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Her worn jeans outline her long, beautiful legs and feminine curves. Her ankle boots don’t have much heel, making her height around five six or five seven. She is a beauty with her sharp cheekbones and shiny blonde hair but she should not be in charge of a last-minute wedding. By her admission, she is indecisive, overly romantic, and given to fantasy. She undoubtedly wears her heart on her sleeve. She is probably the worst person to organize a holiday-themed wedding.
I should fire her. I’ve fired people on the spot for less. I’ve learned that it’s much better to cut my losses immediately than try to compensate for someone who lacks ability. I’ll insist my PA step in and handle the event. She’ll balk, but I’ll insist.
Imogen squints at me and says, “Can’t you see the first dance in here to a classical piece and the groom spinning the bride around the room while everyone watches?”
No, I can’t. My mother doesn’t like to dance, and I doubt Graham is romantic or capable of spinning anyone around a room.
I resist shrugging. It crosses my mind that Imogen Smith shrugs to avoid telling the truth. I’m not ready to tell her who I am or that my mother will be the one getting married. In fact, I’d prefer not to attend the wedding. My mother isn’t capable of long-term commitment. My upbringing proved that.
Imogen walks further into the room, taking in the coffered ceiling and the grand piano set in the corner. It’s clear Imogen feels the romantic pull of a wedding.
I push a hand through my hair. “I’m not a huge fan of weddings. Do you want to see the kitchen?”
She stops moving and smiles. “Sure.”
I walk towards the back of the house. Whenever I glance back at her, she’s touching the wall or a piece of art. She must be sensory. And she seems to be lost in thought. Maybe she is starting to realize she’s in over her head.
After stepping into the commercial kitchen, I flick the lights on.
Imogen sweeps past me. Her fragrance reminds me of a subtle combination of citrus groves and evening roses in a garden.
“This kitchen is gigantic.” She trails her hand along the expansive marble countertop.
I want to touch her. I want to sample everything about the inappropriate American. I want to explore her sexy mouth and skim my hands down her feminine curves. But instead, I clench my hands into fists and stare at the view of the elaborate gardens. At thirty-two, I’m old enough to know that desire is fleeting, and as long as I don’t feed it, it will extinguish itself.
She opens the commercial refrigerator and gasps. She looks at me and says, “There is nothing inside.”
I hold her gaze. “Should there be? This is a rental, and the event is in a few days.”
She closes the refrigerator. “Kate insisted that I could stay here. I don’t have a car, and I’m starving.”
I put my hands in the pockets of my trousers. “Why didn’t you rent a vehicle for your time here? You could have stopped at the market, not to mention there must be other errands needed over the next few days.”
She crosses her arms. “I was worried about driving on the other side of the road. I live in a city, and I barely drive.”
“Do you own a vehicle?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I did get my driver’s license as a teenager.”
I lean against the door frame. “I guess you can Uber.” I almost flinch when I use the wordguess. Imogen Smith is a bad influence.
She tilts her head. “Are you staying here this evening?”
I don’t want to admit that I’d like to stay here and keep her company. “No, I promised to meet you here and show you the place, given the freak accident that Kate was involved in.”
Her eyebrows scrunch. “It was a terrible accident. Kate was inconsolable. She can’t imagine resting and doing physical therapy for weeks.”
I push off the doorframe. “I’m going to leave you to it. I’ll see you in the next couple of days.”
Her eyes widen. “I can’t stay here alone. Where are you staying?”
I cross my arms. “There is a bed and breakfast in a nearby town. I don’t believe there are any vacancies.” A blind man could tell I’m not interested in rescuing anyone. Imogen Smith made her bed, and she can lay in it.
She steps closer to me. “Can you check?”
I could fire her right now and drop her off at the airport, but it would mean that I’d have to bring Sonia out here to handle the guests and the caterers. It wouldn’t go well. At least Imogen is friendly and smiles.
I look at her. “Bespoke Adventures is about autonomy. Anyone who works for the company . . . knows this. Every employee has to be capable of handling things without assistance.”
