Page 28 of Just The Way You Aren't

Wyatt glances at me. “So you wouldn’t mind if I swung by Silver Hearts and?—”

“I mind. Now leave it alone,” I grumble. I snatch up what little is left of my pile of chips and head for the door while the others chuckle and toss aggravating comments after me.

“Don’t be such a grump!” Alec calls out as I’m stalking out of the room.

I’m so tired of being called a grump I could scream. Once I’m in my Mercedes, I smack my hands on the steering wheel, then press my forehead to the leather. I have to get Willow Harper out of my mind. I just have to. We’re from two completely different worlds. There’s no way I should be attracted to her.

No fucking way.

And yet…

Damn it all to hell, I am.

I reluctantly returnto the Silver Hearts office fifteen minutes early for our meeting. To my absolute shock, Abby is not the only person there. Willow is sitting in her office among her piles of files. However, the chair she cleared off for me is open, waiting for my arrival.

She’s turning something on stiff cardstock over and over in her hands, but when she sees me, she quickly pops it in her top desk drawer. “Oh, hey! You’re early.”

“So are you, I see.” Her warm smile is hard to resist. I take the chair across from her and take my tablet out of my briefcase. I pull up the file related to the fundraiser. I’m trying not to look at her, but as the silence continues, I glance up and my pulse quickens.

Willow is wearing a dress with a somewhat tighter bodice than usual. Her luscious breasts are two beautiful, trembling mounds swelling just over the top. When she breathes, the fabric stretches just enough that I can imagine the full, perkyglobes. My hands itch to touch them. Hell, my hands itch to touch her anywhere.

I realize I’m ogling her and force my eyes to continue up the pale line of her neck to her heart-shaped mouth and finally up to her mysterious hazel eyes. She isn’t looking at me, though. I’m relieved I haven’t been caught.

“Willow?” I ask, clearing my throat pointedly. I want to get down to business and get out of here before I’m tempted to do something truly stupid. Like actually kiss her.

“Hmm? Sorry. Sorry. Right. Um… where were we?” She’s flustered, and while it would annoy the hell out of me on anyone else, the only thing irritating me at the moment is the way my cock is responding to Willow’s every movement. “Oh, yes,” she says, searching for the pen that’s barely visible under one of the piles of paper on her desk. “I was asking about the venue’s accessibility, right? We may have clients coming, and many of them use wheelchairs and other assistive devices.”

I raise an eyebrow. “We covered that at our last meeting.”

“Right. Right! Um… what were we talking about again?” She gives me a sheepish smile.

“We hadn’t started on anything yet. I just got here, remember?” I respond, frowning slightly. Honestly, sometimes this woman is in her own little world, but right now, I think she might be universes away.

“Right,” she says again. She opens a folder in front of her, realizes it’s the wrong one, and then goes hunting for another in the pile next to her desk.

I’m used to her informal color-coding system now, so I pull the purple folder immediately to her left between us while she is still thumbing her way through a stack on the right. “Willow, it’s this one.”

“Huh?” she asks, and I give the folder a little shake. “Oh! Oh, right. Yes, that’s the one.”

“Purple is for the Silver Hearts Charity Dinner, donations, and donor information.” I’m reminding her of her own system, I know, but she’d also been digging in a pile that had not one purple folder in it, so I was starting to worry if she was going a bit senile like some of the people she serves.

Is it stress? I wonder as she opens the folder upside-down and just stares at the contents blankly.

I pointedly turn the folder around. “Does that help?”

“Oh! Yes, immensely.” She blushes. “Sorry.” She looks up at me and grins. “No press tonight?”

“No,” I say emphatically. “God, no. I didn’t want to drag them around here the first time. It’s that stupid Alfred…” I begin working up a full head of steam just thinking about him.

She winces. “I was joking.”

“Oh.” I back off my tirade.

She falls silent and stares down at the folder again, but she still doesn’t seem to be focused.

I clear my throat. “Last week we left off on whether or not we want to do a silent auction. Or, rather, what we wanted to auction. I think we both decided it was a good idea,” I prompt her. “We just had a difference of opinion on what was appropriate to auction at a high-end charity function.”

A pensive little furrow creases her forehead. “Yes, I remember. I said I wanted us to auction items our clients have made. Some of them are very gifted crafters. Tony Marzetti is a top-notch woodworker and Pamela Finch makes quilts you wouldn’t believe! She’s friends with Betty Nordam who can crochet anything—and I do mean anything. She’s got a wholehost of Baby Yodas marching along the back of her sofa right now.”

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