Yours Completely: A Cinderella Love Story (Billionaires and Brides #1) (33 page)

“A couple.” I watched his steady hands as he chopped more lettuce, mesmerized by his sure and quick strokes. “I found another beautiful little Morisot in the hallway. I think there are several more of her works scattered throughout the house.”

He paused, looking up at me. “I'm afraid I don't know much about her.”

“She's one of my favorite artists,” I explained. “She's considered one of the best female impressionists. Her work sells remarkably well.”

“Then I'm glad she is on my walls, then.” He flashed me another quick smile that had my heart speeding up again.

“Did you not pick the paintings?” I asked, curious as to why he didn't know what he had in his own house. I picked up my lemonade and finally started drinking it, suddenly thirsty.

“Me? No.” He shook his head and made a face. “I bought this house a few years ago at auction. I wanted a beach house on the island, and the owners had passed away and the estate was being sold. It's time to sell it now while the market is good. What you are cataloging is what was in the house originally. I didn't pick any of it.”

I nearly choked on the last of my drink. I set the glass down and stared at him. “This was all here? This place is practically an art museum!”

He grinned and adjusted the sandwich on my plate before coming back over. “I don't know much about art, but I know a good business deal when I see one.”

I went to reach for the plate and in the process knocked over the empty glass. It rolled off the table but thankfully bounced on the floor instead of breaking. Bastian set the plate on the table and knelt beside me to pick it up.

He handed it back to me, our fingers touched for the briefest of moments, while our eyes connected. I gazed into eyes filled with the gray dawn and bursting with want and hope and so much more with every second I looked. He was close enough that I could smell the clean scent of his shampoo and my fingers ached to run through his hair.

“Hey, Bastian, Leo's on the line and he's...” Charlotte's called out, entering the room and breaking the spell. She had her phone to her ear but her hand over the mouth piece. “Oh, hey, Ava.”

She glanced around at the tableau in front of her, with Bastian kneeling before me in the kitchen, our hands on the glass together, and what I knew must be a frightful flush on my cheeks. I could only imagine what she thought. “Am I interrupting?”

Bastian quickly rose to his feet and set the empty glass on the table. “Of course not.”

Charlotte glanced back and forth between the two of us, one eyebrow arching higher than the other. I looked down at my plate, wishing I knew how to control my blushing. Charlotte took an inhale to say something and then followed my gaze to my plate and instead burst out with, “You made Rough-Day Sandwiches? Did you make me one?”

“No. You said you were on a diet,” he said with a shrug. That explained why she hadn't had any of the french toast this morning. She looked up at Bastian but before she could say anything he held up his hand. “See? I listen. No gluten, no Rough-Day Sandwich.”

Charlotte stared at my sandwich like a starving person. I could hear her mouth watering from my seat at the table and felt the urge to scoot the sandwich closer to me before she could steal it and run off.

“Sometimes, Bastian,” she said, turning to face him and crossing her arms. “Sometimes, you suck.”

Bastian grinned at her. “You said Leo's on the phone?”

“Yeah. Main line, so it's business,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. I wondered if they were secretly a couple since they were obviously close. The idea that Bastian might be with someone stung in places I wasn't expecting.

“Excuse me then, Ava,” Bastian said, catching my eye. Looking into Bastian's eyes was like looking into deep water. There was so much there that I couldn't look away. I hoped that he and Charlotte weren't an item. That would ruin all the wonderful fantasies my brain was now starting to concoct around him. He carefully slipped past Charlotte and back into the main house, my eyes following him the entire way.

Charlotte watched him leave and then promptly looked at me.

“He likes you,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“What?” I tried to laugh, but there was a thrill in the pit of my stomach. I wanted him to like me. “What makes you say that?”

“He made you a Rough-Day Sandwich,” she stated, as if that made everything terribly obvious.

“I don't know if you noticed, Charlotte, but I kind of did have a rough day,” I replied with a shrug.

Charlotte laughed, grinning at me and shaking her head. “He doesn't just make them for anyone. You have to be special to merit a Rough-Day Sandwich.”

