Page 8 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

Any other time, the forecasts and profit margins on the screen would be enough to hold my attention, but I’ve been sitting on the terrace trying to get some work done before dinner, and I can’t stop replaying the moment I saw Taylor’s sister standing in my villa. I had hoped to finally shake hands with the man I’ve worked with for years, and instead, I was met with a brunette goddess in a bikini who obliterated every rational thought in my head, steadying herself like she hadn’t expected me either.

I should have known Taylor had a sister. It bothers me that I didn’t. I don’t like what that says about me, but I can’t dwell on it, because Eleanor’s beautiful face is front and center in my mind, her hazel eyes, as keen as they were warm, tracking my every move, as if she were memorizing me while I was trying not to stare at her. That was a problem. Clearly it still is, which explains why my screen is on the same report I’d opened almost an hour ago.

Eleanor Mitchell is a variable I hadn’t factored in.

I reach for my phone to text Taylor, but I promised to leave him alone this weekend, and I’m a man of my word. And then I showed up and crashed his weekend, hoping to steal a few minutes of his time. Way to keep your word, Braden.

Can’t blame a guy for being excited to meet his assistant.

The sound of the glass door sliding open draws my attention. I turn as Eleanor steps outside, her hair tumbling in soft waves over the halter straps of her emerald-green dress. A breeze toys with the hem just above her knees, teasing me with glimpses of her long, tan legs. She’s wearing flat sandals, and a single thin silver bracelet circles her wrist like a secret. I’ve been around enough glittery fundraisers and galas to know manufactured beauty when I see it, and this isn’t that. She’s not polished within an inch of her life. Her dress is simple, her beauty natural. She’s a woman who doesn’t have to try. Maybe that’s what undoes me most, that she didn’t strut out here begging for my attention, and yet she has every inch of it.

Her eyes catch mine, quick and searching, like she’s tallying me up and undecided on the sum, as I close my laptop and push to my feet. My chest tightens, equal parts surprise and hunger, as reality dawns on me. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I fooled myself. I wasn’t trying to work. I was waiting, eagerly, to see her again.

“Well, damn,” I say as I close the distance between us. “You look beautiful, Eleanor. Stunning, actually.”

She smiles, nervously touching the small purse hanging against her hip. “Thank you.”

Those pretty eyes trail down my yellow shirt with a pink flamingo pattern, plaid rust pants, and sandals. I’m used to catching shit for the way I dress. Mostly from family, but after a couple of dates, women tend to make it their mission to teach me about fashion. What they don’t get is that I don’t dress for others. I dress in clothes that feel good. Clothes that remind me of people or places that make me happy. Tonight I’m wearing the shirt Clay gave me as a joke for Christmas, pants I bought in Europe when I met my parents there last year, and sandals that were made by one of Missick’s cousins.

A flash of sass and a spark of defiance glints in her eyes, and she arches a brow. “Bold choice.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you like it. Ready to go?”

“Sure.” She nods to my laptop. “Don’t you want to bring your laptop inside?”

“No. It’ll be fine.” I motion to the door. “Shall we?”

She eyes me skeptically. “Are you sure?”

She’s adorably concerned, asking like she didn’t want to question me but couldn’t help herself. “Would you feel better if I brought it inside?”

“Only about one hundred percent,” she says sweetly.

I laugh. “A’right. Inside it goes.” That earns a smile that reaches her eyes, and for a split second, something about her feels familiar.

I grab the computer, and when I turn around, she’s heading for the door. Are you fucking kidding me? My goddess is full of surprises. Her dress is backless, her dark waves spilling over a tempting expanse of bare skin. Christ. What kind of test of willpower is this? She’s understated elegance from the front and pure provocation from the back. Not the kind that shouts for attention, but the kind that whispers about a hidden fire.

Her nonchalant beauty, the effortless sway of her hips, and the warm smile she’s tossing over her shoulder are so riveting, I curl my fingers around the laptop, fighting the urge to reach for her.

“How do you feel about convertibles?” I ask as we walk out the front door, hoping the cooler air will take the edge off.

“The same way I feel about molten lava cake. Certain indulgences are worth getting a little messy for.”

My mind wants to drag that comment down a dirty rabbit hole and explore it, but it’s better left uncharted.

Wind whips through Eleanor’s hair as we cruise with the top down. She tilts her face into the wind, smiling so big, it’s hard to look away from her. For a woman I’ve only just met, she is unsettlingly good at throwing me off-balance.

When we get to the resort, music drifts up from the beach. A towering bonfire and tiki lights blaze in the distance. Eleanor climbs out of the car and glances down the beach. “It looks like someone’s having a party.”

“That’s where we’re headed. It’s a bonfire and barbecue. Hope you’re ready to limbo.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I kid about something as important as limbo?” I put my hand on her lower back, leading her toward the beach. Her skin is as soft as silk, warm beneath my palm. “It’s like a rite of passage.”

“You limbo?” she asks incredulously.

“I’m the limbo king. I’ve been doing it since I was yay high.” I hold my hand hip high as we make our way across the sand.