Maybe he was her boyfriend? Summer hadn’t mentioned dating anyone, but they also hadn’t gotten together in a long time. He was definitely pretty to look at. Lovely if not completely inappropriate for Em since she already had someone who was perfect for her.
She knew that most women wanted the excitement of champagne and silk. Not Em. She’d seen what passion and sexual urges got a woman, and she wanted none of that. She’d seen what had happened to her mother. Give her bland and boring for the rest of her life.
Like Ben Cooke.
Just thinking about him gave her a warm feeling, like being wrapped in flannel pajamas and drinking hot chocolate from a mug with a cat on it.
She looked down at her collage. She’d never gone to university—she hadn’t had the money—but she’d read a lot, and somewhere she’d read that people who visualized their dreams achieved them more consistently. Writing down her goals never felt right, but she loved cutting out pictures and making a collage.
On the poster board, she’d pasted a modest, white house with an iron gate. In the bottom half, there were two children—a boy and a girl—building a sand castle on a beach. She’d added the picture of a car that was big enough to take the kids to school, and another of a bank to symbolize the savings account she wanted to have for her children’s tuition. Floating in the top left corner was a picture of a man.
She’d tried to find one that’d looked like Ben—the more specific you were, the better the odds that you’d attain your goals. She’d looked in gardening magazines, but all gardeners (except Ben) appeared to be bearded men in overalls. The picture she’d finally settled on was close enough—was more blond than brunette, more tailored than casual, but he looked wholesome and loyal.
“That’s okay,” she assured herself, running a finger over the photo. Gardening was her least favorite thing about Ben. She went and helped him on the weekends, to get to know him better, even though she hated it. It left dirt under her nails, even when she wore gloves. But she had to keep her eye on the prize: Ben.
The voices escalated in the conference room. Well—the man’s voice. She heard the words deceive and insane and was about to move closer to see if she could hear more when the company phone rang. Sighing, she answered it and forwarded the caller to the appropriate person as quickly as possible.
As she set the phone down and started to scoot her chair closer to the conference room, Summer and her guest emerged. Em noted Summer’s satisfied grin, but the man didn’t look especially happy.
Maybe he was a client. As the receptionist for a law firm, Em had to deal with a lot of unhappy people. She didn’t like it. If she didn’t have her one-year plan in motion, she’d have left this job and gone to work in a candy shop. Everyone was happy in a candy shop.
But soon she wouldn’t have a job, because she’d be Mrs. Ben Cooke, and then she’d have children to care for.
She sighed happily at the image that created.
Summer came to lean on the reception desk. “Em, did you meet my brother, Nick?”
“Stepbrother,” he corrected, facing Em. “I hope they give you hazard pay for dealing with this one.”
“Actually, Summer is lovely.” Of all the lawyers in the firm, Summer was the only one who treated her like a person instead of an indentured servant. They had lunch together whenever they could, and she was always interested in Em’s life.
Of course, Em glossed over the dreary details of her existence. No one wanted to know that her dad had died of a heroin overdose when she was twelve, and her mom lived in the gutter with any man who’d tolerate her. Still, it was nice that Summer asked.
“That’s what they teach them in law school, how to misrepresent the truth to their benefit.” He gave Summer a narrow look, but then he kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Summer grabbed his arm. “I really appreciate what you did, Nick.”
“I didn’t like lying to her.”
“I know. I’ll take over from here.” Summer smiled and waved as she walked down the hall to her office.
If Em were Nick, she wasn’t sure she’d trust that smile, but maybe she was imagining things.
The phone rang again and she answered it, watching Summer’s brother wait for the elevator, hands in his pockets. He was attractive, she thought as she dispatched the call. The rear view was particularly enticing, she decided as it disappeared behind the closed elevator door.
“Em Shepherd, I believe I caught you ogling that man’s arse.”
She didn’t need to look to see who was speaking—she knew just by the goose bumps that rose on her arms every time Joe Winslow was in close proximity.