Irresistible (Cloverleigh Farms #1)(4)

Mrs. Radley shook her head, her expression guilty. “No. I didn’t even think of it.”

I closed April’s top desk drawer. “Okay, I have one more place to look, and if that doesn’t work, I’m going to run up to my apartment and grab a pin.”

“Oh, do you live here?”

“Yes,” I said, pulling April’s office door shut. “I’m Frannie Sawyer. My family owns Cloverleigh Farms.”

“Oh my goodness, of course,” she said, following me down the hall. “My husband James is one of your father’s golf buddies. And I met your mother yesterday. Such wonderful people. Now there are five of you girls, right? Which one are you?”

“I’m the youngest. Okay, let’s try this one,” I said, pushing open the last door on the left and switching on the light.

As I entered Mack’s office, I couldn’t help feeling a little swoosh in my belly. It smelled like him—a manly combination of wood, leather, and charcoal. It sounds weird, but I’d always loved the smell of a hardware store, and that’s what Mack’s office smelled like to me. Maybe it was because I had fun memories of tagging along with my dad to the hardware store as a kid, and he always bought me an ice cream cone afterward.

Or maybe it was because Mack was hot as fuck, and I fantasized about him endlessly. There was that.

“Is this your dad’s office?” Mrs. Radley asked, glancing around as I went over to the desk.

“No, it belongs to Mack, the CFO. But I think he might have a little sewing kit in here. I gave him one for Christmas as a joke, because twice last year I had to sew a button on his shirt after he popped it off at work.”

Feeling slightly guilty to be rummaging around in his desk while he wasn’t here, I pulled open his top drawer and shuffled things around: pens, pencils, a yellow highlighter, a torn-out page from a Disney coloring book one of his daughters must have done for him, Post-It notes, Life Savers mints, his Cloverleigh Farms business cards. Momentarily distracted, I picked one up.

Declan MacAllister, Chief Financial Officer and Business Manager

I always forgot that his real name was Declan, since everyone called him Mack, but I liked it. Sometimes I whispered it to my pillow in the dark.

“Are these his girls?” She gestured to a photograph of his daughters on his desk. There were more pictures of them on the shelves behind me too. He was such a devoted dad. I knew firsthand because after his wife left last year—she had to be crazy—I became a part-time nanny to the kids. They were adorable, smart, and sweet.

And Mack was just … everything.

“Yes,” I said. “Aren’t they cute? Aha!” At the back of the drawer I found the tiny sewing kit I’d given him. I held it up triumphantly, remembering the way he’d laughed and thanked me with a hug that I still hadn’t recovered from. His chest was so hard.

Mrs. Radley looked relieved. “Oh, thank God.”

Grabbing Mack’s scissors, I came out from around the desk and stood behind her. “Okay, I think I can manage this with you still in the dress, but try not to move too much. I don’t want to poke you. White or yellow thread? Sorry, no ivory in the kit.”

“White.” She stood still while I threaded the needle. “Is that him?” she asked, gesturing toward a framed photo of Mack with his daughters I’d taken last July at the staff picnic. Winifred was on his shoulders, and the other two were hanging from his thick biceps. All four were smiling and laughing. I recalled how grateful Mack had been that day because I’d organized crafts and games for the kids, showed them all the fun places to hide, let them dip their feet in the creek, taken them into the barns and let them pet the animals. He said he hadn’t seen them so happy in months and had put an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. (In my fantasies, things progressed rapidly from there, but in reality, I’d simply said, “You’re welcome.”)

“Yeah,” I said, carefully securing the edge of the strap to the dress. “That’s him.”

“Handsome.”

“Yes.” My heart beat a little quicker.

She laughed a little. “That was a very emphatic yes. Are you two a thing?”

Only in my dreams. I cleared my throat. “No.”

“Is he married? I don’t see a wife in any of his photos.”

“He was. Now he’s divorced and a full-time single dad.”

“Are you married?” the bride asked.

I laughed. “No.”

“Boyfriend?”

I shook my head.

She inclined her head toward the photo of Mack and his girls. “I bet this guy could use a Saturday night out sometime. You should ask him.”

“He’s more likely to hire me to babysit on a Saturday night,” I said wryly, knotting the end of the thread.

“Are you that much younger?”

“Ten years. I’m twenty-seven, and he’s thirty-seven.”

She waved a hand in the air. “That’s nothing. James is twelve years older than I am. Age is just a number.”

Maybe, but I was 100 percent certain that Mack looked at me and saw a kid. Not once in the five years he’d worked here had he ever given me any indication otherwise, despite the fact that I could hardly breathe when we were in a room together.

It was a hopeless crush, and I knew it.