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A mischievous smile turned up the corners of her mouth and Mick felt his heart melt into a puddle right in that moment.
“No sparkles,” she replied.
“So broody and bearded?”
A light pink flush crept up her cheeks and Mick had to smother a groan. At least that’d answered his question about the beard. He’d been about to go home and shave in hopes of eliminating a deterrence. Why wouldn’t this woman just admit she was interested? Was her new business so important that she had no room in her life for the possibility of something more? Her ex-husband must’ve really done a number on her. The thought of a man leaving Laurel or hurting her made Mick’s stomach turn. Biggest. Idiot. On. The. Planet.
She stood from her chair, slung her large bag over her shoulder, and gave him the determined I-mean-business look he’d already figured out was her signature go-to face. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. You need to dress nice and be at the Boiler Room a little before eight. Bring some flowers too.”
“I’m not completely inept.”
“Just making sure you’re prepared. You wanted my help, so I’m giving it.”
Chapter 8
Laurel closed the cabinet door beneath her kitchen sink and sighed. Who knew cutting shelf paper was so damned difficult. She rocked backward on her heels until her ass made contact with the cold tile floor. Then stretched her arms and settled back against the center island of cabinets. She’d spent the last three hours cutting and trimming and now it was done. But for what? She had nothing to put in the cabinets save the one frying pan she’d bought to cook her breakfast omelet in. A box of plastic silverware sat on one corner along with a package of red solo cups and a roll of paper towels.
She owned nothing.
Lance had kept everything. Everything they’d ever bought. Every last piece of jewelry—except her wedding ring, which she’d gotten a broker friend to sell for her after the divorce. A small victory against Lance and a large win for her limited checkbook. He’d kept every wedding gift. Every memory, good or bad. Laurel had taken what few mementoes she had moved in with, mostly old things from her childhood, a blanket, a few stuffed animals and a photo album from her childhood. And Laurel had taken her wardrobe.
Her clothing had been in the papers, non-negotiable. Each piece was custom tailored to her body, plus she would’ve chopped it all into little pieces before ever leaving it for his whore of a secretary to wear.
A chirp above her head pulled her out of her short jaunt down memory lane. She reached up and felt around on the counter until her fingers curled around the edge of her cell phone. Swiping the screen, she answered the call. “Hi, Felicity. Everything good?”
“Absolutely. The guy sounds like a dream come true. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon, well ahead of the date. I want a chance to poke around the town. You made it sound so quaint.” Felicity’s bright and shiny enthusiasm clawed at Laurel’s gut like a vulture disemboweling a dead animal.
Good God, where did that feeling come from?Why was she sick over Mick and Felicity together? They would be a good match for each other. A great match even. Writers liked to stick together, and Felicity had even put on her questionnaire that moving and living in a small town was on her wish list. Hell, she was coming early just to look around.
“I’m so glad you’re excited. He’s looking forward to meeting you.” The words and tone sounded well-wishing, but she was so far from positive thoughts she might as well have been hexing them subconsciously.
“I have to admit, the picture you sent surprised me. Typically I go for a little more suit and tie, but Mick intrigues me.”
Laurel swallowed her sigh of agreement. “I think you’ll find you two have a lot in common.”
What was there not to like about Mick Ramsey? Tall, broad-shouldered, strong, protective, kind…everything a woman could ask for, right? She even liked his beard and the flannel shirt.
“You do think he owns more than flannel though?”
A tiny snort of laughter escaped without permission. “I do,” Laurel assured her client. “Give it a chance, Felicity. You promised me you’d keep an open mind.”
“I will. I am. I was just thinking out loud.” Felicity answered, her tone more hesitant than Laurel would’ve preferred, but positive and still on track. Felicity was trying and it was good for her to stretch beyond her comfort zones.
There was more to a man than the clothes he chose to wear.
Although, a few days ago, Laurel would’ve said the same thing. She purposefully looked for a man in a suit. A man who wanted to make something out of his life. A man who cared about his appearance to the rest of the world.
Look where that had gotten her. And who said a man in flannel didn’t care about his appearance? What kind of vain shallow person had she turned into? If her mother and father could see her, they would’ve been ashamed.
Hell, she was ashamed.
She’d wasted nearly five years of her life on a man, who had never really cared about her. He’d considered her nothing more than an accessory. Arm candy. Someone who would help him achieve a goal. And she had. She’d single-handedly built him a match-making empire. Sure he’d had the connections to get her started, but she’d been the one with the knack for the actual matching. Without her,hisbusiness would flop in less than a year’s time. Knowing Lance the way she did now, he’d probably try to blame that on her somehow too.
Laurel wiped the back of her grimy hand across her damp forehead and immediately felt disgusted. So much dust and dirt. A shower was definitely in order. Then dinner.
She hopped up from the floor and trudged through the house. The new furniture at least gave the allusion that someone lived here, but nothing was personal. At least not yet. No pictures. No touches of her. She wasn’t even sure what she wantedherplace to look like.
Lance had made all the decor choices for their house in Dallas. At first she’d thought it was sweet…that he’d cared so much. But later she come to the realization that he just wanted it to be nicer than what his so-called friends had. Everything was a competition. An unspoken game of who could afford the most or the best.
