know what this is?’ he said, pushing a sheaf of documents towards her.
She looked at him—looked into Heath’s deep, complex gaze. It sucked her in … and left her floundering. ‘A contract?’ she said, quickly gathering her scattered thoughts.
‘It’s a legal document setting out the terms for a six-month trial. Read it, and if you agree it, sign it.’ Uncapping the same fountain pen with which he must have written the brief note inviting her to his London home, he handed it to her. ‘I’ll leave you while you read and consider—and you don’t have to sign anything right away. You don’t have to sign it at all.’
‘But—’ She stood, wanting to thank him. This was everything she had ever dreamed of. And how flat dreams could feel when they came true, she thought as Heath left the room.
But this wasn’t just about her. There were others she had to think about. She sat down again and started to read, but all the time she was aware of the lovingly polished wood around her, and the warm, clean air, lightly fragranced with Heath’s shower soap—
Heath …
She’d pushed him away, shaking her head as if that could rid it of him—and was left with a contract.
He’d had a breakfast meeting with the lawyers to get the contract finalised—except he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and now he was hungry. He glanced at the cooker and the fridge—glanced at his wristwatch and thought of Bronte. He wanted her to be secure. He’d given her a cast-iron contract that protected her and gave her a pay-out if she changed her mind about working on the estate.
‘I can’t sign this, Heath.’
He turned to see her framed in the doorway. ‘Can’t or won’t?’ he said coolly.
‘You know what’s in here. It isn’t fair.’
‘No?’ His lips pressed down in a rueful smile as she walked across the room. ‘I thought it was very fair.’
‘But there’s nothing in it for you—no guarantees for you.’
‘It’s six months, Bronte.’ He shrugged. ‘You tell me how much I stand to lose.’
‘You stand to lose a lot,’ she insisted, coming close to make her point. ‘You know you do, Heath.’
‘Do I?’ As Bronte’s clean, wildflower scent invaded his senses he felt less than nothing about his losses—which was a first for him in business, he registered with wryly.
‘Look at this clause, as an example,’ she said, showing him the relevant passage. ‘This is ridiculous—I don’t need special treatment.’
‘Do you find it patronising?’ Heath asked as she turned her face up to him.
‘Well, yes, I do, actually,’ she said. ‘Would anyone else get this sort of contract? I doubt it, Heath.’
‘Does friendship count for nothing, Bronte?’
‘Friendship…’ She looked at him in something close to bewilderment.
Leaning back against the counter, he was acutely conscious of Bronte standing only inches away. ‘Sign or don’t sign,’ he said, shifting position and moving away.
‘I want to be the best person for the job, Heath.’ She frowned. ‘But you don’t seem to care what I do, which doesn’t fill me with confidence. I don’t want any special favours. I want you to take me on because I’m the best.’
‘You are the best candidate,’ he said evenly, meeting her gaze.
‘And the rest of it?’ she said.
He stared away into his thoughts. ‘I just want you to be happy, Bronte. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
How could she be? Bronte wondered as her fingers closed around the contract. Heath was right, this contract had been her goal, but wanting Heath eclipsed everything, which meant this piece of paper with its more than generous terms fell so far short of what she had hoped for, she could hardly raise the energy to sign it.
‘I’m not changing a word of it,’ Heath told her. ‘But I will give you a little more time to decide if you want to go ahead and sign it. In the meantime—’ his lips tugged up in a faint smile ‘—have you eaten anything this morning?’
‘No … have you?’
Their gazes held for a moment. If this was friendship—this feeling that survived everything—then she’d take it.
‘Are you hungry, Bronte?’
Heath’s question made her nose sting. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘Then let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make you something to eat.’
‘You cook?’
‘I cook,’ Heath confirmed.
He led the way into a large, airy kitchen. With its glass roof, and fabulous state-of-the-art appliances, it had the spacious feel of an orangerie. ‘Did you design it?’ she said, looking around.
‘I prepared the brief, did the drawings, and sourced the materials, so there could be no mistakes,’ Heath explained, reaching for a pan and turning on the cooker.
‘Did you do most of the work yourself?’ she said, admiring the way the original ornate plasterwork had been incorporated into the modern design.
‘Most of it—though I did allow the interior designers to plump the cushions when I’d finished.’
When Heath curved a smile it was like a light turning on, Bronte thought, but she mustn’t be dazzled by it.
‘Eggs Benedict?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. I like eating—so it’s essential that I cook.’
She laughed, and finally relaxed.
He loved the sound of Bronte laughing. It was the only soundtrack he needed. He found a bowl and started whisking. ‘Why don’t you sit and read your contract? This will take a few minutes.’
As Heath got busy cracking eggs and reaching for the seasoning she laid the contract on the cool black granite, and signed it without another word.
Tipping buttery sauce onto the spinach, eggs and muffins, he came to sit next to her at the breakfast bar. ‘You signed it,’ he said, brow furrowing as he stared at the contract.
‘And here’s your copy,’ she said, handing him half the papers. ‘Eat. You must be hungry too. This is delicious, Heath,’ she commented after the first mouthful.
Their arms were almost touching. This was the closest they had come to relaxing together since—since she didn’t want to think about. She wanted to start over—this way—with a friendship between two adults—just see where it led. Nowhere, probably, but, hey—
‘Now
