Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(51)
Liam stepped aside and pulled out his chair. “She can have mine,” he said, unavoidably triggering suspicions in the room that he’d already slept with the new owner. Instead of only trying to. “And I'll do a coffee run.”
Rachel paused, mid-rise, giving Darrin a questioning look. Liam could see Darrin was about to override him and insist that Rachel get up when Bev came the rest of the way into the room and put her hand on Rachel's shoulder. “I don't need a chair.” She smiled at everyone. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I brought treats.” She looked over her shoulder to the door, where George—George, the Troll of the Back Door—was hovering with a wide, open box in his arms.
“On the table, Ms. Bev?” George asked, staggering over.
“If that's all right with you guys,” she said to the surprised, speechless group. Unlike an hour ago, she was wearing a fitted pink sweater with dark designer jeans and heels, and looked adorably harmless and perfect and put-together. She caught Liam staring at her, and her smile faltered. “How about over here?” she said to George, gesturing to an uncluttered patch on the table.
George, who seemed to have strawberry jelly on his nose, nodded gratefully and dropped the box on the table. He gave Bev a goofy grin.
“Thanks so much, George. You’re an angel.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Bev,” he said, and Liam felt light-headed. What the hell had she done to George?
Then people began to rise, their bottoms coming out of their chairs to peer inside whatever it was. One by one they broke into smiles.
“I'm sure this is all wrong for a fitness company,” Bev said, “and I probably made too many. But what the hell.”
Liam could smell the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies from his side of the table, and saliva pooled in his mouth. One of the designers reached inside the box and froze, frowning. “Are they . . . warm?”
Bev nodded. “The third floor has an oven.”
Every pair of eyes around the table grew wide. “You made them?” Rachel asked, now fully on her feet with her face in the box. “Oh, my God. Snickerdoodles.”
“Hardly an ideal breakfast,” Liam said, but nobody seemed to hear him. They were all on their feet reaching into the box and pulling out cookies and muffins, tubs of cream cheese and jam, plates, napkins, cups, Odwalla juice (several varieties), and miscellaneous paper bags.
An assistant held up a bag. “What are the marshmallows for?”
“There's hot chocolate in the thermos,” Bev said.
“No donuts?” Liam asked.
“In the white box,” she said. “I didn't make those. They're from the place up the street.”
“You got us Gerard's?” Darrin elbowed Rachel out of his way. “Oh, I love you. Their almond croissants are fatal.”
“Which is not a good thing.” Liam slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Have anything with a lower sugar-to-nutrient level?”
Bev gave him a hard sideways look that said please, and he pressed his lips together in a hard line. Her dark hair was pulled back into a headband, exposing the shell curve of her ear and her creamy, soft neck, a hint of collarbone, the hollow of her cleavage under the vee of the sweater. Under his gaze, her face flushed as pink as the knit, and she looked away.
“Nice to see you again, Darrin,” Bev said. Darrin was dressed in black cashmere and jeans that, combined with his black hair and pale skin, made him look like a gay, trendy vampire. Bev held out her hand. “I was just hearing about what amazing things you've done with the Kohl's buyer.”
Clutching his almond croissant and the compliment, Darrin took her hand and smiled with genuine pleasure. “You heard about that?”
“Obviously I'm just a newbie,” she said, “but anybody can see you've made the company a lot of money. We'll have to be very careful you don't get stolen away from us.” To that last comment she added a raised eyebrow that froze Darrin mid-bite. As he sank into his chair, his eyes had the fixed, calculating gaze of a man pondering a larger apartment.
Next Bev turned to Jennifer. “I know that—since Ellen left—you’re the designer for all of women’s now. But everyone told me how, back when you were just out of school, you designed the top-selling Fite Foundations bra.” She smiled. “Just this week I met a woman down the street who wanted me to thank you personally. She said it was obvious a woman was in charge of the Fite bras. She won't wear anything else, not even to work. I swear, she was about to hug me when I told her I was connected to the company.”
Jennifer glowed. “It’s the cups. No loaf.”
“Really, she was so grateful for what you make here. I can’t wait to watch you work.” Bev touched her on the shoulder. “Make sure you get one of the treats before they're all gone.”
Liam watched in awe as Jennifer, who in the eight years he'd known her had not once eaten anything other than raw vegetables, organic home-made yogurt, and refrigerated probiotic supplements, reached forward and withdrew a chocolate-glazed donut the size of her face. Not that she ate it, but she set it close to her then licked her fingers.
Bev was already moving on to her next victim, and her next. Liam watched her with growing admiration, amusement, and alarm. She was good. Very, very good. Somehow she knew everyone by name and immediately pinpointed the person’s most valuable contribution to the company. She congratulated Wendi on her recent move to Men’s as though it had been a promotion. She even came up with a compliment for Grace, an associate merchandiser in men's who he could vow had cost the company far more than she’d contributed, but had once stopped fifty dozen units of vertically-striped Fite the Man Tees from being sewn up horizontally, a fact that Bev pointed out as she offered Grace a second chocolate chip cookie.