Never Tell. Karen Young
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cocked his head, considering. “I’d know for sure if you’d put on one of your jackets.”
“Great idea.” This from Jason.
“Jason, I don’t think—” But he was off like a shot. “Excuse me,” she said to Hunter, then turned to find her shoes. Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel stripped as bare as her feet. Which was a ridiculous reaction, she told herself, gazing around the tiny room. Where the heck had she put her shoes?
“Looking for these?”
She turned to see him pluck her shoes from beneath the pile of wrapping paper on the floor. “Yes, thanks.” She took them and stood on one leg to put them on, thinking she must look like a flamingo. That done, she took a deep breath, straightened, tugged her sweater down over her jeans and met his eyes. He was openly amused.
“Do you always work in bare feet?”
“It’s a habit and a silly one,” she said. “I somehow shed my shoes once I get caught up in what I’m doing.” What was keeping Jason?
He leaned one shoulder against the door frame, as if settling in. “If that’s the secret to your creativity, then I’d forget trying to break it. I don’t know much about quilts or fashion, but I’m told an Erica Stewart label is the hottest thing going.”
“We’ve been very fortunate,” she said, and went back to her desk before looking at him again. “Tell me something about your mother, her hair, eyes. Just because we’re the same size doesn’t mean our style and color should be the same. Does she tend to wear subtle colors or bold ones?”
“Her eyes are blue and her hair is blond. She tints it to cover the gray, I think. Not that I’ve ever seen a gray hair.”
She put a hand to her own wild and curly mane. No matter what she did, her hair tended to take on a life of its own in Houston’s humidity. “And colors?” she prompted.
“Not too much bold stuff. Subtle, I guess.” His gaze went to her black T-shirt and jeans before wandering back to her face. “She hangs out with a lot of artists, but she doesn’t dress like one. She doesn’t look like one, either,” he added.
Jason returned just then. “The champagne silk, I think.” He displayed the jacket over one arm with a flourish. “Size six. How tall is she? Erica’s five-six. If your mother’s around the same height, this should be just perfect. Come out from behind that desk and try it on, Erica. He needs to see it on to get the full effect.”
“His mother’s a blond and she has blue eyes,” Erica said, staying put. “The champagne should be right for her. There’s no need—”
“Champagne is right for anyone, sugar. What Hunter needs to see is whether it fits. Come on.”
Before coming out from behind her desk, she shot Jason a dark look, promising retribution. Nevertheless, she allowed him to help her into the jacket, noting with a quick glance at Hunter that he was clearly enjoying the whole charade.
“You should be the model for your designs,” he said, looking her over. “You’d sell those things faster than you could make them.”
“We’re already selling them faster than we can make them.” Head cocked, Jason studied the picture Erica made wearing the jacket. “And you’re absolutely right, Hunter. Wearing that little number with those black jeans, she strikes just the right note of sexy sophistication, don’t you think?”
“Damn straight.”
With a huff of exasperation, Erica took the jacket off. The man was a potential buyer, so she bit back a tart remark and conjured up a professional smile. “If your mother is not pleased with the color or style, we’ll be happy to exchange it for something else.”
“Trust me, she’ll love it. And can I wait while you gift wrap it?”
“Certainly. Jason will take care of you.” Back behind her desk again, she picked up the sketch pad and folded her arms around it…for some reason. “Right, Jason?”
“Right, sugar. I live to gift wrap.” Jason held the jacket up and studied it with a critical eye. “I’m thinking something in that pearlized cream paper and possibly the pale gold ribbon, the gauzy stuff, Erica. What d’you think?”
“Fine.” She again made the mistake of looking into those dark, amused eyes.
“Cream and gold sounds perfect to me,” he said, grinning.
Beaming, Jason moved toward the door. “Your mom will absolutely love this, Hunter. And be sure to tell her to look at the next issue of Texas Today. Erica’s been named one of the mag’s Twenty Women to Watch.” Jason’s smile flashed at Erica. “She’s one terrific gal, our Erica.”
Grinding her teeth, Erica said, “You’ll want to start wrapping that, Jason. Mr. McCabe is on his lunch hour.”
“You betcha.” With a saucy wink, he left them.
Hunter moved from his position at the door into her office. “I saw the article in yesterday’s paper. Your stuff looked good, but I don’t think the real impact of your work was captured in a newspaper spread. Have you considered printing up a catalog? Those quilts would look great in full color, but the jackets would really pop out. It pays to advertise.”
“Are you in that line of work?”
“Advertising? No, I’m an architect.”
She couldn’t help giving him a quick once-over. In jeans and a leather jacket over a dark T-shirt and scuffed boots, he didn’t look like an architect. He looked like a man who worked outdoors. “Really.”
“Cross my heart.” He said it with a slow smile. “I’m dressed for fieldwork today. I’ve got a couple of jobs going and I like to keep close tabs on any work in progress.” He glanced at his boots. “I just left a job where the crew struck a waterline and flooded the whole site.”
“So you’ll need to get back, I imagine.”
“The situation’s under control,” he said, sitting on the edge of her desk. “Tell me about the Texas Today thing. Something like that doesn’t just fall into a person’s lap. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. As I said, Jason and I have been—”
“Fortunate. Yeah, but it’s you who’s been named, not Jason. You’re the artist. You’re the designer.” He paused, looking at her. “At least, I assume the designs are yours exclusively, right?”
“They’re my designs, but Jason is a talented artist. And he’s absolutely tops in promoting our shop.” She put the sketch pad down on the desk. “Mr. McCabe, I don’t want to seem rude, but I still have a lot to do here.” She glanced at the drape of red silk spilling over her drafting board. “There never seems to be enough hours in a day to get everything done.”
“I hear you.” He stood up and looked at her ringless left hand. “Is there a Mr. Stewart?”
Not anymore. The thought came quickly and with its usual swift, piercing pain. But her reply was simply “No.”
The look she gave him was usually good at discouraging even the most determined man. Something in the tone of her voice or the look on her face usually put them off. It worked now with McCabe.
“Okay,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll let you get back to it. Nice meeting you.”
“Thank you. I hope your mother likes the jacket. As I said, if she’s not pleased or needs a different size or color, have her bring it in. We’ll do our best to find something she likes.”
“She’s never returned anything I’ve ever given her, but I guess there could be a first time.”
“Yes, well…be sure to pick up a card on your way out, so she’ll have our phone number.” She picked up the sketch pad again.
He