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“Soo, personal?” Tierney says, and I can’t tell if she’s in a hurry or just curious. Probably both.
“Personal,” I confirm, wondering what to say. I mean, I could start with, ‘Hey Tierney, I’m attracted to our client who, obviously, is automatically off limits. Oh, and he’s over a decade older than me, and an uber-rich widower. A guy whose daughter’s wedding I should be focusing on rather than wondering if the planes of his abs are sculpted after studying the way his broad chest fills out his white dress shirt as if he’s a personal trainer.’
“Is this about Garrett?”
Is it that obvious? I could try to fib my way past it, but Tierney’s already onto me like a hound on a fox’s scent.
I hedge my bets. “Maybe.”
“I think he likes you.”
Pleasure, like a cozy warm blanket on a snowy afternoon, floods my veins. “You think?” Ugh, I sound like a tween with a crush.
“He asked about you after you left the meeting yesterday and we were wrapping up.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” At least a text, Tierney, come on.
“I meant to text you, but I was on the phone with my team to get them going on what we’ll need for the event the second I left.”
I twirl my finger in my hair. “What did he say?”
“He asked if you were going to be at the wedding and stay for the ceremony. I assured him we’re both very hands on and will be present until the end of the reception.”
“What’d he say to that?”
“He seemed pleased.”
“Oh.”
“You like him, too. I knew it.” Her accusation hits the center of the bullseye.
“Was it that obvious? During the meeting, I mean?”
“Of course not. You were a complete professional, as always, but there was something there between you two. Even I could tell.”
“He’s a client.”
“Only until tomorrow.”
That’s what he said. But I don’t blurt that out. Instead, I tick through all the reasons why not Garrett Hillstone. “He has a daughter who’s only four years younger than us.”
“So? It’s not like you want children or to get married again. You’re basically hitched to White Glove and, from what I can tell, he’s just as occupied. I say bang it out and enjoy.”
“Tierney!” If only it were that simple.
“What?”
“He showed up at the workshop this morning.”
That shuts her up. “The workshop?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I slip onto a stool at my kitchen island.
“Why?”
Good question. “To help.”
“Help?” She repeats the word as if it’s a foreign language.
