Room...but Not Bored!. Dawn AtkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
had suited Ariel just fine. Her plan had been to work with Trudy for two years—or until she felt ready to be on her own. But that plan was all gone. Trashed by Trudy. For love.
Foster had gone weird, too. Falling in love had made him decide to sell the company and live life to the fullest. Double blech. In his defense, he’d also had a cancer scare—a misdiagnosis, as it turned out—that had made him reassess his values. Ariel was all for businessmen reassessing their values—but to advance their businesses, not abandon them.
She’d so looked forward to the London experience. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to be instrumental in a highly visible corporate evolution, and meant a huge leg up for her business reputation. It would give her cachet, to be elegant about it. Not to mention international contacts. And London itself had been amazing.
But now, only three weeks into the adventure, she’d had to catch a flight back to L.A. to start her business with just a name, Trudy’s file of stale leads and her own bravado.
Before Ariel left, Trudy had given her what was left of Business Advantage, which wasn’t much, since Trudy and she had finished with their U.S. clients before the London move.
And now Ariel was on her own. With a sigh, she descended the sand-scrubbed steps to the beach house in Playa Linda, where she would live until she was financially able to move somewhere more appropriate.
Trudy had felt so guilty about abandoning Ariel, she’d practically given her the cottage, asking a ridiculous price, payable over time, that Ariel couldn’t afford to pass up. Even though living there would be like camping, the property was a prize piece of real estate. Lots of people thought beach living was nirvana.
And at least she had a home. Before the move, she’d given up her tidy apartment, contoured precisely to her habits, and put her belongings in storage along with their office equipment.
Five steps down, Ariel’s heel skidded on grit and she tilted to the side, banging her elbow on the rail.
A guy with a surfboard caught her arm from behind. “You okay, ma’am?”
Ma’am? She was only twenty-nine, darn it, no ma’am. She could be this guy’s date, not his mother. It was how she was dressed, she was certain. Her dark tailored suit, high-necked blouse and efficiently bunned hair made her seem as out-of-place as a Victorian matron in a strip club. “I’m fine,” she snapped, and the guy trotted on without a backward glance.
Ariel finished the steps and started across the sand, stepping carefully so as not to grind sand into her delicate stockings. The cottage was nestled into a low hill, with a basement garage accessible from the narrow street. If Ariel’d had the garage door opener, she could have entered that way and avoided the beach altogether, but some things couldn’t be helped.
With each wobbly step, her sleep-deprived mind churned out more bad thoughts. What if she didn’t get clients right away? She was good, she knew. She’d saved an entire division during the consolidation she and Trudy had worked on together, and the clients she’d handled for the six months she’d been part of Business Advantage had been very happy. The baby clothes boutique had doubled its profits, thanks to her, and her diversification plan had saved a computer parts manufacturer from a painful downsizing.
Handling the clients was no problem. What stopped her heart was the idea of selling herself to them in the first place. That had been Trudy’s specialty. Trudy knew promotion. She knew how to coax and cajole. In that regard, Ariel was lost at sea. A critical liability when starting a business from scratch. What if she starved? No way. She was a survivor and a worker, just like her mother. Ariel’s father had died when she was just three, but her mother hadn’t moped a minute. She’d gotten two jobs—at a laundry and a diner—and always made ends meet.
It sounded grim, but her mother was never discouraged. Adams women kept on keeping on. Ariel had spent many happy hours playing dolls under the diner tables. The waitresses talked to her in their rough, practical way—barking at her to get out from underfoot during the busy times, joining her to act out a quick Barbie and Ken date during the lulls. And to this day, the smell of laundry soap cheered her.
She would survive, all right, Ariel thought, marching forward in the thick sand. If worse came to worst, she’d get a job at a temp service or take some contract work—rare, of course—with another business planner. This was just a setback. Sweat poured down her sides under her expensive suit. That meant a dry cleaning bill. She tried to think cool thoughts as she lunged forward, lugging the bags that wouldn’t roll on the soft sand. Almost there, almost there.
Then, she was there—Trudy’s beach getaway, now her very own. Small, faded and shabby, it looked as if a good wind could topple it. She’d remembered it as more attractive that one weekend she’d spent with Trudy here laying out the plans for their partnership. Her spirits flagged for a second.
Quaint and cozy…with rustic charm. That’s how she would describe it in the real estate ad she intended to place as soon as she was flush enough to move out. You’ll look back on this and laugh, she told herself, closing her eyes for a quick visualization….
She and her husband walking among the roses in front of their ranch-style home in Thousand Oaks. His warm voice in her ear: Remember when you were a desperate newbie in a ramshackle hut cold-calling clients to afford food?
She would tip her face up to his—of course he’d be much taller—gaze into his dark eyes and give a tinkling laugh. Maybe not tinkling. Trudy’s laugh had tinkled. A gentle laugh then.
Look at you now, her dear husband would continue. You’ve hired an associate so you have more time to spend with me, your adoring husband. Shall we swim?
Then they would walk arm-in-arm to their Olympicsized pool with the dramatic black surface and bricked rim and swim slow laps, looking into each other’s eyes. Oh, and their golden retriever would run along the pool’s edge as they swam….
Much better. Ariel sighed and opened her eyes, rejuvenated by her vision of the glorious future she’d push herself to, no matter what. Now to get started. Except she hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and she was so tired….
Keep moving, she told herself fiercely. You snooze, you lose. She marched up the stairs to the porch, her fingers burning from holding the suitcases, which clunked up each step. Sweaty and breathing heavily, she extracted Trudy’s key from her purse and put it in the lock, only to have the door yanked away from her from the inside. She stumbled two steps forward and into a man, connecting with his warm, solid, naked chest.
He gripped her arms, steadying her, holding on a few seconds longer than necessary while he studied her. His fingers were strong and reassuring, his eyes a Brad Pitt smoky blue.
“Well, hel-lo,” he said, propping her back onto her heels.
Unbalanced by the surprise—and the man—she’d only managed, “Hello,” before a black-and-white bear of a dog rushed past them from inside the cottage. On its heels was a young boy wearing a green baseball cap, who paused to slap the man on his muscular shoulder and yell, “You’re it!” before racing down the stairs and across the beach after the dog.
“Time out!” the man shouted to him, then lowered his gaze to Ariel’s. “Sorry. Jake Renner.” He lifted her limp hand and helped her shake his, his eyes full of laughter at her shock.
“Ariel Adams,” she said faintly.
“Can I help you?” He was a little taller than she was and blond, with a deep tan on a muscular body that was pretty much on full display except for baggy Hawaiian-print swim trunks. He was way too relaxed for someone who’d been caught squatting in Trudy’s empty beach house.
“Is this Trudy Walters’s place?” Maybe she’d arrived at the wrong ramshackle cottage. She could only hope.
Something trilled sharply. For a second, in her exhaustion, she feared it was her brain warning it was about to blow. But it was just her cell phone, good for only two more days before service expired.
Jake Renner leaned against