The Best Gift. Irene Hannon
to another. She hardly considered her years in Afghanistan, nor the past two working in Good Samaritan, Inc. headquarters, a “lark.” Nor the rigorous years of training that went into earning her M.B.A. She didn’t like his inference one bit. In fact, she didn’t think she liked Blake Sullivan. But she didn’t have to, she reminded herself. She just had to work with him for six months. And she’d had plenty of experience working under difficult conditions with difficult people. Maybe Mr. Sullivan would even discover that she wasn’t quite as capricious and flighty as he seemed to think. Starting right now. Because she wasn’t about to make any promises for anything six months down the road. That was a lifetime. And a lot of things could happen between now and then.
When she spoke again, her voice was brisk and businesslike. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll agree to consider your proposal when the time comes. But I can’t make any promises. I might decide to stay on at Turning Leaves. However, if I do decide to sell, I would certainly give you first consideration.”
Blake frowned at the unexpected response. Her tone had cooled considerably, and he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been friendly. And he couldn’t argue with her counterproposal. He would have offered the same thing. So it appeared he was stuck with Jo’s niece for the next six months. Unless he just walked away. But he couldn’t do that. Not after pouring himself into the business for the past three years. Yet could he stand by and watch it potentially falter in the hands of an inexperienced and seemingly strong-willed partner? For once in his life he wished he was a praying man, because he sure could use some guidance.
While Blake considered her counteroffer, A.J. did pray. Because she needed the bookshop. And she needed Blake, with his years of experience, to help her run it. Though she loved her work at Good Samaritan, the spartan pay in a high cost of living city like Chicago made it more and more difficult for her to keep up with daily expenses. She had known for several months that she’d have to make a change. The options were simple: Stay in Chicago and find a better-paying job, or move on to something—and someplace—entirely new. After praying, she’d been leaning toward the latter option. So when Jo’s legacy had fallen in her lap, she had seen it almost as divine intervention, a reaffirmation of her decision to pack up and move on. And even if she decided to sell after six months, the legacy would give her a financial cushion to fund whatever direction her life took.
“All right, Ms. Williams. I’ll accept your terms. If you could put them in a letter to me, I’d appreciate it.”
“You have my word.”
“In the business world, it’s better to have things in writing.”
He could hear anger nipping at the edges of her voice when she spoke. “Fine. I’ll put something in the mail today. Would you like it notarized as well?”
He ignored the touch of sarcasm in her tone. “That won’t be necessary. When are you planning to come down?”
“I have to close up my apartment and give notice at my job. In a couple of weeks, probably. I’ll call ahead to let you know my plans. And feel free to call me in the interim if you need anything.”
“I think we’ll be just fine.”
Without you.
The words were unspoken. But the implication came through loud and clear.
Three hours.
A.J. was three hours late.
Blake glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time and shook his head in exasperation.
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Nancy said as she passed by with a stack of books to restock a display. “It’s such a nasty day out…maybe the weather delayed her.”
As if to reinforce her comment, a crash of thunder shook the building.
Blake wasn’t buying it. “For three hours? Hardly likely. She probably forgot what time she said she was going to arrive.”
Nancy looked at him curiously as she arranged the books. “Boy, you sure formed a strong impression of her from a couple of phone conversations. It’s not like you to make snap judgments.”
He shrugged stiffly. “Well, let’s hope I’m wrong. Look, why don’t you head home? I doubt we’ll have many customers on a night like this, and I can close up. Besides, didn’t you say Eileen wasn’t feeling well? I’m sure you’d rather be home with her than holed up here with a grouchy bookseller.”
Nancy smiled. “Well, if you’re sure, I’ll take you up on your offer. She just has a scratchy throat, but after that bout with strep last year I’m extra cautious. Mrs. Cook takes good care of her when I’m gone, but I’d feel better if I could check on her myself.”
“Go. And be careful. It’s a downpour.”
Forty-five minutes later, as he worked on payroll in the back office, he heard the front door open. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to eight. It was either a last-minute customer or his tardy new partner. And he had a feeling he knew which it was. His lips settled into a grim line as he quickly logged off the computer and headed out front.
Blake had no idea what to expect when he stepped into the main room, but the dripping mess that greeted him wasn’t it.
A woman stood just inside the entrance as a puddle rapidly formed at her feet on the gleaming hardwood floor. Her wet, strawberry blond hair straggled out of a lopsided topknot, and damp ringlets were stuck to her forehead. He couldn’t quite decide what she was wearing—some sort of long-sleeved, hip-length tunic over what might once have been wide-legged trousers. Right now, the whole outfit was plastered to her willowy frame like a second, wrinkled skin.
She doesn’t even know enough to come in out of the rain. The thought came to Blake unbidden, and he shook his head.
The slight movement caught A.J.’s eye, and she glanced over at the tall man who was looking at her with a mixture of disgust and resignation. Was this Blake Sullivan? If so, he sure didn’t match the image she’d created in her mind. She’d envisioned a bookish type, fiftyish, probably wearing glasses, possibly balding, maybe a little round-shouldered, sporting a paunch. A fussy, precise and stern curmudgeon.
Well, the latter qualities might prove to be true of the man standing across from her. But she’d been dead wrong on the physical description. Blake Sullivan was tall—she classified anyone who topped her five-foot-ten frame as tall—with dark brown hair and intense, cobalt-colored eyes. His crisp, blue oxford shirt, beige slacks and well-polished leather shoes bordered on being preppy, though the effect was softened by rolled-up sleeves. His attire also showed off his athletic build—broad chest, lean hips, flat abdomen. And his shoulders were definitely not rounded.
A.J. tried not to flinch under his scrutiny. She could only imagine how she appeared. No, on second thought, she didn’t even want to go there. She could read enough from the look in his eyes. So much for first impressions.
With more bravado than she felt, she straightened her shoulders, tilted up her chin and gazed directly at the man across from her. “I’m looking for Blake Sullivan.”
He waited a moment, as if trying to decide whether he wanted to have anything to do with the pitiful vision in front of him or simply turn around and run. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he approached her, stopping a couple of feet away to fold his arms across his chest. “You’ve found him.”
She swallowed and extended her hand. “I’m A. J. Williams.”
Short of ignoring her courteous gesture, Blake had no choice but to narrow the gap between them so he could take her hand.
At closer range, he realized that A.J. was tall. She was probably a couple of inches shorter than him, but whatever shoes she had on put them almost eye-to-eye. If she’d been wearing any makeup prior to her dash through the storm, the rain had efficiently dispensed with it, giving her a fresh, natural look that actually had a certain appeal. There was a light dusting of freckles across her small, slightly turned-up nose, and thick lashes fringed deep green eyes highlighted with gold