Love On My Mind (8 page)

“Is— What— Is that—?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Yes? But . . . where is the computer screen?”

“It doesn’t require one.”

“How is that possible? What is it projected on?”

“The air.”

“The air? How do you—?”

Her hair was fascinating. What harm could come from touching one curl? He succumbed to temptation, watching it stretch from a coil to a spiral before springing back into shape.

He pulled another one. “This conversation will continue more expeditiously if you refrain from repeating my answer to your preceding question before asking the next question.”

She turned her head to the side, attempting to glance at him over her shoulder. The HPC projected the image of the website on to his kitchen cabinets. “How does it work?”

“A broad question. Can you be more specific?”

She planted her hands on her hips, though she didn’t turn to face him. “Seriously?”

“I’m trying to ascertain what you want to know. There are many facets to the HPC and I could talk about them for hours. But what if I start with an area that doesn’t interest you and spend the next twenty minutes discussing the use of lasers to excite oxygen and nitrogen atoms, never broaching the subject you actually want—”

“Ugh!” she groaned in a theatrical manner. “Fine! How do I post my status?”

He blinked. Her frustration with him was clear, yet she recognized his point and altered her initial query. No hysterics, no name-calling, no judgmental pronouncements.

His pulse escalated. Interesting.

“Do you see the small keyboard icon in the bottom right corner?”

She nodded and the image bobbed.

“Move your right hand in that general location and motion as if to grab it.”

She paused and he understood her hesitation. He’d found it odd the first time he’d executed the motion. He slid his hand down her arm and moved her hand toward the icon. She curled her fingers and the image glowed.

“Propel it upward.”

“What?”

He thought for a second then said, “Throw it in front of you.”

She did and gasped when a foot-long illuminated keyboard appeared before the projection of the website.

“Did you see that?”

“Of course. I’m standing behind you.”

She reached out and touched the image. A letter appeared in the air. She snatched her hand back as if burned.

“It’s okay. Type.”

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t tell you to do so if I wasn’t.”

Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Adam! I had no idea. I mean, this is incredible. You invented this?”

He nodded, his chest expanding with pride.

“You’re a genius!”

“I know.”

He tapped the power button on the HPC and the screen dissipated. He took the device off her ear and placed it back in the box on his desk.

Chelsea faced him, her eyes bright, her lips stretched into a wide grin. “This launch has to be perfect. The HPC deserves nothing less.”

“Exactly. I’m glad you understand.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll assemble the information you’ll need to compose the speech.”

This was great. He headed for the storage room where he kept work-related files. His previous worries had been absurd. He’d get her the specs and she could start drafting—

She tugged on his sleeve, halting his progress. “Wait. I’m not writing your speech.”

He frowned. “You said you would help me. That’s the help I need.”

She shook her head. “I think there’s been some confusion.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not on my part. I recall our conversation accurately.”

She shifted her stance, one hip jutting laterally. “I don’t care what you recall. I’m not writing your speech. What I will do is help you make the HPC stand out among all the other products Computronix will launch.”

He clenched his jaw. “The HPC doesn’t need an ostentatious reveal. You’ve seen its capabilities. It will succeed based on the merits of its performance.”

“Your naiveté is amazing considering your intelligence. You will be the face of this product. It’ll be your passion, your words that will link you to it. You reading my words will be fake.”

“Fraudulence will be the least of my problems if I fuck up the presentation, in which case that same focus on me will hurt the HPC.”

She exhaled slowly and shook her head, her lips compressing to create divots in her chin.

A swarm of anger heated him. He was well acquainted with versions of that expression, had seen it on the faces of countless family members, acquaintances, and dates. When his mother begged him to be like the other boys in his playgroup. In the eleventh grade when Annette Connors told him it didn’t matter how cute he was, no girl would suffer through twenty minutes of why the latest video game was more nuanced and mature than 99 percent of Hollywood horror movies. When his first college roommate asked to be reassigned because “this weirdo gets up at 6 a.m. every day to do push-ups. Even when he doesn’t have class!” It was the look that usually preceded a remark used to remind him he was different, odd. But seeing it eclipse her features . . . He clenched his jaw so tightly his back teeth clicked.

He’d accept a spectrum of emotions from her, but he’d be damned if he’d endure her exasperated pity.

“Perhaps I overestimated your abilities. You assisted me with a few pop culture questions, a talent on par with a teenage girl and her Twitter account, but hardly worthy enough to entrust with the HPC.”

She flinched. “You’re an asshole. Good luck. You’re going to need it,” she said, snatching her bag from the bar stool and stalking to the stairs.

Just like that, his anger subsided. Dread clogged in his chest and his feet moved of their own accord, carting him after her. “You can’t leave. You promised to help me.”

