Martin smiled. “I’d love to, pumpkin, but I’ll be on all night.”
He worked midnights to lay low after a routine traffic stop last year turned deadly. Martin had pulled over the town drunk, and found out the hard way Derrick Hannigan bought a gun. Her father
had no choice but to shoot the poor guy when Derrick made the fatal mistake of pointing a loaded pistol in a cop’s face.
Several investigators had cleared her dad, but a cloud had settled over him. He preferred to keep hidden from the residents he’d been protecting for over forty years. He’d said the icy stares filled him with regret for bringing a shameful tragedy into their beautiful wine-country paradise.
“If you want some company and coffee when you finish your shift tomorrow morning...” Gwen pointed to the house. “I’ll be right here.”
“Deal.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Lock up behind you.”
“Yes, sir.” She dragged herself out of the warm car, a mist already coming off her lips.
With her front door open, she waved at her dad, who’d lingered in the driveway. He backed out, flashed his lightbar, and gave the siren a quick squeal, like he’d done for her mother so many years ago.
Feeling warm and loved, Gwen let go of the tense moment at the office with Andrew. Only to face the other challenge in her life. Her Cape Cod style house on the Great Peconic Bay had once been her dream come true. She’d fallen in love with it as a child when she and Faith Copeland—Greg’s ex-fiancé—had ridden their bikes to the waterfront. The older couple who had lived in the house back then were always holding hands. Gwen thought the home was magic and the key ingredient to a happy ever after. Now it wrecked her finances and plunged her into debt.
Sitting in her kitchen alone with the last pizza pie and bottle of wine she would need to use a credit card for, Gwen pushed away her sad past to focus on the future. Every bite and every sip tasted of hope. A small shock of pleasure slipped under her skin knowing she’d finally steered herself on the road to a better life.
Living paycheck to paycheck, while never part of anyone’s idyllic childhood dream, was better than no paycheck.
“Paycheck!” Gwen perked up and moved through the dark to find her laptop. The display lit an arc of blue light around her. “Let’s see what my take-home pay will be.”
Clicking through various screens to find the ADP app and see her pay stub, she noticed a Prada icon on the bottom toolbar.
She opened her work email and saw the message on top was from Andrew Morgan. There was nothing in the subject line.
Oh great, no way am I reading this sober.
Gwen stomped to the kitchen and finished that bottle of wine.
CHAPTER FOUR
y Monday morning, Gwen still hadn’t responded to Andrew’s message. Email made it too easy Bto fire off a response in anger, knowing the person on the other end could walk away and think I’ll deal with that bullshit later. Instead, she printed it out and made notes. The practical side that often overshadowed her creative nature would deal with Andrew Morgan. In person.
Any face-to-face conversations, however, would be a challenge. The man dripped with raw masculine intensity. She’d have trouble completing a sentence around him.
On the train, she re-read the message. In addition to saying he would go through his files and decide what to hand over, he stressed he’d do this in his own time. He must have found the mess she’d left behind.
He notified her that the porters had delivered and set up her writing desk, but reminded her it was his office. As Brand Manager, he had a staff. Employees came to him with personal issues and to maintain their privacy, he would need to close and lock his door for these sensitive meetings.
Gwen understood this office situation inconvenienced him. His complete lack of empathy toward how this would affect her, a fellow exec who also had responsibilities, was just downright rude.
With each word she read, she expected him to address the obvious source of tension between them. Nothing. How would Andrew avoid discussing their one wild night together, though?
The locked door when Gwen reached her office answered her question and sent her over the edge. Fuming, she hunkered down in a nearby conference room with her laptop resting on her thighs.
It currently doubled as an audition studio to conduct the last round of model auditions for the L.A.
fashion show.
Gwen spent all morning tucked into the corner trying to write a press release while listening to Salvatore’s thick accent.
“Walk, turn, come back. Now do it again, with feeling. Is that all your hair? Extensions, she will need extensions.”
To the next model with wild tresses, “That is way too much hair for the delicate frock she will be wearing.”
Salvatore had not only softened since her interview and turned gracious, he became a relentless flirt. Smoothing his Northern Italian blond hair, he had offered her the pastries and paninis laid out on the other side of the room. The photographers, assistants, and stage director munched on the sandwiches and sweets. Yet the models eyed the table like it festered with poison.
In a fresh email, Gwen addressed the locked door situation:
Good Morning Andrew. I’m in the west conference room if you need me. Please let me know when I can get into the office. I’m starting the press releases and will need to access the files from the last show.
Thank you.
On a small plate, Gwen packed half of a mozzarella and pesto panini, an assortment of olives, and a tasty looking scone. Balancing everything on her lap, she unwrapped the sandwich and dragged the napkin across her legs. She hadn’t realized how starved she’d been until she opened her mouth to take a scrumptious bite.
“Gwendolyn?” Andrew said her name low and controlled.
She looked up and her heart pounded from him standing over her. She put the panini back on the plate. Wiping her hands on the napkin, she answered, “Yes?”
“Why don’t you come in and we can go over the press releases.” Something told her Andrew wasn’t the type to embrace a working lunch. When she left the untouched plate on the metal chair, he pointed and said, “You can finish that in my office.”
Fearing intense hunger and low blood sugar may make her dizzy, she picked up the plate. “Our office,” she mumbled under her breath.
“What?” Andrew turned back sharply.
She exhaled. “I’m sorry. It is my office too, right?”
He pursed his lips together then took a breath. His perfect white teeth bit into a plump lower lip.
“Yes, it is.”
“I, um, read your message and I’ll give you space, if you give me the consideration I deserve. I’m an executive here, too.”
He grumbled, but nodded. He turned away and his long legs carried him down the central corridor while she scurried to keep up. On the walls, sharp black-and-white photographs showcased Prada’s most celebrated designs.
At the office door, he pointed to one of the guest chairs on the opposite side of his desk and she made herself as comfortable as she could. She balanced her plate of food on her thighs while resting her laptop and notes on the second chair. The meeting table tucked into the corner, hiding under a mound of crap, would be a better place to work, but she stayed silent about that.
She considered it a small blessing when his phone rang as soon as they sat down, giving her an opportunity to take a few discreet mouthfuls of her panini.