Mended Hearts. Ruth Logan Herne
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and finite, a path she’d traveled once before. No way was she going down that road again.
“Is there such a thing as typical rich anymore?” Hannah asked. “There’s some pretty weird millionaires running around these days.”
“And some downright nice ones.”
Hannah laughed. “Present company excluded, of course. Although I hear candy-store entrepreneurs maintain their delightful normalcy because of their choice in wives.”
“Makes sense to me.” Megan offered agreement with an elbow nudge to Hannah’s arm. “And wear the blue. Call his bluff.”
A part of Hannah wanted to do just that.
Another part couldn’t take the risk.
The gold top Hannah wore said she had no intention of jumping into the water with him, metaphorically speaking. The fact that the soft knit looked just as good as the blue simply brightened Jeff’s evening.
Watching as she wove her way through the tables of The Edge’s second dining room Wednesday evening, it was impossible to miss the strength of her moves, athletic and lithe.
That inborn agility appeared out of step with her other body language. Her careful facial movements belied by nervous hands and the inward expression that shadowed her eyes intermittently.
Edgy hands. Cloaked expression. A rough combination, all told, reminiscent of his mother in the bad days of his parents’ publicly awful marriage.
He stood as she approached the table. The hostess smiled as she indicated a chair. Jeff pulled the chair out for Hannah, waited until she was comfortably seated, then sat in the adjacent chair.
“You had to choose that one, didn’t you?” She met his gaze with a quiet look of challenge. “Being across from me wasn’t close enough? Or intimidating enough?”
“I intimidate you?” Jeff unfolded his napkin, brow drawn, but not too much, just enough to let her know he could quirk a grin quickly. “Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
“Annoyed, possibly,” she corrected, looking more sure of herself. “Intimidated? No.”
“Good to know, although I was starting to feel pretty good about myself. I’ve been trying to intimidate my sister for years. No go.”
“And yet still you try.”
He grinned agreeably. “A brother’s job. Would you like an appetizer, Hannah? The Edge has great stuffed mushrooms. And the owner makes Shrimp le Rocco, huge shrimp done in a wine and cream sauce with a hint of Cajun, just enough to give it life.”
“Are you auditioning for the Food Network?”
“I’m a Paula Deen guy,” he admitted, smiling. “All that butter. Cream. Southern drawl. And she’s sweet but tough. Reminds me of Grandma.”
“Your grandmother is one strong lady.” Hannah looked more at ease talking about Grandma. She settled back in her seat and fingered her water glass, then smiled and nodded at the waitress as they gave their drink and appetizer orders.
The smile undid him, just a little. Sweet. Broad. Inviting. She had a generous mouth when it wasn’t pinched in worry.
“She is.” Jeff settled back, as well, surveyed her and sighed openly. “Which means you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. My attempts to get Meredith on board fell on deaf ears. Seems she’s got other fish to fry.”
“Aha.”
“And your attempts? Still unsuccessful?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t try. There’s a part of me …” She paused, shifted her attention, then drew it back to him, reluctant. “That thinks this will be good for me.”
Good for her?
Jeff considered the words, the look, then chose not to probe. Seeing fundraising as therapeutic was beyond his understanding, but if they both had to be involved, at least they’d both accepted the fact.
Grudgingly.
However, sitting with her, watching her, eyeing the lights and shadows that played across her face, candlelight mixed with emotion, he didn’t feel all that grudging. He felt …
Drawn.
But he couldn’t be for two reasons: women of indecision annoyed him, which was precisely why he got on so well with his grandmother, and he had no time to devote to thoughts of a relationship.
If not now, when?
Jeff shut down the annoying mental reminder, thoughts of microchips, rare metal glazings and mobile communications taking precedence for the foreseeable future.
His grandmother was a thinker, doer and planner. Jeff followed her lead. Plan your work, then work your plan. He’d constructed his life that way, a goal setter to the max, doing anything to eliminate similarities to his narcissistic father. His appearance and affinity for inventive science labeled him as Neal Brennan’s son, but that was as far as the resemblance went.
Jeff pushed himself to be better. Stronger. Wiser. Although lately a part of him felt worn by having to be on the cutting edge constantly, he couldn’t afford the appearance of weakness. Not now. Not ever.
He leaned forward, elbows braced, hands locked, noticing how the freckles dusting her cheeks blended with her sun-kissed skin. “Hannah.”
She noted his shift and a hint of amusement sparked in her eyes, a look that downplayed her nervous gestures. “Yes, Jeff?”
She was playing him in her own way. He leaned closer. “Since we’re stuck with each other …”
“At weekly meetings.” She drawled the words, her tone teasing.
He sighed, then nodded as if pained. “For the better part of a year until enough money is raised.”
She met his look, but that small spark of humor in her eyes kept him moving forward. “Might I suggest we come to a mutual agreement?”
“That you buy me supper once a week? That sure would help my grocery budget.”
He grinned without meaning to. “We’ll put that on the negotiating table. Does that mean you’d cook for me once a week?”
“No.”
“Obviously we need to work on your bargaining skills. You never say no right out. It puts the other players off.”
“What if I’m not into games?” she asked. She eyed her water glass, then him. “Game playing isn’t my thing.”
“When it comes to raising funds, we’re all into games,” he assured her.
She sat back purposely.
“And when we’re talking cajoling benefactors, you and I will need to be on the same page,” he continued. “Which means we stay open to any and all ideas as if they’re workable, even if we know they’re not.”
“We lie.”
He shook his head. “Not lie. Improvise.”
“Lead people on.”
“Not in a bad way.” He studied her, and knit his brow, wondering. “As chairpeople, you and I need to appear open to others’ ideas even if we’ve already planned a course of action.”
“What if their ideas have merit?”
“We incorporate them, of course. But only if they don’t take us off track.”
His words quenched the spark of amusement in her eyes. “So as long as it’s your way, it’s a go.”
“No, not really.”
“That’s what you said.”
“What I said was spawned by your refusal to cook for me,” he shot back, hoping humor