quickly dropped them to her side. This was one of the disadvantages of working with someone who knew you so well.
Ana’s parents had worked for the Worths for years. She’d spent her teenage years living in the apartment over their garage. Though Ana’s family was hired help, Emma’s kindness and generosity meant they hadn’t been treated that way. Ana and Emma were practically sisters.
She tried not to be annoyed by Emma’s cheerful demeanor. Within the past month, Emma had fallen in love with Chase Larson, Rafe’s stepbrother. It certainly wasn’t Emma’s fault that she was practically glowing with the combination of love-infused happiness and pregnancy hormones. Of course she was happy for her friend. And yet, Ana couldn’t help but feel Emma’s new status as pregnant and soon-to-be-married only highlighted Ana’s own perpetual and permanent state as a singleton.
But none of that had any relevance to Hannah’s Hope.
Ana tapped her fingers on her desk. “It feels like a lot of big dreams that we aren’t going to be able to do anything about.”
Emma frowned at the unexpected censure. “Me, I’m thrilled.” She took a sip from the bottle of water that she seemed to carry with her constantly now that she was pregnant. “I think we came up with a lot of great ideas. What about the street fair? Surely you love that idea.”
Christi had thrown out the idea halfway through the brainstorming. Instead of hosting an open house next week on a weekday evening, they would host a street fair in downtown Vista del Mar at the end of the month. They could generate far more publicity as well as draw in plenty of passersby. Everyone else had loved the idea.
“It’s not that it’s a bad idea. But we still have so much real work to do to get Hannah’s Hope off the ground. I’m still working with our accountant to file our 501(c)(3) application. I don’t want us to get distracted planning something fun when there’s serious work that needs to get done.”
“This isn’t a distraction.” Emma’s tone showed her excitement. “Now that we’re up and running, how many people really know about us? We need to reach out to the community and let people see everything we have to offer, both to clients and to volunteers. This is the perfect way to do that.”
“I’m not saying a street fair won’t be fun, I’m just not sure it’s the best use of our resources.”
“That’s the beauty of getting local businesses to donate goods and services. And if Ward really can get some up-and-coming local act to perform, we’ll be golden.”
Omar was the one who had brought up the possibility of Ward performing. Ward had smoothly dodged the question by offering up the services of the musician whose albums he was producing.
“Yeah, great.” Here she was trying to play the taskmaster and get everyone to complete paperwork and Ward swept in with his fun ideas and yummy muffins. Was it any wonder she resented him for charming her staff so efficiently? Maybe she could more easily forgive him if she wasn’t so afraid of falling under his spell herself. Maybe she should be glad he wasn’t going to perform. She might not survive the excitement. “By the way, do you have any idea why he won’t perform himself? I’ve always wondered …”
“No, I don’t.” Emma gave a quick slice of her hand to indicate Ana should stop talking, then bobbed her head in the direction of the hall leading toward the back door. “Anyway,” she said loudly. “I’ve got to go. Lots of things to do. Favors to call in and whatnot.” She raised her eyebrows in silent question. “We’ll talk later?”
Ana pressed her lips together and nodded. Obviously, Ward was coming down the hall. What was it with him sneaking in the back door, anyway?
Emma excused herself just as Ward appeared in her doorway. Ana had hoped she wouldn’t have to see him again today. Certainly not alone. Weren’t lazy stars supposed to be whiling away the afternoon by the pool or something? For that matter, wasn’t he supposed to be a lazy star? Why couldn’t he just throw a temper tantrum or snort some kelp like she’d expected him to?
“Do you have a minute?” he asked but didn’t wait for her answer before entering her office and shutting the door behind him.
“Certainly,” she muttered, hoping her tone didn’t sound as false to him as it did to her. Her office was little more than a repurposed closet. Between her desk sitting flush against one wall and her bookshelf against the opposite wall, she barely had room for more than her desk chair and the chair she’d set by the door for guests.
He sat down in the extra chair, scooting it back as he did to stretch out his long limbs. She nudged her own chair back a couple of inches to keep from bumping into his legs. His sheer size seemed to swallow up the empty space of her office. Just as the very air seemed permeated by the woodsy scent of his … his what? It wasn’t strong or overpowering like a cologne. It was something more subtle. Maybe his soap. Or maybe his skin just naturally smelled like freedom and afternoons spent hiking in the woods. Like—
She gave her head a little shake, trying to free herself from the grasp of her senses. She realized abruptly that he was watching her, his gaze dark and mysterious. She felt awareness skitter across her nerve endings.
She was used to being hit on by men. She had a voluptuous figure and a pretty-enough face. Men often had certain expectations about hot-blooded Latina women and loose morals. Never mind that she’d never once lived down to that stereotype, she was used to having strange men check her out. But this was different.
Ward’s stare wasn’t leering. He seemed to be assessing her personality rather than her flingability. She feared that if he was sizing her up, he’d find her lacking somehow.
And yet, underneath that, there was a spark of awareness. She’d almost swear to it. Of course, what was more disconcerting was her reaction to him. Why did his mere presence make her feel so much more aware of herself? Of the lock of hair that had slipped free of her clip and sat heavy against her neck. Of the way she’d kicked off her shoes when she’d first sat down and then scooted away from her desk without slipping them back on. Aware of her bare toes, with their silly blue nail polish, mere inches from his expensive leather loafers.
As if sensing her thoughts, he glanced down at her feet. He stared at them long enough to make her uncomfortable. And then swallowed noticeably. She jerked her feet under her chair and curled her toes under. He looked back up at her, his expression carefully blank.
When he spoke, his tone brooked no argument. “We need to talk.”
Ah, crap. He had been sizing her up. Here it comes. She was unprofessional. She was unqualified. She was disrespectful. He hated blue nail polish and her feet repulsed him.
She felt as though he could see right through her. As though any defense she might make would be fruitless. Not that he gave her a chance to state her case.
“There’s one thing I don’t tolerate,” he stated blandly. “That’s people who aren’t honest with me. You obviously don’t like me and I need to know why.”
She didn’t … what? She blew out a long breath, trying to process his words. He was worried she didn’t like him?
“It’s not—”
“Either you don’t like me or you don’t trust me. Something. Let’s get it out on the table right now. And don’t throw out that crap about not trusting celebrities. Because I don’t believe for a second that you’d
