and Tanner. Max Preston, his public relations guru, came from old California money. However, despite his privileged upbringing and inheritance, he never depended on it. Max was a real go-getter who’d never met an image crisis he couldn’t solve. Max would be moving on soon to devote his time fully to charity foundation work, but for now, Rafe intended to make the most of his input here.
Next through the door was William Tanner, CFO of Cameron Enterprises. The New Zealander was unflinchingly ruthless in the business world, the only individual Rafe had ever met who was equally as hard-nosed—all the more reason to make sure Tanner worked on the Cameron team.
Rafe shifted into business mode, on the outside at least, going through the motions of starting the PowerPoint slides on breaking down the redistribution of Worth Industry assets. But he knew his mind was only half in the game today.
Already Sarah proved a distraction in the workplace. Because in spite of the high-profile presentation flashing on the screen in front of him, Rafe could only think of the upcoming dinner at her place. Even the thought of seeing her ramped anticipation inside him. Ignoring her hadn’t worked for the past five months, much less for the past fourteen years.
The time had come to take a more proactive approach to working Sarah Richards out of his system, once and for all.
Doorbell echoing through her two-bedroom stucco home, Sarah wiped her hands on a dish towel, checked the throw pillows on her rattan sofa, straightened a rag scatter rug with her toe even though she knew everything was perfectly in place. Her house might not be on as grand a scale as Rafe’s these days, but she took pride in every perfectly maintained square foot.
The bell rang again and she drop-kicked the hand towel out of sight under the sofa before opening the door. Rafe stood on the tiny porch beside a potted cactus. He wore jeans and a black polo shirt that likely cost more than her couch, but the less formal clothes made him seem more approachable, more like the boy she’d known all those years ago.
Although the five-o’clock shadow and perfect blue-jeans butt were far more manly than boyish. What did he think of her denim shorts and layered tank tops? She hadn’t wanted to dress up and seem like she was trying to impress. But of course her pride cared that he would eat his heart out over dumping her.
“Come in.” Her voice came out raspy and she swallowed fast before trying again. “Supper’s ready to go on the grill.”
Stepping aside for him to come inside, she noticed the bouquet in his hand. Oh God. Her stomach flipped faster than any burger on a grill as she remembered all the blooms he’d given her while they dated. He’d been short of cash in those days, yet somehow he’d always managed to bring her flowers.
Tonight, he’d chosen orchids, a mix of pinks and purples so gorgeous her fingers itched to gather them up to her nose.
“Thank you,” she said simply, suddenly nervous about being alone with him and all these memories. How had she let her grandmother talk her into this?
Expensive flowers clutched to her chest, she couldn’t help but see her home through his eyes. No doubt her little house could fit into his whole master bedroom …. And wait, how had her thoughts gone to his bedroom?
Quietly, Rafe followed her into the kitchen. They’d never lacked for things to talk about, had only needed more free time to say it all. Now, her mouth dried right up as she filled a glass pitcher for the flowers. She didn’t have a vase. She and Quentin had poured every extra penny into fixing up their home. And he hadn’t been the sort to bring flowers and chocolates anyway. He’d bought her new windows and light fixtures ….
She and Quentin had purchased the house with the intent of starting a family. They’d repainted and decorated every room together, except the spare bedroom. She’d delayed any work on that space, planning to make it a nursery. Why paint it one color only to have to change it once the baby arrived?
Except there wasn’t a baby. Even after nine years of marriage and trips to a fertility specialist that had stripped every penny of their savings, there never was a baby. Three miscarriages in her first trimester. The last one occurred after the car wreck that took Quentin’s life.
Water overflowed from the pitcher. Gasping, she turned off the brushed-nickel faucet—an anniversary gift from Quentin—-and carefully placed the flowers inside. Too bad the emotions swelled inside her until she felt like that glass container, unable to contain it all.
Putting on her best game face, she turned back to Rafe. “Let’s go to the backyard. There’s a nice breeze tonight.”
“Lead the way.” His footsteps echoed behind her on the freshly scrubbed linoleum, then on the stone walkway outside.
Her garden haven spread in front of her, enclosed with a wooden plank fence.
After Quentin and her third unborn baby died, she’d devoted herself to cultivating the outdoor space. While Quentin had been gifted with a hammer, he’d never had a green thumb. She couldn’t bring herself to sell the house, but she found herself hiding out here more and more. She’d been driven to create something, anything alive and bright in a world so horribly full of death. She’d chosen sturdy plants at first, cacti putting down roots around a fountain. Finding her confidence and her footing, she’d added lemon and orange trees for shade.
She set the pitcher of orchids in the middle of the wrought iron table set for two.
Rafe walked to the center of the yard, turning slowly. He whistled low. “The landscaping is fantastic.”
“Quentin was good with that.” The lie rolled off her lips, so much easier than the truth that she’d hidden from her house. And yes, maybe she wanted to see how Rafe would react to a mention of her husband. “He drew up the blueprint right before he died.”
He stopped stone-still, his eyes sliding from the fountain—a terra-cotta pot pouring water over piles of polished stones—back up to her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Dozens of people had said those same words, that same pat line, and yet for some reason it grated on her already raw nerves coming from Rafe. “You’re a bit late with the condolences.”
“Did you expect to hear from me three years ago?”
She’d expected to hear from him fourteen years ago after he’d left town. Never had she dreamed one fight could erase all they’d shared. She’d hoped for some word, a letter, a call for an entire year before she’d given up and moved on with her life.
But she wouldn’t let herself be that vulnerable around this man. “After Quentin died, I heard from your father and Penny, and they came to the funeral.”
His blue eyes held her, stroked her, tangibly touched her without him moving so much as a step closer. “You’re too damn young to be a widow.”
She wrapped her arms around herself defensively. “There’s never a good time to lose someone you love.”
“You loved him then,” he said, his voice emotionless, his face inscrutable.
“I married him.” She pivoted away from those probing eyes and turned on the electric grill. “I wouldn’t have married him unless I loved him.”
“Teenagers change their minds a lot that way.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t care for veiled
