Chapter Eighteen
CREW PACED BIRDIE’S porch, laptop in hand, telling himself this was a bad idea for reasons that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him.
She was like bottled-up sunshine, and he didn’t want to fuck that up.
Yet here he was, on the porch of the one woman who could make him forget every rule he’d ever written for himself.
Birdie was his kryptonite. She’d woken the best parts of him.
The parts he’d buried when Robbie died. That’s what made seeing her so risky.
But she needed his help, and he wasn’t about to walk away.
Vowing to keep himself in check, to be helpful and ignore the heat that sparked between them every time they were near each other, he lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could.
Birdie smiled soft and easy. Her hair was loose, and her colorful sweater hung off one shoulder, revealing a bright blue bra strap. “I’ve been watching you on my security camera,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Were you thinking about ghosting me again, Ragnar?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
“Way to give a girl a complex.”
“It’s not that. You’re hard to resist, and given our situation…”
That earned a sexy grin. “You’re forgiven. Get in here.”
He stepped inside, eyeing an elaborate wood-and-iron display shelving unit in the middle of her foyer. “Do you need help moving that?”
“No. It’s for the shop. I bought it at a flea market last weekend from a local artisan who refurbished it. She was super nice, and her business is new, so she was really happy about the sale. I just haven’t gotten around to moving it. Rebel’s coming by to take it over tomorrow.”
He’d never been to a flea market in his life, but he’d give just about anything to go with her. Fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her breathless, he said, “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thanks. I was hoping you’d like my sweater.”
Fuck. She’d dressed for him? Why did that get him all twisted up, too?
He knew damn well why. His ex had never done a thing to impress him.
Everything from the way she dressed to the way she moved had been choreographed for others.
He’d been too swept up in that elitist lifestyle to see those things as negatives.
Now all the things he realized while he’d been in prison, including how he’d handled himself back then, became glaring red flags he wanted to stay as far away from as possible.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, heading down the hall.
“Water’s good, thanks.” He followed her into the kitchen, which was very Birdie, with sunflower-yellow walls, an antique stove, pastel pink and mint-green cabinets below the counters, open pink shelves above, and a light blue old-fashioned refrigerator.
“Thanks for offering to help me,” she said as she filled two glasses with ice water.
“No problem. Cool kitchen.”
“You like it? I decorated my whole house in a way that wouldn’t allow me to ever be in a bad mood. I mean, how can anyone come into a colorful room and be mad or sad? Did you see my lavender barstools by the island?” She motioned to the barstools.
“Nice,” he said. “Where’d you find all this stuff?”
“I thrifted most of it.” She handed him a glass, their fingers brushing, and they both stilled, their gazes holding.
How could something as simple as their fingers touching cause the temperature in the room to spike? He needed to get his head on straight. “So, where are we doing this?”
She blinked a few times. “In my workroom upstairs. It’s my favorite room in the house. But we need snacks.” She grabbed a box of chocolates from another counter and held it up. “Onward, Ragnar.”
He followed her up a stairway off the kitchen to a large room with a beam running down the center of the peaked ceiling.
Two glass lights shaped like massive stars hung from chains on the beam above a glass table, which had a laptop and a notebook on it.
Surrounding the table were old-fashioned dark wood chairs with round backs.
Each seat was a bright, solid color—pink, yellow, orange, blue, purple, and green.
The backs boasted colorful fabric designs, each one depicting different birds, flowers, and plants.
The only similarity was a sunflower on each one, though the sizes and placement varied.
A small peach love seat sat beside a funky blue table on one wall. A yoga mat and a nest of large pillows were tucked in the far corner of the room beside French doors that led to a balcony surrounded by the brick castle-like crenellations he’d seen from the front yard.
“This is an incredible room. What makes it your favorite?” he asked as he shrugged off his jacket.
“The view of the balcony, and the story behind it. Did you notice that my house looks like it’s hiding a castle in the back?”
“I did. What’s the story?”
“This was the master bedroom, and the guy who lived here built the balcony with the crenellations to look like a castle for his wife. She was fascinated by castles, and they’d honeymooned in Scotland.
They planned on going back after he retired, but then she was diagnosed with a terminal illness, and they never got a chance.
He had the balcony built so she could live out her days in her very own castle,” she said dreamily.
“That probably sounds morbid to you, but to me, it was beautiful.”
“That doesn’t sound morbid. It sounds romantic.” Crew had spent his dating years checking off boxes, not thinking about special moments or romance. But the way Birdie lit up as she told that story made him want to do something special for her.
“I thought so, too.” She schooled her expression and turned back to the room. “Should we get started with the numeric torture?”
He laughed. “I’ll try not to torture you.” He hung his jacket on the back of a chair. They sat down, and he set his laptop on the table. “Why don’t you tell me what your goal is, what you already know, and what you’re having trouble with.”
She leaned closer, resting her chin on her palm, eyes dancing with pure mischief. “I know I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am, too,” he said honestly.
Her gaze moved to his mouth. “And I know it’s going to be hard not thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”
Christ, she was killing him. Fighting the urge to admit that was hard for him, too, he said, “We’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t focus.”
“I am focusing,” she countered. “I’m focusing on how good you look in that Henley.”
“Trouble,” he warned.
She sighed and sat back. “Okay, fine. I’m just trying to have open and honest communication.”
“That type of communication is going to get us into trouble.”
She grinned. “As I said yesterday—”
“Birdie, you’re not making this easy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said too innocently, dropping her hand to his thigh. “Am I making things hard for you?”
He gritted out, “Fuck,” his resolve chipping away.
“Okay!” she exclaimed, thankfully with a tease in her eyes.
“You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?” He slid her laptop in front of her and said, “Show me the accounting program you use before I show you that one plus one does not equal two.”
“Professor Ragnar, I think I need that arithmetic lesson.”
He tossed her a chiding look, even as his own body fought against him.
“Fine. But for the record, that box is full of chocolates with molten centers.” Her eyes darkened. “I remember how much you enjoyed them at the ski cabin, but if you’d rather talk about numbers…” She opened her laptop and flipped to a page in her notebook of messy doodles and hastily written words.
Great. Now he was thinking about licking chocolate off her body. He looked away for a beat, reminding himself why he needed to remain in control.
Birdie navigated to the accounting program on her laptop as she told him that Carly, one of her business partners, was leaving the partnership, and she was taking over the accounting.
She went on to explain what she’d already been shown.
Crew listened, picking up on her hesitations and the way her brows knitted as she tried to decipher her notes.
He was familiar with the accounting program she used. He’d helped a friend set the same one up for his business several years ago. As he tried to explain what went where and how it all came together, Birdie listened intently, brows knitted, nodding as if she almost understood it.
She exhaled sharply and threw her hands up.
“I get that all these pieces work together, and I know how much they all matter. But they just don’t make sense to me.
If these were displays at the shop, no problem.
I could fix them up and sell out of truffles by noon.
I’m used to putting pieces together and handling seventeen things at once. ”
Her mind moved so fast, he had no doubt she could multitask, and she was certainly smart enough to understand accounting. He just needed to figure out the disconnect. “What other things do you handle at the shop?”
“Everything except the accounting and negotiating with vendors. I make our schedules, come up with recipes, and of course, I make chocolates. I plan all our marketing and handle social media. That’s why Carly hired me full time right out of high school.
I’m a wiz at social media and marketing, and I have a knack for playing armchair therapist for customers who wander in looking for solace when they’re in emotional distress.
But this?” She waved to her notes. “This is just rows of anxiety.”
“It sounds like you already do a lot for the business. Are you sure you want to learn how to do this? That’s an awful lot to take on.”