Kiss Don’t Tell. Avril Tremayne
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just a formality. Signatures on the page. Therefore he—would—turn—up!
‘So—stop—freaking—out!’ she ordered herself.
But despite the stern order, and the cool-headed reassurances she’d given Sarah and her other best friend Erica when she’d shared her grand plan with them last night, she was finding it almost impossible to subdue her roiling insides now the moment was upon her. As evidenced by her hands—always the most reliable clue to her state of mind—which were clenching and unclenching. She wiggled her fingers, trying to ease the coiling tension in them, but it seemed a lost cause.
She looked around her living room, checking one last time that nothing was out of place, taking a series of deep, silent breaths in an effort to calm herself down.
She hated being nervous. Hated nerves. Had perfected the art of not letting them show, because the dithery fluttering of them made her look like an unsettled flamingo.
Logical, rational financial economists weren’t supposed to look like fluttery flamingos. They weren’t supposed to pace floors. Or chew fingernails. Or clench their hands into fists. Logical, rational financial economists stayed unemotional and invulnerable as they crunched numbers and analysed data and predicted market trends with level-headed precision.
That was how she’d approached drawing up the contract for tonight, how she’d prepared the checklist for each of them to review before the contract was signed. Rationally, unemotionally, with a level, invulnerable head. Because she would not be vulnerable. Not ever, ever, ever again. And okay, that was two more evers than required, which didn’t suggest a lack of emotion, which meant she had to work harder to get herself under control. Like now.
Maybe taking one more look at the checklist would do the trick. Checklists always soothed her.
She walked swiftly to her briefcase and slid out the relevant paper-clipped pages. Three of them. Neat. Error-free. Black type on white paper.
She drew in another one of her silent, secret, calming breaths as she skimmed the introductory description of Adam Quinn she’d compiled from the details Sarah had provided, even though she already knew it by heart:
• twenty-nine years old
• works for AQHP, a small architectural construction company
• no unmanageable character flaws unless you consider ‘obscene’ (Sarah’s word) self-confidence a problem
• no disgusting habits
• obsessively clean
• attractive but with a few rough edges
• not a psychopath—underlined, because Erica and Sarah’s chief concern had been that Lane would end up with one of those.
Sarah had summed him up as ‘the quintessential alpha male’, with hordes of women making booty calls with impressive frequency. When Lane had told Sarah she didn’t really believe in the concept of a ‘quintessential’ alpha male, Sarah had laughed her head off and told Lane she’d change her mind within five minutes of meeting her brother.
‘Not that it matters how we describe him,’ Sarah had added. ‘All that matters is that Adam has all the credentials for the job. You don’t have to look at anyone else, because if he can’t do it, I promise you nobody can. So stop looking. As of now.’
And Lane had stopped looking—well, she hadn’t had time to even start looking, really, because Sarah had rushed the Adam solution at her first thing this morning.
It was too late now to start wondering why she’d never met Adam before given he and Sarah were so close. Too late to start worrying that she didn’t actually know him. Knowing him hadn’t seemed important as long as Sarah vouched for him. Looks were immaterial, too, which was why she’d been happy enough with the grainy, out-of-focus photo of him that Sarah had emailed to her, even though it was basically nothing more than a looming dark shape with a white slash where his teeth were.
But now that she was on the very verge, and she suddenly realized she had no idea what to say to him when he arrived …
Uh-oh, there went her hands, clenching again. For a moment, all she could do was stand there trying not to crumple the checklist in her convulsing fingers. What if she said something stupid? What if he hated her on sight? What if he didn’t hate her on sight but decided he didn’t like her after they signed the contract? Why hadn’t she put those questions on the checklist?
The checklist, focus on the checklist. Okay, deep breath, another, another … Better.
The checklist had everything that was important and nothing that wasn’t. It didn’t include anything about saying something stupid because it didn’t matter if she said something stupid—talking wasn’t required. Liking her wasn’t required either. They probably would like each other, though. Lane liked Sarah; Sarah liked Lane; Sarah liked Adam. Logic suggested there would be a mutuality of liking in there that would encompass Lane and Adam in some way. Especially since she knew Sarah had described her to Adam—looks and personality—and whatever she’d said apparently hadn’t scared him off.
Or had it?
Because he still wasn’t here.
She slid the checklist back into her briefcase, walked to the entrance hallway, and listened carefully at the door for sounds of arrival.
Nothing.
She checked her watch. She’d give him ten more minutes.
She caught sight of her face in the mirror above the glass-topped hall table. Pale—but that was normal. Blue eyes almost too calm—so deceptive. Lips very faintly smiling—nicely controlled. Hair pulled off her face—no stray wisps.
Perhaps the hair was too severe? She tugged a few strands free of the confining band and tried to arrange them around her face. Hmm. Messy. She removed the band completely and retied her hair into a ponytail at her nape. In the absence of her housemate Erica and her miraculous curling wand, Lane’s normal hairstyle would have to do, so she gave up on the mirror and ran her eyes, as best she could, over the rest of her.
She hadn’t had a clue what she should wear tonight and had ended up staying in the square-cut navy suit she’d worn to work. Plain. Businesslike. Possibly … boring?
Ugh. It was just so hard, the clothes thing. Especially in situations like tonight’s. How did you go about styling yourself to look attractive, but not flirtatious? Appealing, but not desperate? Like you weren’t trying too hard, even when you were? Why hadn’t she thought to ask Sarah what he was likely to be wearing? Not a suit, if he was coming from a building site—that seemed certain.
Oh God, didn’t that mean her own suit was a poor choice? He was going to take one look at her and realize she didn’t know how to dress, and he was going to run away before even getting inside the house, which would mean she’d failed before she’d even started.
All right, she officially hated this!
She was calling it off. He was too late. It was too late. The whole thing was too rushed. More planning time was required.
She walked purposefully back to her briefcase and this time she didn’t slide out the checklist, she wrenched it out. The two copies of the contract, too. She was going to get all ‘symbolic’ for once in her life, the way Erica was always telling her to do, and rip every page in half.
And then it came.
The sound.
A car pulling up.
Stay calm. Breathe.
Car door slamming.
Breathe. In—out—in—out. Maybe it’s not him.
Front gate squeaking.
Oh God, he’s here. He’s actually here.
Something