“Maybe he just felt bad for me,” I suggested. She stared at my plate like a ravenous animal. I smiled. “Would you like some? This is my second and I won't be able to eat it all anyway.”

“He made you TWO?” she exclaimed. She shook her head incredulous, but it quickly shifted into an eager nod. “Yes, yes, I want some.”

She hurried over to the kitchen and brought me a knife to cut the sandwich in half. I grinned as I cut into it, her excitement at the food contagious. She reminded me of one of my best friends from high school, so bubbly and easy to get along with that it was impossible not be her friend. I couldn't help but like her, even if she was with Bastian.

Charlotte could barely wait for the knife to finish cutting before grabbing her piece. She took a huge bite and sank into a kitchen chair with ecstasy written all over her face. “Oh my god,” she groaned. “He must really like you. He made his special sauce.”

I snickered slightly at her use of “special sauce,” but she just rolled her eyes and took another bite.

“Why are they called Rough-Day Sandwiches?” I asked, taking another bite.

Charlotte swallowed, pausing long enough between bites to explain. “When we were younger, Bastian would make them for me whenever I had a rough day. They make a rough day better—thus Rough-Day Sandwiches.”

“When you were younger?” I asked, feeling a cold pang in my stomach. If she had known him since childhood, there was no way I could compete. “Did you know each other as kids?”

She nodded. “We basically grew up together. We had the same foster family. We may have different last names, but he's family. He's as much my brother as anyone can be.”

“Oh.” My heart stopped falling. He was her foster brother. Which also explained the use of past tense when referring to his parents. They must have died when he was much younger. “So is Kindling Romance a family business then?”

Charlotte laughed as if I had said something wonderfully clever and funny. “Oh, no. It's all Bastian. He's the one who convinced his two friends they actually had a legit idea. When he gets a notion in his head, the rest of us just come along for the ride.”

I nodded. He seemed like the kind of person who would take charge and lead a business. But really, I was just glad to know that Charlotte considered him her brother. They weren't a couple. Butterflies happily danced around in my stomach at the thought of those gray eyes looking at me again, and knowing that they were actually looking at me.

“That was so good.” Charlotte smacked her lips and licked the crumbs off her fingers. “Totally worth breaking the diet.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Don't tell him you shared with me.”

“Too late,” Bastian whispered loudly from behind her.

“Damn it!” Charlotte jumped and then glared at him. “You know I can't pass up a Rough-Day Sandwich. That's like asking the ocean not to be wet.”

Bastian just shook his head slowly at her. It was easy to see their brother-sister relationship now that I knew what it was.

“What did Leo want?” Charlotte asked, brushing crumbs off her blouse.

Bastian sighed, the shadows creeping into his eyes and losing the warmth of his smile. “The new app is a mess. I'm going to need you to cancel my morning appointments and schedule a conference call.”

“Will do, Boss,” Charlotte chirped, pulling out her phone.

“I'm sorry, but I have to go deal with this,” Bastian said, turning toward me. I could see real regret in his face.

“No worries. I have plenty I need to do myself.” I knew my face mirrored his regret, but I smiled and waved my hand at the papers on the table. “Thank you for dinner, though. I really appreciate it. It was wonderful.”

And I didn't just mean the food.

Bastian smiled, the sun coming out from behind the shadows of his eyes. Seeing him smile, especially at me, gave me happy tingles in all the right places.

Charlotte cleared her throat, reminding me that it wasn't just Bastian and me anymore. I hoped I hadn't been smiling at him with my stupid happy smile for too long.

“Charlotte, go get the lawyers on the phone. We've got a busy night,” Bastian said to his assistant before looking at me. His eyes met mine and I could see his smile lightening them. “Goodnight, Ava.”

I liked the way he said my name. “Goodnight, Bastian.”

He grinned, and then turned to hurry up to his office to work.

“Yes, good night, Ava,” Charlotte mimicked her brother's farewell. I stuck my tongue out at her and she laughed before hurrying to follow him. She ducked her head back into the kitchen at the last second and whispered, “Thanks for the sandwich!” before disappearing up the stairs.

