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As she studied the piece of wood, she realized with awe that although one of the bubbles was busted, the other was intact, and in fact still retained the measuring fluid inside.
She stepped away from the bookshelf and turned the old level over lovingly in her hands.
“Put that down.”
Sarah’s back mostly faced the door and that hard voice sent rivers of alarm zinging through her. Her knees started wobbling and with a ferocious wave of disbelief, she turned in a jerky motion to face the man standing in the doorway.
Her hands began shaking and the level fell from her fingers and crashed to the tiled floor with a loud, cacophonous noise.
She saw his eyes drop to the busted vial at her feet. “Goddamnit,” he snarled. His eyes left the ground and travelled up her body and latched onto her face in sudden recognition. “Goddamnit,” he blasted again.
They stared at each other from across the room while Sarah’s heartbeat pounded a relentless pulse to run but she couldn’t because her feet were glued to the floor. She stared in shell-shocked horror as full-blown understanding hit her full in the face.
He caught his snap before she did, and turned and shut and locked the office door. As he executed that threatening maneuver, he put a cigarette between his lips and held it there. She watched as her brain began to slowly function again. “You smoke?” she asked with a voice filled with disapproval and an aversion that she couldn’t contain quickly enough.
Sarah had no idea why was she was shocked he smoked. Because she hated smoking so much and that was possibly her one rule in life that she never broke? She never dated men who smoked. Never.
Why wasn’t she more shocked that Phillip Johnson Garrett was John? Her John. Her John? Where in the hell had that come from?
“You busted my level,” he snarled.
Sarah blinked her eyes away from him and studied the mess at her feet. Appalled that she had been so clumsy, an arrow of sadness for the old piece pierced her as she inhaled deeply and looked back at him. “You smoke?” she repeated in a daze.
“What’s so damn hard to believe about that?” He moved into the room and picked up the old wood and the remnants of the vial. He placed both on the bookshelf and moved to lean against his desk.
Sarah turned in an arc to face him. “I don’t know. Why do you smoke?”
“Are you kidding me, lady? You think you have some kind of right to ask me personal questions?”
Sarah was still too off-balance to follow the conversation with any kind of logic. Too many things were bombarding her brain at once. He smoked; she hated that and it was sending disappointment straight through to her stomach. And she’d broken something that he cared about. And his name was Phillip Garrett and there was no way he would give her any money. She finally recognized that with a pained arrow of regret. The retirement home wouldn’t be built. The school would close.
And he smoked.
As she watched him take a deep inhalation of the cigarette and blow the smoke back out, she met his stare and tried to get her shit together. She licked her lips to try to bring moisture to her dry mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“For not minding your own business or for being clumsy?”
Sarah bit her lip and looked away. She suddenly wanted to cry. Not big huge gulping tears, just the kind that blurred your vision and made you feel generally miserable. But she knew she couldn’t. She had too much pride for that.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I broke your level. It was truly beautiful and now it’s—not the same.”
He nodded his head just once in acknowledgement of her apology and held up the cigarette vertically in front of his face as if in question.
“What?” she asked quietly.
John saw the tears swimming in her eyes and didn’t care for them at all. They made him feel like he was to blame, like he’d done something wrong. Had he? They’d started out, or not started out, disastrously.
First the gas station, then the dancehall, and now this. She wanted his money. Wasn’t that where he’d first wanted her? Wanting his money? He hadn’t much cared that first day, but now, he had to admit, it irritated him.
He felt like a small boy and it pissed him off. He wanted her to like him.
Shit.
Still, the realization didn’t stop him from saying what he was feeling now. “You want me to put it out?”
The look on his face was unfathomable to Sarah and she slowly shook her head. “No, you’re right. It’s none of my business and it’s your house and your health.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, he took another puff, exhaled and reached behind him to the ashtray on the desk and put the cigarette out.
When he turned back to face her with a grim expression, Sarah saw his shoulders straining against the fabric of his t-shirt. The material looked as if it had been white at one time, but now there was a film of dirt covering most of it, and a streak of what appeared to be grease down the left side. The sleeves were completely cut out, and his biceps bulged in a display of masculine strength that had Sarah’s heart slamming against her breastbone.
Whatever he’d been doing when she’d gotten here was physical as opposed to mental, which wasn’t how she’d imagined a multi-millionaire spent his time.
She let her eyes fall from his torso and took in his jeans and work boots. They too, were disreputable, and reminded her of what he’d been wearing the first time she’d met him. This then, was a man who dressed solely for his own comfort, and was in a position where he didn’t have to give a damn about his appearance.
Well, none of that mattered anymore, because she’d done nothing but rebuff his advances and insult him since she’d met him. There was no way he’d give her the help, time, or money that she needed from him. She decided she wouldn’t even waste her breath asking. And almost immediately she questioned that decision. Everyone she had spoken to had told her that he was always more than willing to give. Maybe he had a strong streak of altruism that wouldn’t be affected by the conflict between them. Truly, she didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, the thought of asking this man for money seemed dangerous. Recklessly dangerous.
But she had to say something and searched aimlessly for an innocuous topic. “So you’re Phillip Johnson Garrett.” She tried to maintain an even tone of conversation with only a slight question in her voice.
He nodded once. “John.”
“John.” She tried the name out on her lips.
He boldly ran his eyes up and down her length, as if he had every right to do so. “And you’re Sarah McAlister.”
“Yes. It’s a small world,” the inane cliché slipped from her mouth before she could stop it.
“Especially in this part of the country,” he agreed, watching her steadily.
John leaned back against his desk and waited for her to make her move. Waited for her to ask him for the money. For what, he didn’t know. There was no telling what the Top Hill school needed. Or how badly she wanted the school to have it. There was no telling, yet.
But for the first time in his life, he was feeling a huge sense of satisfaction that somebody wanted his money. That she wanted his money. Would he rather have her without money standing between them? Hell, yeah. But she was more than reticent, and without some kind of incentive, he wouldn’t get a chance at her.
So he should just be damn thankful he had something she needed.
“I’m sorry I dropped your level.” Her voice licked his insides as she apologized once again.
“Don’t worry about it.” He’d have come unglued on anyone else who had touched his things with such indiscriminate care.
She visibly swallowed and glanced around his office. He could tell she was nervous, and she wasn’t making any move to get the conversation going in the direction that she had come here for. He decided to help her out a bit. “You work for the school in Top Hill?”
“No.” She didn’t elaborate.
“You work in school administration?” he questioned
her further.
“No. I’m an educator, but I live and work in Dallas.”
