Chapter 3—Christa #3
He laughs with me this time, and I relax. I came here expecting a wealthy client and maybe a difficult one. I expected Simon Nichols to be polished, distant, and accustomed to people arranging themselves around his preferences.
He is polished. He’s also standing in his library making himself the punch line rather than humiliating my sister when she isn’t here to defend herself.
That matters.
I return to the escritoire and open the small interior cabinet. “There’s one thing I need from you before I formally accept the project.”
His humor disappears. “What?”
“Permission to stop me if I start talking about wood for longer than fifteen uninterrupted minutes.”
Simon considers that. “I don’t think I can agree.”
“Why?”
“I’m interested.”
I stare at him.
He looks completely serious.
“Most clients start checking their phones when I explain why replacing veneer is different from conserving it.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Most clients are idiots.”
I laugh. “That’s an aggressive sales strategy I’ve never considered using.”
“That’s probably wise, but I’m not selling anything.”
“No. You’re the one paying.”
“Then I can insult the competition freely.” That dimple is back, dammit.
I shake my head and look back at my notes before he makes me laugh again. “Fine. Don’t stop me. You’ll regret it.”
“I’ll take the risk.” His voice is a touch rougher than it should be.
I outline the proposed work and explain what I want to test before giving him a final treatment plan. Simon asks intelligent questions. A few are basic, but none are performative. He actually listens to the answers.
I catch myself enjoying the conversation too much. That’s less amusing.
He’s married to nobody, but I’m still married to Tate for now, even with Jai preparing paperwork and my husband barely speaking to me unless my uterus is involved.
Simon hasn’t crossed a line, and neither have I. The potential to do so is what makes me wary.
I finish the assessment, close my portfolio, and step away from the escritoire. “I’ll send a treatment proposal and estimate after I review my notes. Assuming you agree, I can start next week.”
“Here?”
“If that still works for you?” My stomach knots at the prospect.
“It does.” Simon picks up my portfolio before I can reach it, then pauses. “Is carrying this inappropriate professional interference?”
I arch a brow. “It’s a binder.”
He chuckles. “I’d hate to overstep.”
“You may carry the binder.”
“Thank you.”
His solemn tone gets me again, and I bite back another smile.
I follow him toward the foyer, annoyed by how much fun I’ve had.
Near the front door, Simon hands me the portfolio rather than carrying it to my car like we’re pretending this is anything other than work.
Another point in his favor. I don’t need to be keeping score. I shouldn’t be.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. “Even if you decide the escritoire belongs in protective custody after meeting me.”
I smile. “Your ownership remains under review.”
“I’ll behave.”
A snort that’s far too casual for a client interaction escapes me. “I doubt that.”
His smile appears slowly.
I immediately regret the line. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because I like his expression after I say it.
I shift the portfolio against my hip. “I’ll send the proposal tomorrow.”
“I’ll look for it.”
I turn toward the steps.
“Christa?”
I look back.
Simon rests one hand against the open door. “I enjoyed meeting you.”
The answer comes too easily. “Likewise.”
His smile deepens.
I leave before I can add anything stupider.
TATE IS IN THE KITCHEN when I get home, though describing him as present would be generous.
He’s sitting at the island with his laptop open, a plate beside him, and one earbud in. The housekeeper must have left dinner because two covered dishes are warming on the stove.
He glances up when I walk in. “You’re late.”
It’s six-twelve. “I had an assessment.”
Tate returns to the spreadsheet on his screen. “Okay.”
I set my bag on the counter and wait long enough to prove to myself he isn’t going to ask.
He doesn’t.
I take off my jacket. “Private collection.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Interesting piece.”
Tate types something.
I almost tell him whose house I was in. The impulse dies before the words reach my mouth.
Not because I’m hiding Simon. There’s nothing to hide. Tate simply doesn’t care.
He removes the earbud when I open one of the covered dishes. “Did you confirm Saturday with Mother?”
I look at him over the serving spoon.
“Not yet.”
“Can you do that tonight? She keeps asking me.”
“Sure.”
He puts the earbud back in.
Conversation over.
I spoon food onto a plate and carry it to the opposite side of the island.
For the next fifteen minutes, Tate works while I eat. He doesn’t ask what kind of furniture I assessed, whether I took the commission, or how my day went.
My phone buzzes beside my plate with an email from Simon.
Simon: Thank you again for today. I hope you take the commission. The escritoire clearly liked you better than the other three.
I stare at the message and smile far too warmly. Tate doesn’t notice, and I don’t care.