Playing Dirty. Susan Andersen
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And her friend’s voice promptly faded to a background murmur.
Because, for just a second, she had a vision of that silky hair brushing her stomach.
She jerked in shock and slapped a new vision in its place—this one of letting herself into her Alki Beach condo, kicking off her heels, lighting a few candles and turning on the fireplace. She’d love nothing more than to climb into her nightie and maybe pour herself a nice glass of wine. To flop down on her big, overstuffed couch and know that this day was finally over.
She couldn’t deny she was intrigued and excited at the opportunity to be part of a documentary featuring Miss A. It was a world outside her normal experience and she was fascinated by the idea of learning about it.
But a big part of her was already exhausted by the push-pull of her emotions, which kept flip-flopping all over the place whenever she was in Cade Calderwood Gallari’s company. And for now she just had a need to escape.
So she cleared her throat and leaned into the room. “Jane is here and I’m gonna take off.”
Janie grabbed her by the arm at the same time Cade jerked his head up to stare at her in alarm.
“Are you crazy?” her friend demanded. “Leave me by myself with this clown and I won’t be responsible for what I say.”
“That is not an option,” Cade agreed. “We need you to stick around so you can handle the details.”
Both were clearly determined that she wouldn’t leave, so postponing her home-sweet-home fantasy, she blew out a quiet breath and gave in with reasonable grace. “Very well,” she said and preceded Jane into the room.
Where, steeling herself, she took the farthest seat across the desk from the man and his damn vision-inducing pheromones. “Let’s get this done.”
CHAPTER THREE
Lord. I didn’t realize how crazy the next six weeks were gonna be until I wrote down everything I need to get done.
Later that evening
IT WAS NEARLY NINE when Cade let himself into his rented Belltown condo in a renovated 1914 brick building on First Avenue. Dropping his keys into a burled wood bowl on a tobacco tin–sized table, he didn’t bother feeling for the light switch. Instead he made his way down the abbreviated hallway and into the body of the living space by the glow of the city lights pouring through a good-sized triple-pane window that blocked most of the downtown traffic noises. He went directly to the gas fireplace in the corner of the room and flipped on the switch.
With a soft whoosh, flames leapt to life and began licking at the artificial logs. Turning on the table lamp, he looked around his new digs.
It was a short tour, since the place had a single studio-style bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom boasting an oversize shower, which all by itself made it worth twice the price he was paying. It would definitely do.
It had been a long day, however, and he was past ready for a little kick-back time. So he toed off his shoes and padded in his stocking feet to the kitchen, where he delved into the fridge Ava had stocked, grabbing the first thing he saw: the half gallon of milk. Opening it, he gulped down a quarter of it straight from the carton, then bent to study the rest of the refrigerator’s contents.
She’d bought him chicken tenders, a skewer of grilled Alaska salmon, cut veggies and fruit, a tub of kalamata olives, a wedge of aged Beemster Gouda, salad fixings and a container of some New Agey–looking salad made of couscous or quinoa, or some such shit. But it was the container of deviled eggs he pulled out.
He wondered if she’d remembered how much he liked them or had just gotten some for everybody.
Probably the latter.
Taking the lid off, he tossed it on the counter, grabbed the carton of milk and took his booty over to the chair by the fireplace. He set the milk on the little table at his elbow, swung his feet up onto a footstool, fished out an egg half and popped it in his mouth.
“Damn.” He didn’t know if Ava had made these herself, gotten someone else to make them or picked them up at one of the upscale grocery stores that seemed to liberally sprinkle Seattle these days, but he had to hand it to her—they rocked.
So far, at least, she seemed to be good at her job.
Yet here it was, not even the first official day, and he already needed a break from her. That didn’t bode well for the next month and a half.
When he first got the brainstorm to hire her, he’d considered himself fricking brilliant. It was a win-win: Ava was the choice most highly recommended and he could finally pay off the debt of his high school screwup, which until last November she’d refused to even let him apologize for. As an added benefit, she was providing the food services and seemed to have a strong knowledge of the town’s players. All of which would save him money in the long run.
In that aspect, and given the quality of her work, he was brilliant. But he hadn’t thought things through. He hadn’t considered how being constantly thrown into contact with her would make him feel.
He’d forgotten how much he’d liked her back in the day before he’d thrown her to the wolves in order to keep a bunch of friends, who hadn’t been worth what he’d sacrificed.
“Shit.” Losing his appetite, he set the container of deviled eggs aside, dropped his feet from the stool and sat up. Jamming his fingers through his hair, he stared at the flickering flames.
Let it go, Slick. What was done was done, and going over it for the hundredth time sure wouldn’t help him unwind after a day crammed with traveling and trying to get things organized. And hungry or not, he needed to fuel up. Tomorrow was the first full day on the set, and he needed to be on top of his game.
So he reached for another egg. He’d eat his food, drink his milk and just veg in front of the fire for a while. What he wouldn’t do was obsess over old mistakes.
Especially not the one he’d made with Ava Spencer.
SLOW TO PULL her attention from the lists she was compiling when the landline at her elbow rang the following morning, Ava reached to pick up the receiver without bothering to check caller ID. She brought it to her ear and murmured an absentminded hello as she ran her gaze down the list she’d been assembling on her Grocery iQ app. Grey Poupon! That was what she’d forgotten—she’d known there was something.
She added it to her list.
“Ava, I need you to plan your father’s birthday event.”
Well, hell. That got her attention. Abandoning her iPhone on the breakfast bar, she straightened on her stool. “Hello, Mother. I thought you and Dad were still in Chicago.”
“Yes, yes, we are.” Impatience laced Jacqueline Spencer’s tone. “Which is precisely the problem. We’ll be here until early February—which allows me no time to arrange your father’s birthday myself. So you need to do it.”
Ava counted to ten. “Do you remember the documentary job I told you about?” She didn’t hold out much hope, since usually the things that were important to her went out of her mother’s ears as quickly as they’d gone in.
But Jacqueline surprised her. “The one with Allan Gallari’s son?”
“Yes. I just started it yesterday and between that and some jobs for a few of my longtime clients, I’m afraid it’s going to take up all my time for the next several weeks. But I can refer you to a fantastic local party planner I met at the conference in New York last summer.”
“I don’t want some second-rate caterer! This is your father’s sixtieth birthday we’re talking about, Ava.”
Crap. The guilt card. No wonder parents played it so often—it was so freaking effective. Sighing, she picked up her iPhone again and opened a new app. “How many people?”
“I’m keeping it small. I thought seventy-five.