Chapter 10—Simon #2
“I absolutely won’t. Your annual review will reflect this betrayal.”
She ignores that and smiles at Christa. “If he lies, I have calendars.”
Christa glances at me, then back at Misty. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I close the door behind them and turn.
Christa is still smiling.
“I apologize for everyone I know.”
She giggles. “You can’t fire her.”
“I’ve discovered that. She’d just keep coming back, and building security likes her better than me.”
She leans against the wall beside the foyer table. “Seven years.”
“Please don’t.”
“You waited seven years, saw me at one party, and suddenly developed a furniture emergency.”
I sigh. “When you phrase it that way, I sound unstable.”
“You researched me.” She doesn’t deny it to make me feel better.
“Misty researched you. I asked her to look at your business.”
She snorts. “Because you asked her.”
“Yes.”
She folds her arms, but there’s no anger in it.
I could keep making this worse or tell her the truth. “I saw you at Caldwell and thought you were Charla.”
The humor fades from her face.
“For approximately three minutes,” I continue. “They weren’t enjoyable minutes because I thought I’d had a stroke, finding her suddenly attractive.” She lifts her eyebrows as I add, “Then Eleanor told me Charla had a twin.”
Christa watches me closely. “Then she told you I was married.”
“That information arrived shortly after the relief.”
“The relief?”
“Finding out I hadn’t suddenly developed terrible taste in women or had a neurological event.”
She snorts, and it turns into a giggle.
“I wanted to meet you,” I say. “The escritoire gave me a reason that didn’t require me to approach a married woman at a party and tell her I couldn’t stop looking at her.”
She holds my gaze.
“I didn’t know you were unhappy. I didn’t know you had hired Jai. As far as I knew, you were married and unavailable.”
Christa’s arms loosen. “You still hired me.”
“I wanted to know you. Hiring you was the only version of that I could justify.” I hesitate. “Maybe not my finest moment.” I don’t sound or feel sorry for that.
“By inventing urgency.”
“I’ve admitted weakness in the execution.”
She looks toward the library. “What would you have done if I stayed married?”
“Paid your invoices.”
Her attention comes back to me.
I shrug. “Possibly acquired a sudden concern about every antique in the house.”
That makes her laugh.
“The house is large.” I grin sheepishly. “I could’ve kept you employed for years.”
She shakes her head. “Very ethical.”
“I was going to tip.”
She shakes her head again and heads toward the library. “Show me what you’ve done to my screws.”
“Your screws?”
“I’m sure you’ve been touching them.” Christa glances back. “You’re on probation. Don’t make it worse.”
The escritoire waits where we left it. She puts her bag on the worktable and checks the section we stabilized Tuesday. Then she looks into the porcelain dish. Her head turns slowly. “You moved it.”
“I returned it.”
“Not perfectly.”
I consider lying, decide I’ve used my quota for the evening, and lean against the table. “Four times.”
“Four?”
“I was checking something.”
“What?”
“Whether you’d notice.”
Christa stares at me.
I concede immediately. “That’s not true. I was bored.”
“You played with a dish of nineteenth-century screws because you were bored?”
“When you say it that way, it sounds irresponsible.”
“It was irresponsible.” She takes the screwdriver from me and puts it into her tool case. “You’ve lost this.”
I feign outrage. “My screwdriver privileges?”
“Until further notice.”
I watch her select a smaller tool. “What am I allowed to do?”
She points toward the lamp. “You can hold that.”
I laugh. “I’m good at lamps.”
“I don’t believe I’ve certified you.”
I shake my head. “You’ve become drunk with power.”
She laughs and bends over the writing surface.
For the next forty minutes, she works on a lifted section of veneer near the edge while I hold the task lamp where she directs it. She explains why the old repair needs to be left alone for now, then shows me a slight color difference I would’ve missed entirely two weeks ago.
I move the light closer.
“Not that close.” Christa catches my wrist and shifts it back two inches. “Heat.”
“I knew that.”
She stares me down. “You absolutely did not.”
“I was testing you.”
She keeps her fingers around my wrist for another second before letting go. “You’re bad at lying.”
“Only about furniture.”
“I’m relieved.”
The tone is serious enough to pull my attention away from the escritoire. She’s already looking at me.
I hold the lamp steadily. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at my hands for five minutes.”
“Calibrating the light.” I smile slightly. “I’ve been staring at you for weeks.”
She nods once. “At least you’re consistent.”
“I try.”
She returns to the veneer, but her smile stays. A few minutes later, she removes her gloves and sets them beside her tools. “You didn’t kiss me last night.”
I nearly lower the lamp. “That’s an abrupt change of subject.”
