Building a Perfect Match. Arlene James
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but she couldn’t help being a bit uncomfortable, even as he fell in beside her, strolling along as she walked through the cavernous building. Finally, she felt compelled to speak.
“I—I meant what I said before. It isn’t personal.” He snorted, so she added, “Not on my part.” A slow smile spread across his face. Fascinated by the way the tip of his chin flattened and the green of his eyes intensified, she couldn’t make herself look away.
“Good to know,” he said softly.
She stumbled, suddenly feeling as if the ground shifted under her feet. His hand shot out, fastening around her upper arm.
“Careful,” he said, drawing her to a halt.
The heat from his hand radiated up her arm and throughout her chest, stealing her breath. He released her the next instant, and she searched for something intelligent and safe to say. The only thing she could come up with was, “I like your dad.”
He grinned. “Yeah. The worst anyone can say about my father is that he works too much.”
She relaxed somewhat, saying lightly, “Wish I could adopt his prayer policy the next time Garth goes on a tear.”
She smiled to herself, imagining the look on Garth’s face if she suggested that they stop and pray together in the midst of one of his rants. But then the smile died as she realized that she had never before wondered about the state of Garth Anderton’s soul. She would be very surprised if Walt Bowen was not intimately acquainted with the spiritual condition of each and every one of his employees. He probably prayed for them all daily and gently witnessed to every non-Christian among them. That’s what her aunts would do. But all she’d thought about was what good Garth could do her career. Petra felt very small in that moment, very small, indeed.
“Does he do that often?” Dale asked.
She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else. What do you want to know?”
“Does Anderton routinely go on a tear?” Dale clarified, frowning.
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Not really. It’s just that he’s very…strong-willed.”
“Used to getting his way, you mean.”
“Well, he is the boss,” she pointed out.
“I noticed. Have you been with him long?”
She shook her head. “Not him personally. I’ve been with the company about six months, but this is my first project working with Garth as his—”
“Special Assistant,” Dale supplied.
Surprised at the bite in his tone, Petra frowned. “One of several,” she clarified.
“Oh?” He sounded interested, so she went on.
“It’s a temporary position, if you must know, a chance to prove yourself and move on to bigger things.”
Dale folded his arms and cocked his head. “Such as?”
“Management. And then,” she added enthusiastically, “acquisitions, I hope. He’s taking the company international, eventually, and someone has to find properties in those exotic locales.”
“And you want to be part of that?”
Surprised that he had to ask, she gave her head a wobbly shake. “Wouldn’t you?”
“No. Especially not if it means living overseas.”
Shocked, she backed up a step. “Why not?”
He dropped his hands to his waist and glanced around the building. “To put it simply, I’m a family man.”
“But you’re not even married!” she blurted.
He brought his gaze back to hers. “Not yet. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have family. I’m in business with my father here. I have an apartment in my folks’ house. I eat dinner nearly every night with them, my sister and her family. I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world—except…” Glancing down at his toes, he rocked back on his heels, then suddenly he looked her squarely in the eye again and said, “Except for a wife, home and family of my own.” He smiled. “But that would just be adding to the family, wouldn’t it?”
He seemed so sure of his place in the world, so confident that his life was on the right track; it left Petra feeling bereft and uncertain when she could least afford to be. Managing a smile, she reminded herself that she was finally getting it together, finally on her way to…what exactly? Financial success? A brilliant career? Happiness?
Gulping away her sudden doubts, she said what seemed most obvious. “The Bowens sound like a close family.”
Dale nodded, clearly pleased. “We are. I always thought the Chatams were big on family, too. I mean, your aunts are so devoted to one another.”
Petra smiled with genuine brightness. “Yes. They are.” She felt her smile dim as she added, “Ours is just such a large family, though, that we all sort of go our own way.”
“Maybe that’s what it is then,” he told her lightly. “Both of my parents are only children. Other than my grandparents, it’s just us.”
“Are your grandparents here, too?” she asked conversationally, turning for the door once more.
He kept pace with her. “Grandma and Grandpa Bowen are. They live out at The Haven,” he told her, naming a private retirement complex. “Grandpa doesn’t get out much anymore, and Grandma won’t go anywhere without him. I try to visit them once or twice a week. Mom and sis are there nearly every day. Mom’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Enderly, divide their time between here and Minnesota. They’re here in the winter, there in the summer.”
“Can’t take the heat,” Petra surmised distractedly, thinking about what her aunt had said about him being a “dutiful son.” Apparently, he was just as devoted a grandson. A family man, who wouldn’t want any job that took him away from those he loved.
As she knew too well, he didn’t have to travel the world for a job like that. Her parents had worked long, grueling hours; as children, she and her brothers and sister had often gone days without seeing one or the other of them. Oh, there had been many exciting vacations to some of those exotic places she’d mentioned earlier. Too often, however, they as children had been admonished, usually by one of their many nannies, not to bother their busy parents with the small, everyday things that meant so much to kids.
Petra remembered one occasion especially, her first dance recital at the age of six. She’d been so nervous that her stomach had reacted poorly to her dinner, but the nanny had refused to call her mom, a pediatrician, saying that she would be in the audience when Petra performed, just in case Petra became ill. But “Dr. Maryanne” had spent only moments there that night. She’d been called to an emergency, unaware that her own child was embarrassing herself on stage by vomiting all over her patent-leather tap shoes.
That and other events had led Maryanne Chatam to eventually adopt a personal mantra that she repeated often to her daughters. “We’ve come a long way, but no woman can have it all, at least not all of the time.”
“Or the cold,” Dale said, and for the second time Petra had to shake her head apologetically.
“I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”
“Grandma and Grandpa Enderly,” Dale informed her in an amused voice. “They don’t like extreme temperatures.”
“Right. Sorry,” Petra apologized again. “Guess I’m just a little distracted this morning.”
“Dumping project managers has that effect on some people,” he quipped.
She had to laugh. “Apparently so.”
They had reached the outside door at some point. A large, garage-type door on rollers, it stood open.