Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Zoey checked on her chilled pumpkin bars.
After refrigerating overnight, they were perfect.
She’d felt notably better the prior evening after taking out her sorrows baking.
Something about measuring ingredients, mixing and taste testing soothed her soul.
The exacting nature of baking left nothing to the imagination and seemed to be the only way Zoey could cook.
When it came to food, she wasn’t terribly creative.
Give her fashion and makeup any day of the week, but cooking remained a challenge.
Last night, in the middle of mixing batter, Zoey came to a decision: she had to know if Archer would be interested in her, if not for their unique situation.
She didn’t believe that every man could possibly be attracted to her, even if she didn’t downplay her looks.
Looks were important to some men—the wrong kind of men. Last night, she’d devised a plan.
Her phone pinged and she picked it up from the kitchen counter. There was no caller ID.
Did you get my flowers?
How was it Scott again? She’d blocked him. Had she screwed that up somehow? She wasn’t the techiest person. Then she noticed it was a different number. He had a new phone, or a burner. Had it come to this? Using burners? Didn’t only drug dealers use those?
Yes, got them, and while that was nice of you, it wasn’t necessary.
At least you had something to give the nurses at the hospital.
Zoey sucked in a breath. Had he seen her going to the hospital? Had he been there too? For the first time since this all started, Zoey felt a pulse of alarm sweep through her.
Are you following me?!!
Don’t be crazy. I know you go there almost every Monday. Did you actually give them to the nurses?
He inserted an eye roll emoji. Of course, he knew that she went to the hospital regularly. They’d dated so he knew her schedule. Wait: He knew her schedule. But no, her father was wrong. A bodyguard was overkill. She simply had to stop engaging with Scott, as Archer had suggested.
Archer waltzed in from the patio, aviator shades on, moving like a panther.
“We need to talk. Why was the alarm disarmed when I woke up this morning?”
“Well, good morning to you, too, Archer!” Zoey met him halfway. “The gardener is coming this morning and I disarm it so it doesn’t accidentally go off and send the cops over.”
“No.”
“No, I didn’t disarm it? Or no, my gardener isn’t coming?”
He lowered his shades. “No, do not ever disarm the alarm again. You can only do that when there are no threats.”
“And when would that be? When there’s peace on Earth?” Zoey put a hand on her hip.
“Let’s not argue today.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Are you ready to go to work?”
“No.” She loved arguing with him. “I’m not ready.”
He lifted his wristwatch and glanced at it. “But it’s time.”
“Yes, but I had a fashion emergency,” Zoey lied.
“Please don’t tell me you need a man’s opinion.” He scowled.
Zoey laughed. “As if. I never ask a man’s opinion when it comes to my fashion choices. I’m the one who has to wear the thing.”
“Finally, something that makes sense.” He uncrossed his arms. “Then why do you keep asking for my advice when it comes to your customers?”
“To give you something to do besides standing around and looking pretty.”
He harrumphed. “Okay, if you don’t need my opinion, how can I help you now?”
“I didn’t say you could help,” Zoey said, pointing to the couch. “Just relax while I try to fix this issue.”
“Fine.” He plopped down on the sofa.
“Help yourself to the remote.”
Stupidly, she’d placed a screen in the guest room so they didn’t even have to watch TV together in the evenings.
She suspected he did it from time to time just so he could keep an eye on her.
He’d study his phone, glancing up at her every few minutes as if worried she wouldn’t still be there.
Every once in a while, when the laugh track went off on her comfort show, Frasier, he’d look up, the crease between his brow deeper.
She’d be laughing so hard she wanted to pee, but he just didn’t get it.
“Why is this so funny?”
“Because Frasier can’t remember the words to the song! He’s on live TV, a marathon for charity, and he’s just faking it. ‘And bum da bum da, buttons and bows!’”
God, it was hilarious. She and Mami used to watch Frasier reruns. Zoey would lay her head in Mami’s lap sometimes, and other times she used the opportunity to braid Zoey’s hair.
