Bargaining with the Bride (Honeybrook Love, Inc. 1)

She rolled her eyes. Right. If anyone left her their number, it would probably be some kind of CIA operative who was just using her for intel. Such was her luck.

The doorbell echoed through her now-empty halls and she clambered down the steps, nearly sliding against the hardwood as she rushed to the door. When she finally reached the entrance she stood in front of it for a moment, wishing she'd paused to fluff the pillows in her living room or make her house—what was left of it, anyway—a touch more presentable for her boss.

She swung open the door, and her breath caught. It was hard to play it off—it wound up sounding like something between a coughing fit and wheezing. But…well…

Damn.

She'd always known Garret was attractive in one of those authoritative kind of ways, like how police officers and firefighters looked sexier in uniform. Even if they were, like, fives or sixes, uniforms tended to make Doug Pitt into Brad Pitt. For most guys, that was just a general rule of thumb.

But Garret?

If she had never seen him before, she might have dropped her panties right there.

He wore faded jeans that hugged his hips, clinging to thighs that looked...her cheeks flamed, and she thought maybe it was better not pay too much attention to those. His T-shirt clung to his muscles, and highlighted a broad set of shoulders that she'd always assumed were exaggerated by his usual gray suit jacket.

There was no exaggeration there.

His dark, styled hair was the same, but he had a light five o'clock shadow, and the contour between his cheekbones and jaw line made him look like a freaking Versace ad.

It might have been a solid five minutes before she realized she was still staring at him. Not greeting him. Not saying anything.

And it might had been even longer if he hadn’t tilted his head to the side and asked, "Am I early?"

"No, no. You're good. Just, uh, let me get my coat."

"It's eighty degrees out here." He laughed, though there was a slight concern in his tone. Frankly, he was probably right to worry. She must have seemed pretty crazy at the moment and the frizzy mess of curls already sliding down the side of her head couldn’t have done anything to help matters.

"You never know when it’s going to rain," she shrugged, tossed a khaki jacket over her arm, and then flounced out the door, trying to hide her deep, calming breath from him.

"So I thought we should go to Pauper's Tavern. Do you like it there?" He opened a door on the passenger's side and stood behind it, gazing at her as he gestured into the car.

So fluid. Like every guy would do the same. Except, as she stood there, she realized that nobody ever had.

"Oh, um, thanks,” she mumbled as she climbed into her seat. "I've never been there, but I like taverns. I'm willing to give it a go."

"Excellent. It's kind of a hole in the wall, but the food is great." He closed the door behind her and she watched as he rounded the car. Had he always been like this and she’d just never noticed? So gentlemanly?

He slid into his own seat and started the engine. It was nice, grayish white leather, heated seats, and little glowing lights on the doors like they had in limousines.

"This is a nice car." The words sounded foreign in her mouth. Like a vocal admission that she was at a loss for words.

"Thanks. It's new." He smiled at her and then turned onto a side street.

"What is it? Toyota?"

"No," he hedged a little before he continued, "it's a Mercedes. But I'm sure that's not really interesting to you." He sounded polite, but she could hear him straining to hide his laughter.

"Yeah, I don't really know much about cars." She was lucky if she even knew what her own vehicle’s make and model was. Still, it seemed like a quality car, and she was always seeing those Camry commercials.

"I'll add that to my records,” he said, then thumped a tiny notebook that sat on the console between them.

"Records?"

"If you're going to be my 'wife,' I need to know about you. That's why we're here."

“Right.” She nodded, willing herself not to grab the notebook and read over all the observations he’d already made. She could only imagine what it might say:

Day One: Subject is unable to determine barrier between test and reality. Further boundaries will be explored in order to gage likelihood of capacity for intellect.