A Ceo In Her Stocking. Elizabeth Bevarly

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ one. Brent made friends with abandon. Grant’s few friends barely knew him. Brent treated life like a party. Grant knew it was a chore. Brent loved everyone he ever met. Grant never—

      Clara Easton walked past him, leaving in her wake a faint aroma of something spicy and sweet. Cinnamon, he realized. And ginger. She smelled like Christmas morning. Except not the Christmas mornings he knew now, which were only notable because they were a day off from work. She smelled like the Christmas mornings of his childhood, before his father died, when the Dunbartons were happy.

      Wow. He hadn’t thought about those Christmas mornings for a long time. Because thinking about mornings like that reminded him of a time and place—reminded him of a person—he would never know again. A time when Grant had been staggeringly contented, and when his future had been filled with the promise of—

      Of lots of things that never happened. He didn’t usually like being reminded of mornings like that. For some reason, though, he didn’t mind having Clara Easton and her cinnamon bun–gingerbread scent remind him today. He just wished he was the kind of person who could reciprocate. The kind of person who could be charming and cheerful and made friends with abandon. The kind who treated life like a party and loved everyone he met.

      The kind who could draw the eye of a woman like Clara Easton in a way that didn’t make her respond with fear and anxiety.

      * * *

      As Clara followed Grant Dunbarton deeper into the penthouse, she told herself she was silly to feel so intimidated. It was just an apartment. Just a really big, really sumptuous apartment. On one of the most expensive streets in the world. Filled with art and antiques with a value that probably exceeded the gross national product of some sovereign nations. She knew nothing of dates or styles when it came to antiques, but she was going to go out on a limb and say the decor here was Early Conspicuous Consumption.

      Inescapably, she compared it to her two-bedroom, one-bath apartment above the bakery. Her furniture was old, too, but her Midcentury Salvage wasn’t nearly as chic, and her original artwork had been executed by a preschooler. Add to that the general chaos that came with having said preschooler underfoot—and also rocks, puzzle pieces and Cheerios underfoot—and it was pretty clear who had the better living space. She just hoped Hank didn’t notice that, too. But judging by the way he walked with his eyes wide, his neck craned and his mouth open, she was pretty sure he did.

      “So...how long have y’all lived here?” she asked Grant. Mostly because no one had said a word since she and Hank and Gus entered, and she was beginning to think none of them would ever speak again.

      Grant slowed until she pulled alongside him, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the upside, she could see his face. On the downside, she could see his face. And all she could do was be struck again by how much he resembled Brent. Well, that and also worry about how the resemblance set off little explosions in her midsection that warmed places inside her that really shouldn’t be warming in mixed company.

      “Brent and I grew up here,” he said. “The place has been in the family for three generations.”

      “Wow,” Clara said. Talk about having deep roots somewhere. “I grew up in Macon. But I’ve been living on Tybee Island since I graduated from college.”

      “Yes, I know,” he told her. “You graduated from Carson High School with a near-perfect GPA and have a business administration degree from the College of Coastal Georgia that you earned in three years. Not bad. Especially considering how you worked three jobs the entire time.”

      Clara told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Families like the Dunbartons didn’t open their door to just anyone. “You had me checked out, I see.”

      “Yes,” he admitted without apology. “I’m sure you understand.”

      Actually, she did. When it came to family—even if that family only numbered two, like her and Hank—you did what you had to do to protect it. Had August Fiver not already had a ton of info to give her about the Dunbartons, Clara would have had them checked out, too, before allowing them access to her son.

      “Well, the AP classes in high school helped a lot with that three-years thing,” she told him.

      “So did perseverance and hard work.”

      Well, okay, there was that, too.

      Grant led them to a small study that was executed in pale yellow and paler turquoise and furnished with overstuffed moiré chairs, a frilly desk and paintings of gorgeous landscapes. The room reeked of Marie Antoinette—the Versailles version, not the Bastille version—so Clara was pretty sure this wasn’t a sanctuary for him.

      As if cued by the thought, a woman entered from a door on the other side of the room. This had to be Grant’s mother, Francesca. She looked to be in her midfifties, with short, dark hair liberally streaked with silver and eyes as rich a blue as her sons’. She was nearly as tall as Clara, but slimmer, dressed in flowing palazzo pants and tunic the color of a twilit sky. Diamond studs winked in each earlobe, and both wrists were wrapped in silver bracelets. She halted when she saw her guests, her gaze and smile alighting for only a second on Clara before falling to Hank...whereupon her eyes filled with tears.

      But her smile brightened as she hurried forward, arms outstretched in the universal body language for Gimme a big ol’ hug. She halted midstride, however, when Hank stepped backward, pressing himself into Clara with enough force to make her stumble backward herself. Until Grant halted her, wrapping sure fingers around her upper arms. For the scantest of moments, her brain tricked her into thinking it was Brent catching her, and she came this close to spinning around to plant a grateful kiss on Grant’s mouth, so instinctive was her response.

      Was it going to be like this the whole time she was here? Was the younger version of herself that still obviously lived inside her going to keep thinking it was Brent, not Grant, she was interacting with? If so, it was going to be a long week.

      “Thanks,” she murmured over her shoulder, hoping he didn’t hear her breathlessness.

      When he didn’t release her immediately, she turned around to look at him, an action that caused him to release one shoulder, but not the other. For a moment, they only gazed at each other, and Clara was again overcome by how much he resembled Brent, and how that resemblance roused all kinds of feelings in her she really didn’t need to be feeling. Then, suddenly, Grant smiled. But damned if his smile wasn’t just like Brent’s, too.

      “Where are my manners?” he asked, his hand still curved over her arm. “I should have taken your coat the minute you walked in.”

      Automatically, Clara began to unbutton her coat...then suddenly halted. Because it didn’t feel as if she was unbuttoning her coat for a man who had politely asked for it. It felt as if she was unbuttoning her shirt—or dress or skirt or pants or whatever else she might have on—so she could make love with Brent.

      Wow. It really was going to be a long week. Maybe she and Hank should just head home tomorrow. Or even before dinner. Or lunch.

      She went back to her buttons before her hesitation seemed weird—though, judging by Grant’s expression, he already thought it was weird. Beneath her coat, she wore a short black dress and red-and-black polka dot tights that had felt whimsical and Christmassy when she put them on but felt out of place now amid the elegance of the Dunbarton home.

      She and Hank should definitely leave before lunch.

      Her plan СКАЧАТЬ