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Not because she had liked them, but because Babette had wasted weeks on something that would never sell. Weeks that Olivia didn’t have. In less than two days, she had a board meeting at which she’d promised to present a new line that would pull French Kiss out of bankruptcy. And now she had nothing but a pile of ripped-up drawings. She flopped down at the breakfast bar and cradled her head in her hands.
A handkerchief appeared in front of her.
“If you’re going to start crying, use this,” Deacon said as he pulled out the chair next to hers. “My shirt can’t take any more tears.”
Olivia wanted to do more than cry. She wanted to put her head down on the breakfast bar and sob her eyes out. She just refused to do it in front of this man. She stared at the handkerchief and willed her tears into submission. “You carry around a flower-embroidered hankie?”
“It was my mother’s.”
Feeling guilty for being so rude, she lifted her head and looked into eyes that were the same color as the flowers. “It’s very pretty.”
He studied the handkerchief. “She loved purple flowers. She put them on handkerchiefs, pillowcases, our mailbox.” He carefully folded the hankie, then shifted closer as he placed it in the back pocket of his jeans. So close that his face was only inches away.
Olivia had spent the better part of the drive to get Babette out of jail trying to forget the kiss they’d shared in the office. Now suddenly it came flooding back. The possessive slide of his lips against hers. The heated pull of his mouth. The teasing swirl of his tongue.
“Olivia?”
Her gaze lifted from his mouth to his questioning eyes.
“Where do you go?” he asked.
“Go?” She blinked his face into focus.
“You mean you don’t realize that you drift off when people are talking with you?”
She slipped off the stool and walked over to the cupboard to see if she could locate anything that would help her focus…and not on Deacon. “I realize it.”
“Attention deficit?”
“Probably. I was never tested for it. My father just thought I had a creative mind. I just think it’s screwed up. Which would explain why I put my faith in Babette.”
“So where did you find her, anyway? Never mind, stupid question. Obviously you found her in France. The better question would be…why did you hire her? Especially when her specialty seems to be burlesque costumes.”
She searched through the teas her mother had given her. Herbal obviously meant no caffeine. “Babette has talent. Some of her lingerie designs are amazing.” She closed the cupboard and turned around to find Deacon studying a ripped piece of one of Babette’s pages.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He crumpled the piece in his hand and tossed it at the trash can. It hit dead center, of course. “So what did she do to get arrested?”
“She walked to the high school by my mother’s house and started talking underwear with a group of young boys. Thankfully, once I got there and confirmed her story about working for French Kiss, they released her with a warning to stay away from underage kids.”
“That sucks,” he said. “Almost as much as her idea for men’s lingerie.”
She bristled. “It isn’t such a bad idea. And the statistics support that men are spending more and more money on clothes these days. Why wouldn’t they want their own lingerie line?” She glanced down at the sketches. “No, not thongs or see-through boxers, but I think men would buy nice robes, tummy-tucking T-shirts, and sexy—but comfortable—briefs. And why can’t men look as sexy in their underwear as women?”
Deacon smiled, a sensuous smile that made Olivia’s tummy do a cartwheel. “Because men’s bodies aren’t as beautiful as women’s. Although I’ll admit that the premise isn’t such a bad idea. I have trouble finding underwear that fits, doesn’t shrink up, and is comfortable. And I wouldn’t mind a nice, thick bathrobe. But, regardless of how good the idea is, men are creatures of habit. It’s going to take a while for men’s…‘lingerie’ to catch on. Too long to save the company if it’s that close to bankruptcy. So what happened? I thought French Kiss pulled in seven point one billion a year.”
She stared at him. “How do you know our sales figures?”
He shrugged. “It’s not like they’re a secret.”
The sales figures weren’t a secret, but they weren’t exactly common knowledge either. A person would have to do some research to find out the exact amounts. And she was surprised that Deacon had been interested enough to look them up. Especially when he acted like he couldn’t care less about his uncle’s business.
“What does it matter to you?” she asked. “All you have to do is sign the contract to get your money. Then you never have to worry about French Kiss again. Speaking of which, do you have the signed contract with you?”
“I’m afraid not. I left it at the office.”
“Signed?”
Before he could answer, Mr. Huckabee’s voice came through the open balcony doors. “Doris, get out here! Britney’s houseguest just jumped off the roof!”