Her heels stomping down the steps was her reply.

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest.
Epic fail, Bennett.
He should go after her. He needed her help with the launch, but his unparalleled attraction to her disturbed him. A classic example of the lesser of two evils: risk that the HPC presentation would fail without her guidance, or risk spending more time with a woman who made him question the wisdom of keeping her at a distance.

“I Googled you.”

His head shot up. She hadn’t left?

Chelsea stood there, shoulders thrown back, head held high. “You’ve presented papers at tech conferences all over the world. Why is this different?”

He shrugged. “When I present a paper, the audience attends for the information. All that’s required is for me to read the paper aloud. No one is there to judge me, only my work. And my work is stellar.”

She laughed. “Wow. Ego much?”

First Jonathan commented on his conceit and now Chelsea. Was it really an issue?

“That’s not ego, it’s fact. If I were presenting a paper about the development of the HPC for an audience of my peers, I’d excel without a qualm. But Mike informed me the mainstream press would be covering the event. Like the magazine that sent me those questions. They’ll be looking for a story to titillate their readers and sell issues.”

“Like the
People Magazine
press conference?”

His shoulders stiffened. “You know about that?”

“Funny thing about Google. You put in a question and it gives you pages upon pages of search results.”

“Right.” He stared down at his feet, unsettled knowing she’d seen that catastrophe. “The press conference heightened an already intolerable situation. That’s why I need your assistance. I can’t ruin this opportunity. At the moment, no one else has this technology. Once it’s launched, other companies will reverse engineer it, but by the time they come to market, Computronix will be synonymous with the HPC. My company will be years ahead of our competitors.”

She set her bag down on the rough-hewn side table and moved to stand in front of him.

“I’ll help you, but we need to come to an understanding. I’m not your speechwriter. It’s going to take more than a pithy speech or reading an excellent paper for this presentation to be a success. I need you to trust me and cooperate.”

She had amazing eyes. “Are you certain this is how you want to spend your vacation?”

“I hate being idle. This will give me something to do. Besides, I have some issues I need to think about.”

Issues? He inched closer to her, heeding an internal urge to share her space. “Do they involve a man?”

He told himself his concern was business-based only. He needed her focused on his task, not on personal problems.

Her lashes fluttered. “Why would you think that?”

“With someone like you, there has to be a man involved.”

“Someone like me?”

“Warm. Social.” He gave in and caressed her cheek with his index finger. “Beautiful.”

They stared at one another and those molecules began to kindle.

“No, it’s not a man,” she whispered.

God grant him the strength to keep his attention on his work and his hands off of her.

He tugged on a curl. “Then I agree to your terms.”

Chapter Eight

C
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EPPED INTO
Adam’s walk-in closet and gasped. It was sleek and polished with enough space to house the wardrobe of ten regular people.

Or two celebrities.

After their argument yesterday, Chelsea knew she had her work cut out for her. Considering the transformation needed, she decided to start with the easiest task: his wardrobe. Gorgeous though he may be, Adam Bennett didn’t strike her as the type of man who slid easily into change.

More like wrestling into skinny, stiff leather pants in the summertime.

The wall on her left was glass, providing a picturesque view of the mountains.
He must really like windows,
she thought, recalling the same breathtaking architectural feature from the great room and her guest room. The remaining walls held an intricate ebony-hued shelving unit with cream-colored linen baskets, like those showcased on the covers of design magazines.

Despite the grandiose dimensions, Adam’s clothes took up one small section of the shelving unit, close to the door, as if that was all the space the closet could bear to spare. Jeans and sweatpants were folded and neatly arranged in appropriate cubbies, and an assortment of T-shirts, flannel shirts, and sweatshirts hung from the rod. God, she hadn’t seen the cohabitation of this much flannel and denim since MTV reality shows in the nineties. All items were white, black, gray, navy blue, or in the case of the flannels, a checkered combination of the four. Somewhere, fashion icons shivered as Adam stomped all over their sartorial graves.

She wrinkled her nose and flicked a gray-and-white T-shirt, watching it sway on the hanger. “Don’t you own a suit?”

“No.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she prodded, “Why?”

Adam scratched his cheek. “I never needed one.”

“Never? You’ve never had an occasion to wear a suit?”

His eyes slid upward and he pursed his lips. After a moment, he shook his head. “No.”

“Weddings? Funerals? Graduations?”

He continued to look at her without responding, and though she had only known him for a few days, she guessed it was because his answer hadn’t changed.

“You’ve taken meetings with people dressed like that?” she asked, motioning to his clothes.

Adam glanced down at his faded jeans and navy T-shirt. “What’s wrong with this? It’s functional, clean, and good quality. It would be impractical to wear a suit when I’m either sitting at the computer all day or creating prototypes.”

