“Caps are for amateurs.”
He leaned forward a touch. “What if I have something important to do? Like turning a woman’s head with my sparkling wit and personality? Wouldn’t I want to capitalize the word beautiful when I compliment her on her looks?”
The intensity in his eyes made it clear he was talking about her. A low burn started, but she ignored it. “Forget the looks. You’d win more points complimenting her on her sense of humor. And a sophisticated texter doesn’t need the caps button.” She tipped her head. “He leaves a woman weak in the knees with just the right words.”
The hint of a smile appeared on his face. “A real man leaves a woman weak in the knees with just the right look.”
Absolutely. Which was why it was a good thing she was sitting down. Because he was sending out some potent, powerful vibes. She was almost tempted to be charmed. She took a fortifying sip of crisp, dry wine, eyeing him warily over her glass.
“I’ll agree to go through with this if you lend me a hand in the beginning,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“We get together and you share my texting responsibilities.”
She coughed on her wine, the words sputtering out in a squeak. “You want me to flirt with other women for you?”
“Just help me out until I get going.”
“Absolutely not.” She turned to face him in her seat. “You have to do your own flirting.”
“Why? I’m not marrying any of them. I’m not even agreeing to date them. All I’m promising is one lousy dinner in the name of a good cause.”
“Because it’s … because it’s …” as her mouth grappled to catch up with her brain, Jessica’s mind scrambled for the right word. Sacrilegious sounded melodramatic. Rude he clearly wouldn’t care about. At a loss, she set her glass down with a clink. “Because it’s unromantic, not to mention unethical. You cannot outsource your flirting.”
He tipped his head in disbelief. “Jessica, we’re not talking about destroying our local economy.”
“You’re the Wildcard,” she said levelly. “Women elude security and pick locks to climb into your bed. I’m sure you’re more than qualified to handle a little internet flirting with several women at the same time.”
Unimpressed by her attempts at flattery, Cutter said, “I’ve never had to flirt with a woman online in my life.” He gave a small shrug. “It’s either have some help to get me started or I won’t do it.”
Jessica propped her elbows on the counter and covered her eyes with her palms. Cutter Thompson was frustrating and cynical. But she’d promised Steve.
She owed Steve.
He might not have been the love of her life as she’d once hoped, but he’d helped her find her passion. The great gift of career satisfaction. She loved her work. It defined her. And, despite their divorce, Steve had been a big part of that discovery. And his advice during her fledgling business years had been invaluable.
She wouldn’t be the success she was today with his support.
“Fine.” She dropped her hands to the counter and turned her head to meet Cutter’s gaze. “But here are the rules. Once you get the hang of it, I’m done. And no one can know I’m helping you. They have to believe that everything comes from you or the whole thing crumbles in a heap of shame. Maintaining the integrity of the event is my top priority.”
The expression on his face promised nothing. “I want to have my ‘Cuda done by the end of the month. That’s my priority.”
With a sense of victory and relief, Cutter pulled open the glass door and entered the small but elegant reception room of Perfect Pair Inc., pulling off his baseball cap and sunglasses. It had taken twenty minutes to shake the reporter trailing him since he’d left his house. A full week of media hype about the fundraiser had the worst of Miami’s parasitic paparazzi on a renewed quest to hunt Cutter Thompson down. He’d left North Carolina and moved back to Miami to avoid this kind of scrutiny.
Of course, his sudden aversion to interviews only made the press hungrier for tidbits of his activities, but he was determined to keep the facts about his memory loss private. Bad enough he’d regained consciousness in the ambulance in the worst agony of his life; no need for the world to rehash every gritty detail. He refused to tap dance his way around another grilling over what was next for Cutter Thompson. And he sure as hell wouldn’t field one more question about his reason for illegally bumping Chester Coon.
Hell, when—if—he ever figured out the answers, he’d take out a flippin’ full-page ad in the Times and let everyone know. Until then, every member of the press was persona non grata in Cutter’s book.
Even though he’d managed to lose the newshound tailing him, the encounter had left him with a foul mood he couldn’t shake. He’d been having a good day in the garage. The pain was tolerable, and the new camshaft went in like a dream.
But then he’d had to take a trip across town with a bloodsucker on his trail. And he owed his ramped-up publicity appeal to do-gooder Jessica Wilson—the lady who’d toppled his plans for seclusion with a barrage of sympathy-invoking photos.
Weak. He was well and truly weak.
His only option now was to get in and out as quickly as possible. Complete the first round of chatting with his contestants and get back to the peace of his garage. He needed to crawl back under the ‘Cuda. Solving problems there was simple. Things connected and made sense. Broken parts could be easily repaired or replaced.
Unlike his life.
With a frown, he scanned his surroundings. The small reception room off to the left was decorated like a cozy living area, complete with a collection of leather couches arranged in a circle, the walls lined with pictures of smiling couples mocking his black mood. Some looked candid, some were professionally done, and others were wedding photos of happy brides and grooms.
He grimaced at the marital bliss propaganda being displayed on the wall.
Jessica appeared in the hallway, her lovely long legs bare beneath a gray skirt that ended in a dainty ruffle. A gauzy pink blouse clung to gentle curves. She was an intriguing mix of sophisticated class, professionalism and soft femininity. But she believed in true love and things like ‘effective communication.’
“Thanks for coming here,” Jessica said. “I have to meet someone for dinner at eight, so I’m pressed for time.”
Yet, here she was, championing her cause. Helping him do his part. He was still trying to figure that one out. “Why is this fundraiser so important to you? Was your childhood so awful you feel obligated to fix it for others?”
Her expression was one of restraint, with a hint of annoyance. “No. My childhood consisted of two parents who loved and nurtured me. I’m a longtime supporter of the work the Brice Foundation does, and my ex-husband is chairman of the board. I promised him I’d recruit you for the benefit dinner.”
His eyebrows lifted. That she was divorced came as a surprise. That she was still on
