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He stood before her, a knight in shining Armani.
“It looks like things are really coming along.” He jerked his chin toward the signs she was working on, his hands now in his coat pockets.
Noelle looked from him down to the floor. “Yes. It would appear so.” She looked around the room then back to him. “It feels like we still have a mountain to climb though.”
He shrugged out of his coat and laid it across a nearby chair. As he rolled up his shirt-sleeves—the appearance of the muscles of his forearms not lost on Noelle—he sat across from her on the floor, dress clothes and all. “How can I help?”
The sight of Wes sitting across from her on the studio floor, his pristine pants getting dusty for sure, made Noelle’s jaw drop.
“Close your mouth, honey. You’ll catch flies,” her sister teased as she handed them each a plate of food and utensils wrapped in a napkin. Pasta with meatballs, garlic bread, and salad covered the plates. Holly returned to the kitchen with Franchesca, leaving Noelle and Wes alone in the main room.
After closing her mouth like her sister so eloquently reminded her to do, Noelle came to her senses. “Wait. No. We don’t have to eat on the floor. I have a folding table in my office. I’ll go get it.”
“No. It’s fine. It’s like a picnic.” She went to stand but his grin made her go all gooey inside and forget her own name.
He scooted over so his back was against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His pants did indeed have dust on them, a fact that seemed to have no bearing on Wes whatsoever. Noelle moved beside him, backing up to the wall and placing her plate in her lap.
“There’s a high chance we’re going to get quite messy eating this way.”
Wes took the napkin Holly had handed him and unfolded it. He tucked it into the collar of his shirt like a bib. “There! No mess.”
Noelle laughed. He looked ridiculous and he knew it, which made her love him even more. Wait. Love? When did that word start popping into her head? Sam Cooke singing from the iPod about nothing being able to change the love he felt might have been a factor. But, if she were honest with herself, it occurred to her way before Wes showed up with food in hand. She was falling for Wes St. Claire and falling hard.
“Okay then.” She undid her napkin as well, placing the utensils on her plate, and tucked the stiff paper into the neck of her sweater.
He nodded and rolled up pasta on his fork before diving in. She did the same. They ate in quiet, the music in the background mixed with Noelle’s moans of delight over the food. It was divine. She was hungrier than she thought.
“So, what were you up to today?” Her plate was all but clean, her belly full of Italian goodness.
“Just work.” He took the last bite of meatball off his plate and set it aside.
“Working on a Sunday, heh?”
He pointed to where they sat in her studio, the signs still sitting in front of them. “You judge?”
“Touché.” She laughed at that. He was right. She’s spent her entire day off working. “However, I have a feeling you work on a Sunday way more than I do.”
“That’s true. This wasn’t really work though. My father has me looking into something for him.”
“What do you do, exactly?” In all their time together, she’d never asked him what kind of work he did, specifically. She just assumed it was something in his father’s business, which she didn’t know anything about either.
“I run the family office, which means I manage the family assets, do deals, buy businesses. Real estate, things like that.”
“Same as your dad?”
“No. Dad made his money in television and broadcasting.”
She turned to face him, tucking her legs beneath her in a crisscross pattern. “No way. That’s so cool. You know, that reminds me. Franchesca told me this morning she heard another rumor that the moneybags—her word not mine—who wants to buy this building is a big Hollywood director. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Nuts.”
It could have been her imagination, but she could have sworn Wes’s demeanor changed at her comment. The relaxed, laid-back, let’s sit on the floor and have a picnic guy disappeared for a second.
“What else has she heard?”
“Not much else. Again, it’s rumors. I’m not taking any stock in that.”
“Are you still worried about what will happen to the studio if the building sells?” The relaxed Wes was back, but with an air of businessman about him. Which made sense. And was most likely the reason she’d talked to him about the situation. If she needed advice in the near future, he was a sure bet to ask for help if needed.
