Chapter Four

Brielle

I stare at the phone in my hand, my mind a complete blank, trying my best to process everything I am feeling.

Hearing him speak to me on the voicemail he left me was arousing enough. But hearing that deep Texas drawl in real time, complete with the sexy-as-hell chuckle woven through that magic tone?

Orgasm-inducing. Just this side of it, anyway.

I seriously need a drink.

With effort, I stand on suddenly wobbly legs and head for the fridge and the Moscato. I pour a half-glass, pause, consider, then top it off before I put the bottle back where it goes.

I am not sure what is happening here, but I cannot do this, I tell myself after the first sip. So much is wrong with this scenario. Getting involved with a client, for one. Not to mention it has been forever since I've…

That thought alone prompts a second, much larger drink as my freak-out begins in earnest.

So how to extricate myself from this situation? We have already set a day and time to meet.

And? my logical side counters. Put your hormones back in the box, sister. He has a nice voice, that's all. Nothing more than that. Chill out and do your job Saturday. Besides, this… this… whatever-this-is is most likely one-sided. So, play it cool. He is just another client that needs your help. End of story.

"Right," I mutter aloud after another long swallow, then grimace as I realize I am standing alone in my gourmet kitchen arguing with myself.

"Maybe I should get a pet," I grumble. "At least then I'd have another living creature to talk to instead of myself like a crazy person."

The abrupt ring of my cell phone startles me enough that I spill a bit of wine over the rim of my glass. I pivot to grab first my phone, then a paper towel to mop up the small splash on my floor.

"Hey Mari, what's up?" I say, as I straighten up again and throw the paper towel away.

I first met Maribella - or 'Mari', as she prefers to be called - in a spin class ten years ago. While my New Year's resolution that year only lasted about five weeks, the best friend I gained was well worth it.

"I sensed a disturbance in the force," she teases now. "Something just told me to call and check on you. Have you eaten yet?"

"Grabbed Chinese earlier."

"Good," Mari says firmly. "Then I'm not out of line bringing dessert with me. Cheesecake. I'll be there in ten."

She's gone before I have the chance to protest.

She is smart, I'll give her that. She knows cheesecake is my weakness, I acknowledge with a smile.

***

Mari is punctual, as always, and at minute twelve we have two slices of cheesecake plated and are settling in at my kitchen table.

"Spill it," she commands, pointing at me with her fork before she scoops up her first bite.

I shrug my shoulders with a huge sigh and wade right in, telling her all about both interactions with Allen Jones and my strong and unexpected reaction to each one.

"Wow," she says thoughtfully, pausing to delicately pat the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

There is a lot of power in that one-word response of hers, and she and I both know it. She is the only one in my new life that I ever confided in about what happened to me; the only one that knows the story. She is also the only one besides me who knows that my journey from Becka Corgan, shattered survivor, to Brielle Cerver, self-sufficient, confident businesswoman, was fraught with nightmares for years.

"Honey," she says gently, laying her hand over mine, "even if it does turn out to be one-sided, it's still a blessing, Bri. Means you are healing, finally. Enough to feel something again."

"What should I do?" I blurt out, feeling completely out of control.

"Take things as they come - and trust your gut, Brielle. That's all you can do."

Allen

I spend the two days leading up to meeting Brielle Cerver consumed with a dark, brooding self-loathing that not even Grant's sincere "You know I’m here for you, right?" can overcome.

Seeing the realtor's picture Wednesday night reopened an abyss of heartache for me, and it felt like Mary's death happened only yesterday. And that was immediately followed by guilt - earned or not - because I have never gotten over losing Mary, and part of me feels like even thinking about another woman is a severe betrayal.

I hate myself for every thought I have had so far about Brielle Cerver, no matter what the Mary in my dreams tries to tell me, and I am determined as hell to keep the woman with the smokey voice at arm's length.

In fact, I consider calling her back on Friday evening to cancel the meeting altogether before I realize that doing so is not fair to Brielle.

Not her fault I have issues, I tell myself grimly. Meet her, tour the properties, buy if they are right for what I want, move on. Purely business. Nothing more than that.

After a third restless night, I am up at three-twenty a.m. on Saturday morning. I shower and dress in jeans, boots, and a polo shirt before I make myself some scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee.

There is no good reason to be up before four a.m. Even with traffic, the drive from Austin to Pantego is typically less than four hours. And before six a.m. on a weekend, traffic is nonexistent.

But I am itching to get today's events done and over with.

I pour a second cup of coffee into my travel mug, then lock my front door. I am programming Brielle Cerver's office address into the GPS in my truck, then backing out of my parking space, at four-fifteen.

With each mile marker I pass on north I-35, my gut clenches just a bit more. Annoyed with myself, I turn on my radio, hoping to get lost in the mechanics of the drive and the flow of the music and not feel anything.

It is so much better when I don't feel anything, I tell myself.

By the time I pull into the parking lot in front of the small but tidy one-story brick building that serves as Brielle Cerver's office, I have almost convinced myself that's true.

Taking a deep breath to steel my nerves, I park my truck, then exit, walking slowly toward the front door. A small sign displayed in neat script reveals Brielle's office hours, and I note that weekends are by appointment only.

Although I am ten minutes early, the door opens easily when I tug gently on its wrought-iron handle. I step inside and notice a woman seated at the reception desk ahead.

"Mr. Jones?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's me."

"Good morning. Miss Cerver's on her way, she should be here any time now. Can I interest you in some coffee?"

"No thanks, I've had some."

"Very well, let me know if you need anything. I'm Rita."

I glance around, then walk toward the overstuffed armchair that affords a view out of the front window. I settle into the comfortable seat, wondering if the intense bout of nerves that just hit me are evident. I risk looking back toward Rita's desk, but she is typing away merrily on her keyboard.

I barely contain a sigh of discomfort as I wait and bolster my determination to remain aloof all day.

I can do this, I tell myself. I can keep it strictly professional.

The sound of a car door closing catches my attention, and I look to my right and out the window and watch Brielle Cerver walking toward the building.

Brielle's richly dark brown hair reveals gorgeous deep auburn highlights in the morning sun. Between that, the form-fitting jeans she is wearing, and the sway of her hips as she moves, I can already tell that today will be a much bigger challenge than I thought.