href="#ulink_329d1df6-a602-532e-9823-cf9794d0a293">CHAPTER TWO
LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON Tori worked on a spreadsheet displaying the menu for a fiftieth wedding anniversary scheduled for Thursday. She was making the final notes to the grocery list when the bell over the front door sounded.
“Be right there,” she called out as she took a moment to save her file. A quick glance through the glass wall of her office revealed the visitor was a man, but he had his back to her. By Arrangement rarely got drop by traffic. The nature of their business generally took them to their clients. In fact Lauren was out with a prospective client now, which left Tori to handle the man haunting their showroom.
Her toes searched under her desk for her shoes. She ended up kicking them farther back and bent to retrieve the ballerina flats. Happy she chose to wear black jeans today, which were slightly dressier than regular jeans, she walked out of her office, tugging at the hem of her olive sweater as she greeted the visitor.
“Welcome— You.” She stopped short at the sight of Garrett Black. He stood tall and broad in the middle of the showroom in another ill-fitting suit. “What are you doing here?” Hearing the strident tone, she cringed. “I mean, Mr. Black, how can I help you?”
“Ms. Randall.” He glanced around the converted restaurant, taking in the glass offices, the tables dressed in different styles for special occasions, the well-stocked bar. He lifted a brow at her.
“We occasionally host events here,” she explained. “Or we used to.” She and Lauren bought the restaurant four years ago for the kitchen because they’d outgrown her apartment kitchen for food prep. Business continued to bloom, and after six months, the front was converted to offices, storage and the current showroom.
He nodded and continued to wander. At one of the tables he picked up a fork, set it back down. His presence confused her. She and Lauren had great ideas outlined for the film festival, but the next series of meetings with Obsidian weren’t scheduled until the first part of December.
“Would you like to sit?” she asked him.
“No.” He faced her, shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ve come about the toe prints.”
She blinked at him. “Toe prints?”
“Yes. Upon inspection of my vehicle this morning I found toe prints on the carpet of the driver’s side. I wanted to let you know I’ll be forwarding the cleaning bill.”
Tori listened with growing outrage. He had to be kidding. “No,” she corrected, keeping her tone easy. “Remember, I was barefoot when we met, but you stopped me before I got in the car.” His precious oh-so-fabulous car.
Aggravating man. How petty of him to try to get a car cleaning out of her, especially when money wasn’t the issue. He was upset because she’d made him feel. Anger, arousal, humor, she’d seen flashes of each emotion in the brief conversations they’d had.
Whatever had happened to him, and it went way further back than his accident, he’d cut himself off from emotion. She imagined the accident and losing his dad only added to the pain he hid behind a brooding facade.
All too familiar with the destructive force of repressed feelings, she easily recognized the anguish simmering in his silver eyes. She felt for him, but not even his manly beauty tempted her to go there again.
Caring for an emotional recluse was equivalent to treading through a mental minefield.
“You were the only one near the car barefoot. I assume you will want to take care of this matter promptly as it would be awkward working together on the film festival with this issue unresolved.”
She gritted her teeth. He was right. Having this issue hanging over By Arrangement while she worked the film festival was unacceptable. Arguing with him didn’t make sense, either. Not while Black was a client.
Plus, no way did Tori want Lauren knowing about this. She would never let Tori forget the need to wear appropriate shoes if she learned Tori was being billed for footprints. Yet she still protested.
“Between the two of us I’m sure we can figure this out.” Much as she disliked confrontation, Tori didn’t care to be pushed around or taken advantage of, either. “Let me see the prints.” She headed for the door and the parking lot beyond.
Hey, she had a right to challenge the totally bogus accusation. Innocent until proven guilty, she wanted to see the evidence, to defend her good name. The truth was she admired the beautiful machinery of the Maserati too much to mar it and she found the accusation insulting.
“You honestly believe I’d make up footprints?” The caustic question came from behind her. “For what reason? Some half-witted excuse to see you again?”
She froze with her hand on the car handle, struck by the concept. For all the derision in his words, she knew he found her attractive. Perhaps that was the answer. He was punishing them both for the chemistry between them.
And perhaps she was overthinking it. He was a jerk, reason enough for his contrary behavior.
She tried opening the door of the red Maserati Spider convertible and about pulled her shoulder from the socket when it refused to give. Locked. She turned to him, forced a smile. “Open, please.”
She met stoic resistance.
What now? Then it hit her, she hadn’t answered his question.
“Look, I’m not vain enough to figure you manufactured an excuse and went out of your way to pursue me. Since I didn’t step barefoot into the car, I want to help you determine what it is.”
“I know toe prints when I see them.” But he clicked the locks, allowing her to open the door.
Bending over, she stuck her head inside. The scent of well-tended leather filled her senses. Such a sexy aroma. It made her think of smart cars, long drives and hard men. None of which were appropriate to the moment. Discounting the hardheaded male looming over her.
She ran her hand over the soft buttercream upholstery, eyed the matching carpet. Three small smudges were grouped close together. She supposed they could be toe prints, but she didn’t think so.
“They look like paw prints,” she said, glancing over her shoulder in time to catch him eyeing her butt. Her blood heated at the appreciation in his pale gaze. But she tamped it down as she stood and faced him, reminding herself of the complications he presented—client, tortured soul.
“Absolutely not.” He denied her explanation. He stepped back and seemed to wobble a bit on the uneven asphalt. He glared at the ground before turning the look on her. “Impossible. Unless you left a window open when you parked the car.”
“No. I adjusted the seat.” A necessity considering, at six feet, he stood a good eight inches taller than her. “But I just pulled it into the garage. There was no need to adjust the mirrors.”
“Then the only explanation is toe prints.”
“Unless the marks were there before you reached the party,” she offered in what she felt was a reasonable tone. “Do you inspect all areas of the car before driving it each time?”
“Of course not.” He scowled, his annoyance over the discussion more than clear. “But they