I shook my head and chuckled. It was an interesting dynamic between those two. It made me wonder what it would be like to work with a sibling. As an only child, I could only imagine, but since I worked with my father, my aunt and uncle, and my two cousins, I figured it was probably similar. Working with family was wonderful and exasperating at the same time.

I turned back to my paperwork, but the words just looked jumbled and unappealing. I couldn't concentrate, instead wanting to close my eyes and just remember what it felt like to have Bastian smile at me. I knew I couldn't just sit there basking in his imaginary glow, so I got up to put the dishes away. It was the least I could do since he cooked.

The kitchen was remarkably clean. Other than the frying pan and the vegetables neatly arranged on the cutting board, everything else was already neatly put away. I put the veggies on a plate and found some plastic wrap before placing it in the fridge next to his sauce. I hand-washed the frying pan and cutting board, leaving them out to air dry.

Glancing around the kitchen, I realized that Bastian really must know what he as doing. Everything was spotless and perfect, despite making a rather complex sandwich.

I smiled, thinking of him in the kitchen and the fact that he had made me a Rough-Day Sandwich. I was glad that Charlotte had told me just what they meant, as it made the act even sweeter. He may not know much about art, but he did know how to make a person feel better with food.

I
stood at my father's window, looking out at the gleaming ocean and wishing I was out there.
No
, I chastised myself,
I wasn't looking at the beach. I was looking at Bastian.

I could see him just coming in off the water, walking across the beach with water dripping from his wetsuit in the morning light. I wished I could have seen that smile light up his face again as he greeted the dawn, but I had work to do. I sighed and he looked up, directly at the window as if he had heard me. I looked away, knowing that it was just coincidence.

“Are you listening to me?” Dad asked, cocking his head to the side. He was propped up in the massive four poster bed with more pillows than I think we had in our entire house.

“Yes, of course I am,” I responded, pulling away from the window. Bastian was inside now anyway. “You want me to report in every hour. I know how to do this.”

Dad frowned. I knew he wanted out of bed and to get to work. This was going to be harder on him than it would be on me. He wasn't the kind of person who could sit still for more than five minutes, let alone lounge in bed when there was work to be done.

“Don't worry, Daddy.” I came over and kissed his head. “I'm going to go get some breakfast, and then I'll get everything ready. You'll only have to be bored for a few hours before I inundate you with work.”

“
Paper
work,” he corrected me, but at least he smiled.

I grinned at him, turning to open the door. “I'll see you soon.”

“Hurry back,” he called out after me as I headed down the hallway.

I went to the kitchen and found a pot of fresh coffee. There was no french toast this time, but I found hard boiled eggs in the fridge and some cereal. It was a quick and easy meal before heading into the foyer where I had all my gear set up.

The light was perfect in here with the high ceilings and open windows. I picked up my camera and fired a test shot at one of pictures hanging on the wall just as Charlotte descended the stairs.

“I like that one,” she said, pointing to the picture I was aiming my camera at. It was a calm, pastoral scene with calm blue skies, green trees, and rolling golden fields.

“Me too,” I agreed, smiling at her.

“How much is it worth?” She came and stood next to me, looking at the painting.

“Only a couple hundred dollars,” I replied, taking another practice shot and adjusting the settings slightly on my camera.

Charlotte looked over at me surprised. It was a large painting, and in the same impressionist style as many of the other paintings in the house. “Why?”

“It's a replica of an Armaund Guillaumin painting,” I explained. “It's a fairly famous painting.”

“It's a forgery?” She sounded shocked.

I shook my head. “No, just a replica. It's pretty common for artists to recreate a famous piece of art and sell it. It's not a forgery as long as they don't try and pass it off as the original.” I looked back up at the painting. “The artists did a fantastic job, but since it's just a replica, it isn't worth very much.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said, looking back at it with a keen eye. “It's still beautiful, though.”

“Yes, yes it is,” I agreed. “Things don't have to be worth much to still be beautiful.”

She nodded and smiled at me. “How's your dad?”

“Grumpy,” I answered and she laughed. “He hates being stuck in bed. Throw in that he's now going to be responsible for all the paperwork while there's amazing antique furniture down here—let's just say he's a bit of a grouch.”