since my father passed.

“What’s so funny?” I grumble to my sister.

“It’s so perfect you’ve found someone to balance you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

My mother is the one who answers. “Damien, darling, you’re much too serious. You always have been. You need someone at the other end of the spectrum to balance you out. You know, meet you in the middle. The way your father does for me.”

Does.Present tense. She’s forgotten again. For the moment, at least. Cynthia and I leave it alone. We’ve learned that correcting her only makes her more confused. Moments like this don’t happen often, but when we’re all together in ways we used to be when Father was alive, her mind plays tricks on her.

I shake my head. “Don’t blow things out of proportion. There’s nothing going on there. Willow’s just a nice, yet frustrating, person I happen to work with temporarily.”

Cynthia gives me a sly glance. “A nice, yet frustrating person you’ve cleared your schedule for on more than one occasion.”

I’m trying to think of a good rebuttal, and, admittedly, still thinking about Willow and that almost-kiss, when my mother gives a happy sigh, clutching her frail hands in front of her.

“It will be so nice to help plan a wedding again soon,” she declares.

I look at her happiness and can barely stand to crush it, but I have to nip this in the bud before she starts pinning all her hopes on some imaginary romance between Willow Harper and me. “Mother. Trust me. Nothing is going on there.”

She ignores me. “I think a flock of doves would be lovely. White ones. At least a dozen of them.”

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