Now she left the room before Archer could growl at her again.
Zoey wandered into her bedroom. Now the real work began.
She didn’t think she’d behaved like such a schoolgirl since she was…
wait. She’d never done this before. Usually men were after her, chasing, flirting, until she noticed them.
But those had been all the wrong men, hadn’t they?
Peter. Mick. Scott… It occurred to her that if she wanted to change things, maybe she had to make the first move.
She had to be the one to initiate the chase and go after a man who wasn’t so obviously interested, to see where it might lead.
In her bedroom, she heard the sounds of ESPN drifting from the living room. Archer was watching soccer.
Flipping through her work-appropriate dresses, she found one that zipped up in the back.
Perfect. Now, all she had to do was act like one of those helpless women who couldn’t zip themselves up.
After years as a runway model, Zoey practically had double-jointed arms and could reach firmly behind her without any issues.
But she’d seen plenty of girls need help.
Girls with shorter arms, for instance. For a few minutes, she could pretend to be one of them.
Then she’d see if there was even a hint of interest from Archer.
She’d found the perfect knee-length dress, a silky white one that complemented her skin.
She purposely zipped the dress only three-quarters of the way up.
She strode toward him, a firm plan in her mind, but chickened out halfway down the hallway.
Luckily, he was engrossed in the game and didn’t notice.
Was she really going to do this? Pretend she couldn’t zip up her dress by herself?
What was she, five? But no. She reminded herself of all the girls she’d helped during fashion week.
This was a common-enough occurrence. Sure. Of course! Just do it.
“Thank you for waiting,” Zoey said. “Just one last thing. Could you help me with my, uh, zipper?”
He stood, and she didn’t imagine the double take she saw flit across his eyes. Score! This dress always drew attention from men. Twyla said it showed off her legs in the best way.
She turned so he could better access the zipper and lifted her hair out of the way.
“It probably seems silly, like I should be able to do this, because I have long arms, but you know how it is. Sometimes…um, you just can’t reach? At least, that’s what’s happening right now.”
Stop talking. She’d had no idea that having a crush on someone could be such torture. Years ago, she used to think if she could just meet Idris Elba in real life, her life would be set. But it might have gone something like this. Awkward. Her nerves on fire with the pull of her attraction.
“It is no problem,” Archer said, but his voice was low, gruff, just a scrape of a deep sound.
His warm, strong fingers briefly touched her bare skin and she closed her eyes.
She thought she might have heard a swift intake of breath as he pulled the zipper up.
Not quickly. It was a slow slide and she enjoyed every second of it.
His hands didn’t leave her all at once. One callused hand slid down her bare arm before his touch stopped.
When his hands were no longer on her, a cold snap filled her.
She could get used to those hands. She turned ever so slowly to see whether this exercise had any effect on him.
Clearly, there had been an effect, because he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.
Or…wait. Oh. Just like he had that first time they met, when she’d been so preoccupied.
When he’d let her go on and on about a gift for his girlfriend.
His eyes were smoldering, pupils dilated, his lips slightly parted.
“I hope my hands weren’t too rough on your skin,” he said.
“Not at all.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve had to perform that function.”
It was difficult to believe that.
“Well, it’s much appreciated.” She made a point not to break eye contact.
He also didn’t look away, a blazing heat in his gaze.
“Thank you.” She took his hand in hers, a bold move. “And I’m sorry again about making you wait.”
Archer slid the back of his hand down the curve of her jaw. “Now this is soft. You are so beautiful.”
Zoey had heard those words for many years, from men, photographers, strangers, friends and family.
But they had never in her life made her heart squeeze in such a powerful tug.
Those words from him meant far more than they should.
She wondered if he also felt the heat sliding between them, the sizzling chemistry.
“You think so?”
“There is nothing wrong with my eyesight,” he said, and for some odd reason she felt as though he was telling her that something else about him was defective.
And in that case, it had to be something she couldn’t see.
Like his heart.