Riley belatedly realized she was staring at Quinn with God only knew what kind of glazed, starry-eyed expression plastered all over her blotchy and battered face. She might have sworn off men and wrapped herself in fiercely guarded independence, but that didn’t mean she was quite up for inviting them to stare at her in abject horror. Or worse, pity. “I—uh, no, that’s okay,” she managed, finally pulling herself together. “That won’t be necessary. Just a few scratches. Really. I can—I can take care of it. I’m ... really sorry.”
“
You’re
sorry?” His eyes truly were the definition of piercing.
“To give you a scare like that, I mean. I was just ...” She looked behind her at the Jog Master, which was still churning away. “Never mind. Not important.” She turned and casually bent down, trying not to overtly wince at the parts of her that rebelled at being bent at that moment ... and jerked the cord from the wall socket, using a wee bit more force than was actually required. Or perhaps a lot more force, as the plug snapped back and stung her ankle. Right in that tender, vulnerable spot that brought instant tears to the eyes. She dropped the cord like a live snake as she somehow managed to suck in every single one of the very unladylike, but totally appropriate-to-the-moment swear words, then forced herself to straighten, slowly, while giving herself a quick, silent talking-to. She could fall apart later, and swear to the heavens if she wanted to.
Right now, she had to salvage the few remaining bits of professionalism that hadn’t been shredded along with the foliage. Only then did she turn back to face him, trying for a sunny smile, though that was likely ruined by the way the stretching of her lacerated skin made her flinch. “So, you’re here for the open house?”
He was still frowning. The concerned, Good Studly Samaritan. It made her feel ridiculous and pathetic, though she was certain that wasn’t his intent. Not that he needed to try. She could feel ridiculous and pathetic with no help at all.
“I really think we should give those scratches some attention, and you might want to sit down. At least for a few minutes. Get your balance. Again, my apologies for startling you like that.” His frown eased into an abashed half smile that kept her pulse humming right along. “What in the world you must have thought, a strange man walking right into your home. I guess it’s good you recognized me. I can’t believe I got the number wrong. The island’s not that big—wait.” He paused, the half-smile turning back to a look of confusion. “Did you mean to say that this ...
is
the house that’s up for lease?”
For the briefest moment, Riley entertained the wild thought of pretending she was also there for the open house and had just made the unfortunate decision to give the Jog Master a try. But she ditched the plan almost as fast as she thought of it. Even if he bought the story, at some point, if he ended up leasing the place—which would be just her luck—he’d no doubt run into her around the island. Sugarberry was the smallest of the inhabited barrier islands and the only town on it was hardly big enough to be called a town. They couldn’t help running into each other.
He’d quickly find out she was hardly in any position to lease the newly renovated and exceedingly high-end beach bungalow. The houseboat she lived on might give the impression of a decent annual income, but it was a loaner, and while nice, not exactly yacht club material. Not that Sugarberry had a yacht club. The
Seaduced
was presently tied up on the south end of the island alongside a bunch of commercial fishing trawlers, as it was the only pier that could take her.
For that matter, Sugarberry didn’t have any other high-end beach bungalows. The old Turner place—bought at a bank auction by a pair of Atlanta investors looking to mine new Gold Coast development opportunities—was the first of its kind. And, if Sugarberry residents had anything to say about it—and they had plenty to say—the last.
Unlike Quinn Brannigan, who was exactly high-end, upscale bungalow, yacht club material.
“Yes, this is the one,” Riley answered him, making a grand gesture to the room around them. Anything to take his concerned gaze from her face. “It’s truly a gem. I’m so very sorry your first impression of the property was well ... you know. Hugely unprofessional of me. Not the hoped-for introduction, I’m afraid.” She deliberated a brief moment on asking him not to mention her little adventure to Scary Lois, but ditched that idea, too. Not a good idea to beg favors from the guy who’d just saved her life. Inadvertently, maybe, but still.
“You’re not Lois of the multi-hyphenated last names, are you?”
That earned a real smile and a wince before she could control it. “No. No, I’m not.”