Chelsea let her gaze drift down his body, pausing to admire the way his cotton tee hugged his broad shoulders, and marveling at how the well-washed jeans sat low on his hips and emphasized his long, muscled legs. Heat darted through her body and she resisted the urge to fan herself. As a woman, she had to admit there was nothing wrong with what he was wearing. Her eyes met his and the corner of his mouth lifted. He knew. He’d seen her checking him out. Crap.

And that was part of the problem. She was here as a PR professional, not as a woman. And while those two things weren’t mutually exclusive, her reactions to this man meant they needed to be. She wanted to focus on getting the job done, not waste time reminding her pulse to settle down. She wanted to determine whether he needed a haircut, not notice his damp hair, still wet from his shower, which sent her mind in all sorts of steamy directions. Being attracted to this man was a nuisance she had to endure. Acting on that attraction would be professional suicide.

And it would be foolish to immolate herself for a man she didn’t even like most of the time.

Satisfied with her inner pep talk, she took another look at the clothes hanging in his closet, managing—almost—to see past the body they covered. She raised incredulous brows. He was right. They were quality garments and carried the labels of top department stores and designers. She turned and noticed vivid colors dancing at the corner of her periphery.

“Do you agree?” he asked.

From this angle she could see the bottom of the closet normally hidden behind the open door. Row upon row of sneakers in assorted colors lined the floor.

“With what?”

“With the suitability of a computer programmer’s wardrobe.”

Bending down, she picked up a shoe and her mouth fell open at the famous basketball player’s logo on the sole. She lifted shoe after shoe and found the same insignia. Adam was a sneakerhead? She smiled, oddly charmed by the discovery. It was like finding out the Queen of England could do the Electric Slide.

She straightened and turned back to him. “Where do you shop?”

“I don’t. I engage the services of a personal shopper. I tell her what I need and”—he frowned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone—“what sizes I wear and have the items delivered.”

Now,
that
made sense.

“The shoes, too?”

His head shot up and his glare could have vaporized her. “Of course not. Buying sneakers is a personal experience. I purchase those myself.”

She ignored the somersault in her belly. “Can I have your shopper’s name and number? Since she’s already worked with you, talking to her would save me some time.”

“Give me a minute.” His voice thinned in distraction as his fingers flew over the phone’s touch screen. “Are we done here? I need to resolve an issue that has—”

Chelsea reached over and snatched the phone out of his hand.

“Hey!”

Her victory was short-lived as he grabbed it back with startlingly quick reflexes and shifted his body, holding the phone out of her reach.

“You can’t take my phone.” His brows were mashed together in a thunderous formation.

“Cooperation,” she said, overexaggerating the multisyllabic word. “You promised.”

She lunged for the phone but he held up an arm to block her attempt to retrieve it. Said arm landed squarely against her breast.

They both froze, a provocative statuary. Oh. My. God. How did she continue to find herself in these situations with him?

Her breath caught in her throat. The corded muscles in his forearm seared through the thin material of her silk top and her nipples responded, pebbling against the delicious friction. His eyes shot to hers and the heated lust she saw in their depths floored her. Like he was two seconds away from pushing her back against the wall and covering her body with his own. She staggered back and he dropped his arm like he’d just been informed she had a contagious disease. So she wasn’t the only one affected. She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse? The muscle in his cheek ticked and he slid his phone back into his pocket. Her heart pounded mercilessly as she opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure of what to say.

Just pretend it never happened.

“This is important,” she said, her voice a strangled mess. She cleared her throat, trying to get back on track. “You said you wanted my help.”

He hesitated for only a second. “I do. I only asked for a minute to respond to a text.”

“You were getting ready to blow me off.”

She winced as her last three words echoed between them. He lifted a brow.

She cleared her throat. “I meant, you were going to abandon me for your work.”

“I asked if we were done to figure out the approximate time of our completion. I wanted to inform the engineers when I would be able to answer their questions.” A tentative smile teased the corner of his lips. “I had no intention of blowing you off.”

Her stomach tumbled over the cliff. His smile could sell a million HPCs before he uttered one word.

“Besides, this can’t take too much longer, right? Just tell me what deficiencies you detect in my wardrobe and I’ll order the appropriate replacements. So, fifteen minutes?”

And like a pendulum, her feelings swung back toward mild irritation.

“No. Not fifteen minutes.” She crossed her arms. “Clothes are more than fabric used to cover your body. They also serve as your greeters to the world. People see you and make a split-second decision about who you are based on what you wear. Whether you’re rich or poor, conservative or more liberal. Whether you like punk or country, if you’re shy or outgoing. And if image is relevant to your occupation, you become a walking advertisement.”

