tomorrow after work and finalize our brief before diving in. How does that sound?”
His frown was gone now, his expression impenetrable. “Whatever suits.”
“Good. Same time tomorrow?”
“That works for me.”
He stood and scooped up his things.
“Hang on, I think you’ve got my phone...” she said, frowning.
He flipped up the protective cover and checked. “You’re right, sorry,” he said, his tone clipped as they swapped handsets.
She was about to tell him that it was an easy enough mistake since they all had the same company-issued handsets and covers, but before she could say another word he was gone. She stared at the empty doorway. She felt uncomfortable about what had just happened. She should have bitten her tongue and swallowed her impulsive words, for the sake of the project if nothing else. If she hadn’t been feeling so dumb after the highlighter incident, maybe she would have, but she’d hated the thought of him being amused at her expense. Sitting there laughing at her up his sleeve while she’d been doing her best to make this project fly.
She made a growling noise in her throat.
Why did she always wind up second-guessing herself where Zach was concerned? No one else in her world made her feel so self-conscious and uneasy.
She didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t like it. The sooner this project was over, the better.
CHAPTER FOUR
APPARENTLY, HE WAS an elitist snob, born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
How ’bout that.
Zach threw another folder into his briefcase, trying to work out if he was flattered by Audrey’s insanely inaccurate take on who he was or if he was, in fact, supremely pissed at being dismissed as a trust-fund playboy dabbling in a career for fun.
He’d grown up with nothing, in both material and spiritual senses. Any money that came into the household had gone straight up his mother’s arm, and the only reason he was still alive today was because of the people in his mother’s life—various hangers-on and fellow addicts and the few persistent, stubborn family members who had persevered in maintaining contact with his mother over the years, despite her many, many abuses of their trust.
His school uniforms had been secondhand; his textbooks, too. He worked after school and earned himself scholarships and held down two part-time jobs to support himself while at university. No one had handed him anything, ever.
Yet, according to Audrey, he came across as a snotty-nosed rich kid. Someone who’d had every good thing in life gifted to him on a silver platter.
How...bizarre.
It had never occurred to him that anyone might take him for anything other than what he was—a poor kid who’d made good. He liked nice things, but he hadn’t bought his car or his watch or his suit because he wanted other people to look at him and think he was something he wasn’t. He’d bought them because he could. Because he’d admired and wanted them, and he’d had more than enough of missing out in his life. Seeing something beautiful and fine and knowing he could make it his own was a power he would never, ever take for granted and never, ever tire of exercising.
Screw it. Who cares what she thinks? Let her believe what she wants to believe.
An excellent notion, except for one small problem: he did care what Audrey thought of him. And not only because he wanted to get her naked.
She was smart. She was determined. She was funny. There was something about her, a tilt to her chin or a light in her eye or...something that spoke to him. He wanted to know more about her. Where she came from, who her parents were, what her school years had been like, if she was all about chocolate or if vanilla was her poison of choice. He wanted more of her.
I’m the only person in the world I can rely on, and if I don’t make things happen, they don’t happen. I’m not going to apologize for that.
They were her words, but the huge irony was that he could just as well have spoken them himself. Certainly they reflected his philosophy in life.
Audrey might not recognize it, but they had a lot in common.
He mulled over the other things she’d said as he drove home, especially the stuff about him laughing at her. Did he really always smile when he saw her? He thought back over their recent interactions, but couldn’t remember what he’d been doing with his face when he’d been talking to her. Certainly, he always relished the opportunity to be in the same room as her. Was it possible his enjoyment manifested itself in the form of a gormless grin?
He shook his head in self-disgust. He really, truly needed to get a grip on himself if that was the case, for his own personal dignity if not for sound business reasons. The last thing he wanted was to be cast as the unrequited desperado in their little office drama.
Not a look he’d ever been keen to cultivate.
By the time he got home he’d decided the best thing he could do—the smartest thing—was to get through this project as quickly and painlessly as possible. Do his bit, keep to himself, keep things purely professional. And make sure he was aware of what his mouth was doing when he was around her.
Simple.
Which didn’t explain why he woke at two in the morning and spent twenty minutes rummaging through dusty old boxes in the back of his closet until he’d found what he was looking for: the official grade two school photograph from Footscray Primary, circa 1989. The corners were curled, but there was no missing his scrawny, scrape-kneed seven-year-old self in the front row. He stared at the image for a long moment. The thin, unsmiling kid in the photo had been grappling with both his mother’s and his father’s destructive lifestyles at the time the picture was taken, learning that the things other kids in his class took for granted—meals, loving supervision, care—were only ever going to be sporadic features in his own life.
Happy times. Thank God he’d survived them.
Pushing the carton back into the depths of the closet, he crossed to his briefcase and slipped the photograph into a pocket.
The thought of it burned in the back of his mind the whole of the next day as he debated the wisdom behind the urge that had driven him out of bed in the early hours.
He didn’t want Audrey to mistake who he was. He didn’t want her to misunderstand him. Probably a futile, dangerous wish, given their work situation and the pressures they were both currently facing, but her misconception of him was eating away at his gut and he was almost certain he couldn’t simply suck it up and move on.
Probably that made him an idiot, but so be it. He’d been called worse things in his time.
Still, he was undecided about what he was going to do with the photograph right up until the moment he joined Audrey in the meeting room. She’d beaten him to the punch—again—and was writing something in her notebook when he entered, a small frown wrinkling her brow, her glasses balanced on the end of her nose. Her head was propped on one hand, the chestnut silk of her hair spilling over her shoulder. She looked studious and serious and shiny and good, and something tightened in his chest as he looked at her.
