So why did the thought of not seeing her again make him wish for something he could barely contemplate?
9
Harper had fully intended to call her dad when she got home from brunch with her mom, but she’d ended up being so drained from the encounter she fell asleep on the sofa.
When her cell rang she jerked awake, hoping it wasn’t her dad because she needed her wits about her to field his usual twenty questions about Lydia. She didn’t recognize the number on the screen and immediately felt guilty for being relieved it wasn’t her dad. She hit the “answer” button.
“Harper Ryland speaking,” she said in her best professional voice. She used her cell for business, and an unknown number, hot on the heels of all her cards vanishing at the wedding, could hopefully mean more work.
“Ms. Ryland, it’s Wayne Storr.”
She didn’t know a Wayne Storr, but the name sounded vaguely familiar.
“Of Storr Hotels,” he added, for clarification, and she sat up straighter.
Storr Hotels was well-known throughout Australia and New Zealand, famous for their quirky rooms, luxe facilities, and high-end dining.
Her pulse raced with the implication of what this call could mean, but she managed to keep her tone well modulated when she responded with, “What can I do for you, Mr. Storr?”
“I was at a wedding yesterday and was highly impressed with the food presentation, so I wanted to call you personally. That was you, yes?”
“Yes,” she parroted, crossing the fingers on her free hand, the one not clenching the cell so tight she hoped it wouldn’t shatter.
“Great. In that case, I would like to offer you a job. I’m opening a new hotel in Auckland, and another in Lake Taupo, and we’re doing a full spread in major travel magazines that will be located in hotels all around New Zealand. We want to showcase the food in our restaurants, and your styling really impressed me, so what do you say?”
Harper wanted to yell, Hell yeah, but she settled for a sedate, “Thanks for the opportunity. If you could forward me the dates, pay scale, and exact locations, that would be great.”
“I have your e-mail from your business card, so I’ll send through all the relevant information, including your remuneration, now. Look it over, let me know if it’s suitable, and we can move forward.”
“Excellent,” she said, glad her voice didn’t come out an excited squeak.
A job like this would catapult her career into the stratosphere and ensure bigger jobs to come. She could move away from the occasional cookbook or newspaper magazine feature and focus on what she really wanted to do: prettying up food for glamorous publications seen the world over.
“I’ll be in touch, Ms. Ryland.”
Before she could say, Call me Harper, he’d hung up, a brusque, busy man who made billions, who’d called her personally rather than getting an assistant to do it because he liked her food so much.
A man who’d just offered her a dream job.
With an excited squeal, she leaped to her feet and did a happy dance halfway between a dab and a floss.
Styling food for Storr Hotels in New Zealand.
A massive coup that could take her business to a whole other level.
Finally, a change in luck.
And a much-needed break from the ongoing drama in her parents’ lives.
10
It had been a day since Samira had texted Harper his number. Manny knew because he’d been there when she’d done it during his impromptu visit.
And nada.
Not that he’d expected an instant response, but his compulsive cell checking in case he’d missed a text was growing old fast. He never acted this way for any woman. And considering her over-the-top reaction to his offhand comments about her food, he should stay away.
Not that he wanted to date her per se; he merely wanted to apologize in a more demonstrative way. Then again, hadn’t a kiss achieved that more than a bouquet or a chocolate box?
Damn, he couldn’t get her out of his head, and rather than packing for his conference, he was sitting here mulling. He’d contemplated getting her information another way but had wanted to leave the proverbial ball in her court. But he’d always been a man of action, and sitting around waiting for anything bugged the crap out of him.
Doing what he should’ve done in the first place, he pulled up the search engine on his phone and typed in “Harper Ryland, food stylist.” It took less than a second for the hits to pop up, and the first one gave him exactly what he wanted: a website. He hit the link and waited for it to load. When it opened, a dramatic photo of chili peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes arranged artistically on an ebony plate popped up. He’d never seen vegetables look so good.
The site had a portfolio button, media, a bio, and contact information. As much as he wanted to read her bio, he clicked on the “contact” button first. And he had it. An e-mail address and a cell number. Bingo.
A lighthearted text would do the trick, hopefully, and before he could second-guess the impulse to contact her, his thumbs tapped at the screen.
DEAR MS. RYLAND,
YOUR WEBSITE IS MOST COMPREHENSIVE AND HANDY FOR PROCURING YOUR NUMBER.
I’M HOSTING A HIGH TEA AND HAVE HAD SOME TROUBLE ICING 50 CUPCAKES.
I HEAR YOU’RE A WHIZ WITH WHIPPED CREAM.
I WOULD BE MOST GRATEFUL FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE IN THIS MATTER.
NOT EVERYONE HAS YOUR LEVEL OF EXPERTISE.
YOUR FRIEND,
MANNY
He grinned as he hit the “send” button. Surely, that would get a reaction out of her?
With the text sent, he hit the “bio” button and sucked in a breath. The professional headshot of Harper standing behind a kitchen bench covered in artistically arranged fruit and savory platters and smiling at the camera had him bringing his cell closer to his face.
She was beautiful, with those expressive blue eyes and wide smile, her makeup flawless and her hair glossy. Definitely more edible than her food.
He speed-read her bio, which didn’t tell him a lot. Born and bred Melburnian, loved food from a young age when she’d baked brownies and made lemonade for a stall outside her house, had worked in catering for high-end social events before following her passion for food styling.
All very interesting, but he wanted to know what else sparked her passion . . .
With a groan, he flung his cell onto the bed and resumed packing. Maybe a week away in New Zealand for a medical conference on the latest and greatest ER advances would be just what the doctor ordered?