work on her contrary streak.
But around Nick she sometimes couldn’t help it. He was always so self-possessed that it was hard not to cheer when she discovered a chink in his armor. He had everything: beauty, brains, body, booty—as in more money than he knew what to do with. Anything that brought him down to the level of peons like herself seemed fair.
“This isn’t about me, Abby. It’s about Sarah. A girl only turns sweet sixteen once. It’s a milestone. There should be some fanfare,” he said, neatly circumventing her question. “Even though she asked me to convince you to let her have a party, I know you want it to be a success.”
He’d turned the conversation back to her. In the five years she’d known him, she’d learned he was good at that. He had elevated the sidestep to an art form. “Okay. But Sarah is my responsibility. I’m her guardian. If my parents were still alive, maybe they would go along with your theory that a spirited game of spin the bottle is practically carved in stone at a teenage party. I disagree.”
“Maybe you’re right to be cautious. It’s a well-known fact that sixteen-year-old, hormone-crazed boys have the hots for older women.” He tapped her nose. “That would be you.”
She frowned up at him. “Is this some new management technique? Did you learn this at that seminar? Fractured reverse psychology?”
“You’re not buying it?”
Shaking her head, she said, “Call me crazy, but I think kissing games among teenagers that I’ll be responsible for is asking for trouble. Just a guess, instinct really. But that’s all I’ve got.”
“You’ve got me, pal,” he answered, slipping his hands into the pockets of his suit slacks. His sinfully expensive matching jacket parted with the movement, revealing a costly, crisp white shirt that hinted at the washboard stomach beneath it.
“Right,” she said, forcing her wayward thoughts in a different direction. “You’re awfully dressed up for late Sunday afternoon. I thought you were supposed to be off. Are you working today? Or do you have a date?”
“Both,” he said.
Nick Marchetti was a notorious workaholic. She glanced sideways at her reflection in the blank bigscreen TV next to her that doubled for a mirror. Smoothing her own rumpled suit skirt, she was abruptly reminded that she was on a break from work. Nick wasn’t the boss that she reported to on a daily basis. He was her boss, as in president of Marchetti’s Inc., big kahuna of the whole corporation.
She brushed a strand of her short blond bob back into place, fluffed her straight bangs, then turned and met Nick’s gaze. “I didn’t realize you had plans for the evening or that you were working. Was there something specific you needed when you stopped in to the restaurant?”
He hesitated only a moment before answering with a shake of his head. “Just the usual.”
She nodded. “Lucky for me you were free to help with my shopping. Although I have to get back to the restaurant soon. Can we table the party-games discussion to another time? Right now I need the expertise you so generously offered. This electronic stuff is confusing. I don’t know a woofer from a hooter.”
“I think you mean tweeter,” he said, his mouth twitching as he tried not to laugh.
“See? What I know about these little black boxes with their digital readouts would fit on the head of a pin.”
“Well I certainly feel cheap, degraded and disposable.” His voice dripped with hurt feelings. He was such a faker.
She put her hand on her hip. “What are you talking about?”
“You want my expertise on electronic stuff, but not teenagers.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I feel so used.”
She wanted to laugh, slug him gently in the arm and tell him to stuff a sock in it. But she was afraid that would be too forward. Nick made it easy to fall into friendly and familiar behavior. But Abby had an unbreakable law: always remember your position. Translation: never under any circumstances overstep your boundaries. There was only one problem—she was never quite sure where the line was. Maybe because of their shared history.
She had Nick to thank for her very first waitressing job. When she was eighteen, her parents had died in an automobile accident. Sarah had been eleven then. With no relatives to help, Abby had suddenly and shockingly become responsible for herself, as well as mother and father to her little sister. Although a total stranger, Nick gave her a job when no one else would. She’d walked into the restaurant he was managing at the time and asked for work. Abby had vowed to be his best employee ever, and so far she’d done well She had worked her way through the ranks to assistant-manager-in-training of the local Marchetti’s. She never let herself forget her promise to do him proud.
At all times, she tried to maintain a professional demeanor around him. But then he would say or do something outrageous, and she would forget that he was her boss. The buck stopped with him. He signed her paycheck. Actually his brother Luke did, but it was almost the same thing. It was okay for him to think of them as friends, but she knew better.
“The party is a month away,” she said, instead of the teasing words on the tip of her tongue. “We have plenty of time to debate the issue of spin the bottle. But this sale is over today. I promised Sarah a CD player for her birthday. Good, bad or indifferent, I need to make a decision. Are you going to help me or—” she glanced at the milling salesmen “—let the circling sharks move in for the kill?”
He took her elbow and spun her toward the far wall filled with disc players and speakers. “You’d best thank your lucky stars that chivalry is alive and well.” When she didn’t say anything, he looked down at her and said, “What? No pithy comeback?”
She shook her head. “When you’re right, you’re right. I appreciate your help. If you’d told me you had a dinner date when you dropped in to the restaurant, I wouldn’t have imposed.”
“You’re not imposing.”
“You’re sure I’m not keeping you?”
“Nope. I’ve got plenty of time.”
She looked at the display of equipment. “Should I go cheap, expensive or middle of the road? Should I sacrifice quality for features? Or get top-notch basic for the least amount of money?”
Nick pointed to a unit. “This is a good brand. It has all the features Sarah could possibly want. Unless she’s missing the same electronic gene that you are. I think the cost is reasonable.”
Abby’s eyes widened as she looked at the price tag. “Maybe it’s reasonable for a Marchetti. But it’s way out of the Ridgeway budget—even at forty percent off.”
“I could—”
“That’s very nice of you, Nick. But I can’t allow you to do it.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Excuse me, I shouldn’t have interrupted. Speak your piece, then I’ll refuse your offer to buy it for Sarah.”
“I was going to suggest that you let me chip in. I don’t know what to get her. You would be doing me a favor.”
Abby knew this was one of his charitable