“It’s been on my mind.”
I put the lamp down carefully. “You were devastated.”
“I was.”
“You asked me to stay, not sleep with you.”
Christa steps away from the worktable. “I know.”
I wait.
She comes closer. “You also haven’t kissed me before tonight.”
“You’re married.”
“I filed.”
“Three days ago.”
She presses her mouth into a line. “You really are going to make me spell this out.”
“If I need you to.”
She looks irritated for a second, then amused. “Fine.” Christa takes another step until less than a foot separates us. “I wanted you before Simon Nichols became the man who told me my husband was sleeping with my twin.”
My entire body reacts to hearing my full name in that sentence, but I stay where I am.
“I wanted you when you called Tate an idiot,” she says without embarrassment. “I wanted you when you recognized Charla wasn’t me, before I knew about the affair, the baby, the trust, or the car.” Her eyes narrow.
“I know you’re angry.”
“Yes, I’m angry. With them.” She reaches up and rests her palm against my cheek. “I’m also not confused.”
I cover her hand with mine. “You don’t owe me anything because I stayed last night.”
“I know that too.”
“Or because I told you about Charla.”
She drags her thumb once against my skin. “Simon, I am trying very hard to seduce you, and you’re turning it into a deposition.”
I laugh despite myself.
She smiles. “There. Better.”
“I need to know this isn’t about Tate.”
Her smile fades, but she doesn’t pull away. “Tate doesn’t get to decide who I want anymore.”
That answer goes through me as Christa rises onto her toes and kisses me.
I let her control the first few seconds. She kisses me slowly at first, tentative only until she realizes I’m not going to stop her. Then she slides her fingers into my hair and kisses me harder.
I catch her around the waist.
She makes a quiet sound against my mouth, and every reasonable thought I’ve had tonight becomes less useful.
When we separate, she’s breathing faster. I keep my arm around her. “Still sure?”
Christa looks at me as if I’ve offended her. “Do you want me to prepare a sworn statement?”
“It might help.” I can’t keep from smiling.
She grabs the front of my shirt and kisses me again.
My back hits the edge of the worktable. I laugh, and she pulls away just enough to glare at me.
“What?”
“I was thinking about this table.” I slide my hand around her hip to keep her from backing into the escritoire.
Her eyes narrow. “During that kiss?”
“My grandmother’s escritoire is six inches behind you.”
Understanding dawns, followed immediately by amusement. “You moved me to protect the furniture.”
“I’m trying to avoid an extremely embarrassing insurance claim.”
“Escritoire damaged during reckless kissing?” She slides both arms around my neck, making the scenario considerably more likely.
“Christa.”
She laughs and kisses the side of my mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You came here voluntarily.” I draw her closer until the teasing disappears from her expression.
“I did.” She runs her fingers into the hair at the back of my neck and holds me there.
The reminder changes the air between us again. I trace the curve of her waist through her sweater. “What do you want?”
Her amusement softens. “You.”
I don’t ask again.
The next kiss is mine. She leans into me as I pull her closer, and the careful distance I’ve kept between us for weeks disappears. She grips my hair when I kiss her deeper, then laughs against my mouth when I nearly back into the worktable again.
I catch myself against the edge. “This room is dangerous.”
Christa looks over my shoulder at the crowded work area. “Maybe you own too much furniture.”
“Blasphemy from a conservator.” I brush her hair away from her neck and kiss the skin beneath her ear.
Her teasing answer disappears into a shaky exhale. She turns her face toward mine again, kisses me once, then glances toward the doorway. “Is there somewhere in this enormous house with fewer antiques?”
“My bedroom.”
Her eyebrows rise while she plays with the top button of my shirt. “Convenient.”
“Remarkably.”
She takes my hand.
We make it halfway across the foyer before she stops. I turn immediately, but she’s looking back toward the library.
“My bag is in there.”
“I can buy you another one.”
She stares at me for half a second, then bursts out laughing. The sound breaks through the haze enough for me to realize what I’ve said.
“That came out wrong.”
“You’d replace my purse because walking twenty feet back for it is inconvenient?” She leans against the newel post, laughing harder.
“I was distracted.”
“Billionaire problems.”
“I’ll get the bag.”
“Please do.” She waves me toward the library, still grinning.
When I return, she’s waiting in the same spot. I hand it to her. “No replacement required.”
“Growth already.” She hooks the strap over her shoulder.
“You’re an excellent influence.”
Upstairs, she pauses just inside my bedroom and looks around while I close the door.
“Problem?”
“I expected more marble.”
I glance around at the wood floors, upholstered headboard, and decidedly marble-free walls. “Why would my bedroom have marble?”