Which was why Chelsea never ventured into public without her stylish armor intact, believing it didn’t matter how you felt inside, you should always look like a winner. Especially now that she had a choice. Growing up, the idea of dressing well hadn’t been within her grasp, although it was often in her dreams. Now, her business depended upon it. No one would trust a slovenly public relations professional, believing she’d be as messy and careless with his or her reputation as she was with her appearance. These days there was no excuse for anyone not to understand the importance of projecting the right image.

“And that’s a good thing?”

She laughed. “It’s the way things are.”

He curled his lip. “That’s absurd. The only assumption anyone should make about me, based on my clothing, is that I can afford to keep myself warm. To discern my personality or any of my beliefs or values by the type of clothes I wear is a waste of time.”

“Really? Would you get a haircut from someone whose own hair was chopped all to pieces? Would you go to a dentist whose own teeth were rotted and falling out?”

“You’re making two different arguments. The barber’s and dentist’s appearances have to do with their skill level, not the clothes they’re wearing. If the dentist’s teeth were rotten, I would question the quality of his work. And that wouldn’t change, whether he was wearing sweatpants or a ten-thousand-dollar suit.”

It was an effort to speak through her clenched teeth. “You’re missing my point.”

“No, I’m waiting for you to make a cogent one.”

“Arrrgh!” she yelled, stomping away from him and counting to ten.

No one could be this difficult. It was the second time he’d caused her to lose her composure. She never lost her composure. It was their first lesson and he was giving her grief over something as basic as wearing clothes appropriate to the situation. She was filled with a rush of sympathy for his mother. He’d probably been born breech.

She inhaled deeply and blew the air out of her mouth. She took another cleansing breath, then walked back to where Adam stood, typing into his phone.

“Adam?”

He looked up.

“Think of it this way. Certain professions require their employees to dress in a particular manner. You’re right that a suit can’t be the basis by which a bank manager’s competence is judged, but the customs of his profession require him to wear it. The custom of a launch of this magnitude would require you to wear something other than jeans and a T-shirt. Does that work for you?”

He stood there staring at her and she realized he was thinking about her question. Finally, he gave a curt nod. “Okay.”

Thank God.

“We need to go shopping,” she said. She started out of the closet, then turned back and motioned toward his phone. “You can tell your engineers that we’ll be done in a fe—three hours.”

She hardened herself against the gratitude that made his beautiful eyes glow as he held her gaze.

“The shopping mall is thirty minutes away,” he informed her.

Thirty minutes in a tight, inescapable space?

In an ordinary situation, she’d use that time to discover more information about her client. Strengths. Weaknesses. Interests. Causes. But there was nothing ordinary about this situation, Adam, or her reaction to him. And she despised being out of her comfort zone.

Decision made, she said, “We’ll take separate cars.”

C
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look of upscale department stores, and this one was no different. Warm recessed lighting shone on dark wooden tables draped in colorful wheels of men’s dress shirts and coordinating ties and handkerchiefs. The familiar tableau calmed her, reminded her of the reason she was there. Adam was just another client in need of a new wardrobe. The atmosphere had become strained back at his house—for a few reasons—and she was willing to blame some of that on the intimacy of their isolation. Being in public would bring a welcome dose of reality and hopefully dissipate some of the lingering tension.

A young man approached them. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” Chelsea said, all business once again. “We have an appointment with Monique.”

“One moment.”

He headed over to a sleek phone mounted on the wall, his sport coat and trousers nicely tailored for his slim build. Chelsea sensed a teachable moment.

“Based on his attire, wouldn’t you trust him to help you buy a suit?” she asked Adam.

He stood next to a grouping of athletically attired mannequins, his hands shoved in the front pocket of his jeans, his expression impassive. It was the first time she’d spoken to him directly since they left his house. She was relieved to note that she could finally do so without reliving the exquisite pressure of his arm against her breasts.

“Once people witness the HPC in action, they will want to buy it. The clothing I wear as I sell it will be irrelevant,” Adam said in a matter-of-fact tone.

She narrowed her eyes. He had to be putting her on. If it were anyone else she’d think he was secretly enjoying his attempts to annoy her.

“Miss Grant?” a cool voice inquired.

Remembering the place and her purpose, Chelsea composed her face into calm lines and turned to see a petite woman walking over to them, her dark hair styled into a sleek bob.

Chelsea held out her hand. “Hello. I’m here with—”

“Mr. Bennett,” Monique said, her eyes widening. She defrosted her demeanor and it flowed thick and sweet. Like taffy. “I didn’t know this appointment was for you. It’s lovely to see you again. It’s been a while.”

Chelsea frowned and let her slighted hand fall back to her side.