hunger roared through her. For the briefest of moments she was tempted to open her mouth and let him feed her the morsel. Her throat dried and her stomach churned. On the table, her hands clenched to fists.
She choked out a, ‘No, thank you,’ before busying herself with her tea.
Why now? Why should a man have such an effect on her now? In the last ten months she’d been asked out on dates...the occasional volunteer had tried to flirt with her...but nothing had pierced her armour.
None of them looked like Dylan Fairweather.
True. But was she really so shallow that someone’s looks could have such an impact?
When she glanced back up she saw Gordon Coulter, glaring at her from the café’s doorway. Had he seen Dylan offer her the bite of cake? Great. Just great.
She shuffled her mantel of professionalism back around her. ‘Now, you better tell me what it is you promised Carla you’d sort out. It sounded ominous.’
He popped the piece of cake into his mouth and closed his eyes in bliss as he chewed. ‘You have no idea what you’re missing.’
And she needed to keep it that way.
She tried to stop her gaze lingering on his mouth.
His eyes sprang open, alive with mischief. ‘I bet you love honey sandwiches made with the softest of fresh white bread.’
She had to bite her inner lip to stop herself from laughing. ‘Honey makes my teeth ache.’
The man was irrepressible, and it occurred to her that it wasn’t his startling looks that spoke to her but his childish sense of fun.
‘Ha! But I nearly succeeded in making you laugh again.’
She didn’t laugh, but she did smile. It was impossible not to.
Mia didn’t do fun. Maybe that was a mistake too. Maybe she needed to let a little fun into her life and then someone like Dylan wouldn’t rock her foundations so roundly.
He made as if to punch the air in victory. ‘You should do that more often. It’s not good for you to be so serious all the time.’
His words made her pull back. She knew he was only teasing, but he had no idea what was good for her.
She pulled her notepad from her pocket and flipped it open to a new page. ‘Will you please tell me what it is you promised Carla you’d take care of?’
He surveyed her as he took a huge bite of cake. She tried not to fidget under that oddly penetrating gaze.
‘Don’t you ever let your hair down just a little?’
‘This is my job. And this—’ she gestured around ‘—is my place of employment. I have a responsibility to my employer to not “let my hair down” on the job.’ She tapped her pen against the notepad. ‘I think it’s probably worth mentioning that you aren’t my employer’s only wedding account either.’
She spoke gently, but hoped he sensed the thread of steel beneath her words. There also were cages that needed cleaning, animals that needed feeding and logbooks to fill out. They weren’t all going to get magically done while Dylan lingered over coffee and cake.
And it didn’t matter how much he might temporarily fill her with an insane desire to kick back and take the rest of the day off—that wasn’t going to happen.
‘Ouch.’ He said it with a good-natured grin. ‘But you’re right. Carla and I have taken up enough of your time for one day. Especially as we’ll be back tomorrow.’
He was coming too? She tried to ignore the way her heart hitched.
‘Mia, do you know what line of work I’m in?’
Even she, who’d spent most of her adult life living under a rock, knew what Dylan Fairweather did for a living. ‘You created and run Fairweather Event Enterprises.’ More widely known as Fairweather Events or FWE. Dylan had made his name bringing some of the world’s most famous, not to mention notorious, rock acts to Australia.
Under his direction, Dylan’s company had produced concerts of such spectacular proportions they’d gone down in rock history. His concerts had become a yardstick for all those following.
FWE had been in charge of last year’s sensationally successful charity benefit held in Madison Square Garden in New York. He was regularly hired by royalty to oversee national anniversary celebrations, and by celebrities for their private birthday parties and gala events. Dylan Fairweather was a name with a capital N.
‘The thing is...’ He shuffled towards her, his expression intent now rather than teasing. ‘I know that Plum Pines has its own events team, but I want to be the person running this particular show.’
Very slowly, she swallowed. ‘By “this particular show”, I take it you’re referring to Carla’s wedding?’
He nodded.
Her heart thumped. Nora would be disappointed.
‘I want to do this for Carla,’ he continued, fully in earnest now. ‘The only thing I can give her that’s of any worth is my time. You have to understand it’s not that I don’t trust the Plum Pines staff, it’s that I want to give my sister something that’ll actually mean something to her—something she can cherish forever.’
Mia almost melted on the spot. To have someone who cared about you so much that they’d go to such lengths... That was—
‘Mia?’
She started. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the kind of clout to authorise an arrangement like that. But I’ll present your case to Nora and Mr Coulter. Please be assured they’ll do everything they can to accommodate your and Carla’s wishes.’ She bit her lip. ‘They may have some additional questions that they’d like to ask you.’ Questions she lacked the expertise and foresight to ask.
He immediately slid his business card across the table to her. ‘They can contact me at any time.’
She picked it up. It was a simple card on good-quality bond, with embossed lettering in dark blue—a deeper and less interesting shade than his eyes.
He slid another card across the table to her. ‘Would you write down your number for me, Mia?’
She dutifully wrote down the Plum Pines office number, along with Nora’s work number.
He glanced at it and his lips pursed. ‘I was hoping for your number.’
Her hand shook as she reached for her tea. ‘Why?’
‘Because I think you could be an ally. You, I believe, approve of my plan to be Carla’s wedding co-ordinator.’
She hesitated. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’ Surely it couldn’t hurt to admit that much? ‘But I think you ought to know that I have very little influence here.’
‘I think you’re selling yourself short.’
