jeans, Delaney. Wow,” Justin said admiringly. Delaney noticed he was having a hard time taking his eyes off her ass.
Sukie was staring at Delaney’s chest, and she winked knowingly. “Mademoiselle FiFi,” she said, naming the brand of Delaney’s new bra. Sukie patted her own perky chest with satisfaction. “I love her work.”
It was all salve for her ego, and she felt her confidence blooming. She should have done this ages ago. She’d always taken the line that what people saw with her was what they got, but she realized now she’d been missing out on a lot of fun. She’d liked putting on lipstick and a touch of mascara and eye shadow with the expert guidance of the woman in the beauty section of the department store. And testing the perfumes had been a hoot. It was nice to feel desirable and attractive for a change.
Her gaze kept flicking toward Sam’s closed door, but Debbie answered her unspoken question before she had to ask it.
“Sam left not long after you,” the receptionist said.
Delaney stomped on the absurd sense of disappointment she felt at Sam not being there to see her transformation. This was not about Sam Kirk! She had to get that through her thick head.
She registered that everyone had sobered. She guessed they were thinking about the news she’d given Rudy before lunch.
“Don’t worry, your jobs are all safe,” she said quickly. “No one’s going anywhere.”
Except for her, of course. But she was sure they weren’t worried about her.
“But it won’t be the same,” Sukie said, echoing Rudy’s earlier remark. “We like working for you and Sam. It will be weird without you.”
“You’ll get used to it. And it’s not like I’m going straight away,” Delaney said, moved by her employees’ sincerity. Maybe they were a little worried about her.
“Are you—are you getting married or something?” Justin blurted out.
Delaney blinked. “No!”
Justin turned beet-red. “I just thought maybe you’d fallen in love with some jerk who didn’t want you to work and maybe we could go around and break his kneecaps or something.”
Delaney was touched all over again. “There’s no guy, trust me. I just want to do something different with my life,” she assured them.
Offering up one last smile, she crossed to her office.
The smile faded when she saw the note Sam had left on her desk.
Gone to talk to lawyers. Will have answer for you by p.m.
Wow. He’d moved quickly.
She sat with a thump. Soon, it seemed, she’d get what she wanted.
So why wasn’t she feeling relieved or happy?
Because you’re a besotted idiot, she told herself. Determined to change that, she grabbed her phone messages and focused on work.
She had to be strong now, or suffer the consequences later. There was no other way.
SAM WAS SO WORKED UP when he got home from the lawyer’s office that he had to play five rounds of Grand Theft Auto on PlayStation before his stress levels were manageable. When he’d finally maxed out his personal best score, he shut the unit off and grabbed himself a beer from the fridge. Heading out onto the balcony, he gazed across the crowded inner-city suburb of Richmond as he sucked down some much-needed liquid calm.
The evening breeze was cool, and the sky was a faded apricot color by the time he lifted himself out of his lounger and padded back into the house.
He’d been so angry with Delaney earlier that he could barely think, but now a semblance of rational thought had reasserted itself. For some reason, Delaney’s biological clock had suddenly exploded. Personally, he blamed Claire and her three offspring. Clearly the kids—evil geniuses that they were—had implanted some kind of hormonal device in Delaney’s brain while she was on holidays and Claire was making hay while the sun shined. Women always wanted other women to have children. They were constantly encouraging each other to procreate—a maternal conspiracy.
So. Delaney wanted kids of her own. It wasn’t the end of the world. But it didn’t mean she had to get out of the business. When he’d been discussing things with his lawyer this afternoon, a number of options had been floated. The one that appealed the most was keeping Delaney in the business as a silent partner, and bringing in an advertising sales manager to handle Delaney’s role. That way Delaney was still a part of the business—still connected to his life—but she could go off and find Mr. Perfect at the same time. Everyone was a winner.
It was such a great idea, Sam decided he should just go sell it to Delaney on the spot. Plus, he’d never stayed angry at her for this long before, and it felt weird. And, of course, there was dinner to be considered. He couldn’t cook, Delaney could…. Again everyone was a winner.
Grabbing the remaining two beers from his fridge, he snagged his house keys and made his way downstairs to Delaney’s apartment. Her door was red where his was blue, but the layouts inside were identical. They’d bought the empty warehouse shells at the same time, and shared the cost of an architect to fit out both spaces. There were small, idiosyncratic differences, of course—Delaney’s bathroom was all white where his was dark grey. And her kitchen had a lot more stainless-steel equipment than his. But apart from that, the apartments were a matched pair. Like him and Delaney.
She took her sweet time answering his knock, and he was beginning to frown with impatience when the door swung open.
“Sam!” she said, clearly surprised to see him. He was too busy doing a double take to register the fact, however.
What on earth had she done to herself?
“What on earth have you done to yourself?” he demanded, eyeing her freaky new haircut uncertainly.
Since when did Delaney have soft layers of honey and toffee-colored hair gently framing her face? His stunned gaze moved from her new hair to her face itself as he realized that that looked different, too. Eyes bigger and smokier, mouth redder and poutier. She was wearing makeup! His Delaney was wearing makeup!
Then his eyes dropped below her neckline and he nearly had a heart attack. What had happened to Delaney’s signature crisp cotton shirt? Or the man-sized surf T-shirts she wore around the house? The tiny, teeny aqua thing she had on barely justified the words tank top. It was like the ghost of a tank top, an imprint that might be left behind when a tank top passed over to the other side.
For a full, mind-bending five seconds he found himself focusing on the twin stars of Delaney’s new purchase—two of the perkiest, prettiest breasts he’d seen in a long time. Thrusting up toward the low neckline of her top, they positively begged for a man to reach out and see if they felt as delectable and firm as they looked. Wrenching his eyes away, he continued on his downward spiral into madness as he caught sight of the jeans she was wearing. Painted-on was the term that came to mind. Darkest black, and so tight that if she was a man he’d know what religion she was. But she wasn’t a man. Oh boy, she so wasn’t a man.
