Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(3)

“Cut loose? You can’t possibly sign anything so soon.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not making any changes. I’m handing it over to Ellen. They just need my signature.”

“Not Ellen. You don’t understand. You can’t.”

“Everyone knew she would inherit the business. She should.” Though her mother had liked the idea of Ellen being disappointed for once, after years of being the favorite daughter, the one who got all of Daddy’s love, attention, and money.

“Your grandfather left it to you.” He leaned forward. “You have to keep it.”

She smiled. Another four-year-old. “You’ll be just fine. Sometimes we take things a little too seriously, don’t you think?”

He tilted his head and regarded her, silent for so long Bev was afraid she’d offended him. Suddenly he leaned back in his chair, propped his elbows on the arms and regarded her over his steepled fingers. “You’re perfect.”

A nervous laugh caught in her throat. “Why, thank you, Liam.”

“I’m not letting you out of this room.”

She did laugh then. Maybe he was too accustomed to people bowing down to him. She got up and gave him a sad smile. “As of this week, I own this room.”

He nodded. “And I’m going to keep it that way.”

“Nice meeting you, Liam, but Richard is waiting for me.”

With athletic grace, he was out of his chair and leaning over the desk towards her. “Hold on. Hear me out.”

“No time.”

“Tell you what.” He pointed at her. “I’ll call Richard for you. I’m sure his flight isn’t as early as he made it sound. I—I’m sorry. You just surprised me. I know why your grandfather didn’t leave the company to your aunt. And why you can’t either.” His brown eyes softened. “Please.”

She froze mid-way to her feet, caught in the photogenic tractor beam of his face. “He was just confused. A mistake.”

“Ed Roche was many things. Confused was not one of them, not even at the end.” He picked up the phone, held her gaze. “I loved him, you know,” he said softly.

Like a saltine crushed in a chubby fist, Bev’s resistance crumbled. She sagged back down into the chair and said, “Okay. If it’s all right with Richard, and you promise to walk me to his office.”

With his gaze never leaving her, he stepped around the desk, dragging the phone with him, and got between her and the door. “Richard, I’ve got Beverly Lewis here. She’s going to be about a half hour late. Can you stick around?”

While he was looking away she took the opportunity to study him more closely. Even in sweaty workout clothes, he was imposing. She had never been the insecure type, but she envied the effortless confidence he exuded like carbon dioxide out of his lungs, just the waste product of his existence.

He brought the phone back to his desk. “He can wait. He’s flying out of Oakland and was just worried about getting over the bridge. But he’s got a little time.”

“All right. So, tell me—”

“First, let me get you some coffee or something.” He strode to the door.

“No, really, I don’t need—”

“And I can change out of these clothes.”

“All right, but I have my own flight out of SFO—”

“I’ll be right back.” He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door.

Bev let out a breath, kicking off her left shoe to rub her aching toes. She could have gone straight to the airport and dealt with this over the phone, but then she would have been as bad as her mom, grieving with remote control.

The room was interesting—cluttered, but interesting. She glanced at the door and shoved her foot back into the shoe she vowed never to wear again. With a limp, she made her way over to a presentation board hanging on the wall. About three feet wide, each board displayed a parade of paper dolls—flat, simple sketches, filled with computer-generated colors and patterns. Fabric swatches with pinked edges were glued in a line at the bottom, though the bright colors had been ripped off and reattached with Scotch tape. Yellow Post-Its were scattered here and there, with “yes” or “X”, or in one case, “NFW.”

She noticed a thick binder open on Liam’s desk. With another glance at the closed door and one at her watch, she edged closer and flipped through the pages. The men’s line, from the looks of it. More sketches, lots of spreadsheets, actual buttons and zippers and fabric swatches taped to the paperwork. Fascinated, but curious about the fun stuff—women’s—she peeked around his office until she found a bookcase with more binders. She dragged a heavy one labeled FALL into her arms and dropped it onto a table.

Ah, that was more like it. Some color. She smiled, imagining herself in the skin-tight yellow short-shorts. My God, the wedgie she would have.

“Glad you found something to do,” Liam said from the door.

She swung around, annoyed at the wait, yet disarmed to see he’d changed into khakis and an olive button-down shirt that brought out the golden flecks in his eyes. His damp hair was combed back, emphasizing the strong bones of his face.

She pulled her eyes away and focused on the cup he held out to her. Long, tanned fingers curled around it. She took the cup without letting herself touch him.