Page 9 of Hate To Be Mine

She hung up before I could respond.

Damn. She was one of those people that was immune to my charm.

By six-fifteen, I was standing outside the Italian restaurant I asked her to meet me at. I’d shown up early on purpose. I wanted to seem responsible and punctual, like a proper adult.

Except Bernadette was already there.

She stood near the entrance in another one of those conservative pantsuits. It was a classic gray with heels that made her look taller. Her copper hair was pulled back in a bun so severe it probably gave her a headache. She was looking at her phone, with her plump pink lips pushed into a pout. Whatever she was reading didn’t make her happy. I was about to call out to her when she glanced at her watch.

The gesture was subtle, but the implication was clear. She’d been waiting. For me. Even though I was early.

“Ms. Simmons,” I said, walking up with what I hoped was a professionally friendly smile. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Mr. Blackwell.” She tucked her phone into her bag. “Shall we?”

The smell of garlic and fresh bread made my mouth water. The hostess led us to a quiet table in the back. She didn’t wait for me to pull out the chair for her. A waiter appeared almost immediately with menus and a wine list.

“Could we start with a bottle of the Sangiovese?” I asked.

“I’m not drinking,” Bernadette said flatly.

I looked up at her. She looked back, her expression unchanged.

Killjoy.

“Right. Okay.” I turned back to the waiter. “Never mind on the wine. Just coffee. Strong coffee.”

4

BERNADETTE

“Let’s start with the danger of falling coconuts,” I said, flipping to the marked section in the binder.

He stared at me like I’d just announced we’d be starting with advanced calculus with a test at the end of dinner.

“That’s insane,” he said. “Why the hell would we start there?”

“Because I’ve looked over the locations you sent for the different shots, and falling coconuts are a legitimate hazard.” I pulled out the supplementary documentation I’d prepared. “Approximately a hundred and fifty people die from falling coconuts every year worldwide. They’re statistically deadlier than sharks.”

He started laughing. Actually laughing, like I’d told a joke instead of citing verified mortality statistics.

“Stop,” I said, feeling heat creep up my neck. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he managed between chuckles, those blue eyes crinkling at the corners, proving he was all natural. No Botox on that sculpted face. “I mean, come on. Death by coconut? If that’s how I go out, you have my permission to giggle about it at my funeral.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” I said, snapping the binder shut. “My job is to make sure no one on your production ends up at their funeral. I’m sure your pretty little dresses are very important, but they’re not worth someone getting hurt.”

The laughter died on his face. His jaw tightened, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw something other than casual charm in his expression. “They’re not ‘pretty little dresses.’ This campaign represents months of work, millions of dollars, and the reputation of a company my family has built from the ground up. We take this very seriously.”

I sat back slightly, surprised by the anger in his voice.

“And we take safety seriously,” he continued. “I’ve been on hundreds of shoots. People don’t get hurt because we’re professionals. Just because I like to have fun doesn’t mean I’m careless. Contrary to your apparent opinion, I’m not an idiot. This is my job. I don’t screw around when it comes to my job.”

“Could have fooled me,” I muttered.

His nostrils flared in a sure sign of anger. I braced myself for a big man-tantrum.

Our waiter chose that moment to reappear, cheerfully oblivious to the tension crackling across the table. “Have we decided on our entrees?”