Faking It to Making It
Her hands went to that waist and she stretched out her shoulders, as if opening to the sun. His blood rushed every which way but loose.
“Shall we do this?” Nate said, his voice gruff.
Saskia turned and he waved a hand to the couch.
Saskia picked out a strawberry before unwinding and kicking off her shoes, taking off her hat, ruffling her hands through her kinky dark hair. Then she sat in one corner, leaving the length to him, one foot under her backside, the other curling its toes into the thick white rug.
She made it look so...comfortable. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had anyone barefoot in his office before. He was pretty sure he liked it.
“So?” she said.
“You called this meeting, Miss Bloom,” said Nate as he took the other corner. “You have the floor.”
“Miss Bloom, is it? Well, then, we are all business.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, her lips closing around the red fruit. Then, with a soft sigh, she picked up the two neat leatherbound folders with leather ties from the coffee table and handed one to him.
“Flash,” said Nate, amazed that his tongue worked when it felt as if it was tied in knots.
“Stationery addiction.” She waved a hurry up hand, practically bouncing in her seat as she waited for him to pull out whatever was inside. “I know it’s a little more than we agreed to but I’m a sucker for a new project. There’s nothing like it—blank paper, freshly sharpened pencils. Anything’s possible.”
“Before real life gets in the way?”
She shrugged, as if she was still convinced one day things really could work out as she hoped they might. An optimist was Saskia. With Pollyanna tendencies. Nate made a note to remember that.
He opened his folder to find his emailed questions, only she’d expanded them to include a slew of small details, rich details—the kind of details and funny stories people tended to discover about one another on the first few dates. And his were all filled in.
“You researched me,” he said, eyes widening as he read on. School subjects, overseas trips, friends past and present, sports played, prizes won, legs broken and a full list of companies he’d invested in, complete with links to interviews he’d given to financial magazines and websites.
“Don’t get too excited. I do this for a living, remember. I just found what was out there.”
“I’m not sure excited is quite the right word.” He looked up to find her nibbling at her lower lip.
“I’ve overstepped the mark, haven’t I? Argh! Lissy calls it my Puppy Syndrome.”
She held up her paws and panted and Nate’s blood rushed south with such speed he had to grip the couch.
“But I just like being helpful. Here, give it back. We can start over. Pretend it never existed.”
Was she kidding? She’d just saved him hours. In Nate’s world that made her akin to the perfect woman.
He pulled his dossier out of reach and looked down at hers, gripped in her hot little hand. He found himself...not excited, exactly, but intrigued as to what was contained therein. “Swap.”
She blinked, her lashes jerking against her cheeks, then did as she was told.
Nate opened the first page, speed-reading past schooling—state run. Tertiary education—scholarships. Work— applied mathematics with government agencies, before she’d moved on to build her own business—research with a bent towards the statistical.
He slowed when he hit her favourite books, movies, TV shows, as a tumble of odd and wonderful nuances meshed together to form a picture of not just a set of sultry eyes and kissable lips but a woman. The Princess Bride nestled alongside Aliens and The Breakfast Club, Ray Bradbury butted up against Sophie Kinsella and John le Carré. And a litany of real-life adventures flew before his eyes.
Compared with him, she’d lived three lifetimes.
“You’ve really eaten live witchetty grubs? And—” he glanced down “—you were an extra on The Hobbit?”
A smile hooked the corner of her lips, soft pink and warm. “All of the above. They taste better warm. Like nuts. Witchetty grubs, I mean. Not Hobbits,” she corrected.
Laughing, Nate said, “Who knew statistics could be so much fun?”
That just lit her up—eyes bright, smile wide, cheeks pink, she glowed like a touch-lamp on level one. He wondered what it would take to light her up all the way.
Clearing his throat, he closed the folder.
Just in time for her to add, “My dad was a maths professor, so we lived in university housing, holidayed on campus. He never left his rooms if he could help it, while I’d sneak out and find people to talk to about things other than chaos theory. To ask about dinosaurs and rainbows and France. Being a university, there were always people happy to oblige. I found there’s always potential to learn something new. You only have to ask. So I never say no to possibility.”