Quinn gave her that ridiculously charming half smile again. “I didn’t think so.”
“You mean I don’t look like the Gold Coast’s most successful A-List Realtor?” she said dryly. “I’m stunned.”
His half smile grew to a full smile and if she’d had any doubt her heart had fully survived her Jog Master marathon, that fear proved unwarranted. It was pumping just fine, thank you very much.
“I’ve not had the privilege of meeting her as yet,” he said, a bit more of that honey-coated-biscuits-and-melted-butter tone flavoring his words. “But what communication we’ve had, well, let’s just say you seem far more ... approachable.”
“You mean less scary?” Riley looked down at herself and sighed. “I don’t know about that. I don’t want to see myself in a mirror anytime soon.”
“Come on. Let’s find the kitchen and get you cleaned up a little.”
A gentleman’s way of saying, yep, super-scary looking. Not that it would have made a difference either way.
“That’s okay, really. I’ll go take care of it. Why don’t you have a look around? Lois has all the literature with her, but once I’m cleaned up, I can give you a tour. I’m familiar with all the upgrades and should be able to answer most of your questions, at least as they pertain to the house itself.”
In actuality, Riley knew every last inch of the place, before renovations and after. She knew every gizmo and upgrade that had been installed, as well as what parts of the property had been preserved, and why. Not because she had personal knowledge of Sugarberry history—she’d only been living on the island for a little over a year. This was actually the first project she’d done on the island itself. She normally worked farther down the barrier island chain, where the money was. She’d simply made it her business to know everything there was to know about the Turner place, just as she did with all the projects she was hired for.
In many ways, staging an entire home or condo wasn’t any different than styling food for an elaborate magazine layout. She used to learn as much as she could about the cuisine being presented, including the history, the traditions, and, in many cases, preparing the dishes herself, or as close an approximation as she could, in order to come up with the most unique, authentically detailed settings possible. Knowing the history and setting of the property she was staging was as important as all the more glamorous, flashy details.
Not that every client, or even most clients, were interested in half of what she took the time to find out. They might not care, specifically, about the fact that the refinished, hand-carved sliding panel doors were original to the house, or that she’d purposely matched the colors of the pottery and doorstops throughout the house to the terra-cotta shingling on the roof, but she knew it was that attention to detail that ended up selling them on the place. It didn’t matter that they didn’t appreciate why they loved it, just that they loved it enough to write Lois a big fat check. And, in turn, Scary Lois kept signing hers.
“Why don’t you start with the ...” She’d been about to say the deck, pool, and gardens, but remembered the sunbathing Brutus.
Crap
. Normally she and her faithful companion were no longer on the premises when the actual event began. That she occasionally brought Brutus with her while staging various properties was also a teeny-tiny detail she’d neglected to tell Lois. This project had been so close to home, and she’d known he’d love lolling out on the deck. And, frankly, she enjoyed the company. Obviously not for protection purposes.
“Uh, bedrooms,” she improvised, careful to keep her gaze averted from the sliding French doors. “Just up the stairs from the foyer entry. You’ll love the master suite.” Too late, she remembered it had a second-story deck that looked right down on the first-story deck. “Though you might want to begin with the guest bedrooms along the front of the house. The, uh, lighting, right now ... they have the morning sun. Truly spectacular.”
If he sensed the slightly panicked edge in her tone, his affable expression didn’t show it. “And risk my dearly departed Grams coming back to chase after me with her wooden rolling pin for being anything less than the gentleman she raised my pa and me to be?” The easy grin returned. “No, ma’am. Especially considering I caused the calamity in the first place.” He gestured for her to lead the way to the kitchen. “Pretty sure she’s capable of it, too,” he added with a touch of dry reverence, as he followed her from the room.
Riley smiled, and didn’t mind the wincing so much. It was impossible not to be charmed by him. But she needed to get him poking around upstairs as swiftly as possible. Not that she had any place in particular she could quickly stash a dog the size of a subcompact car, but she was due for a little luck.
She entered the kitchen, and if Quinn was impressed by the newly installed, state-of-the-art appliances, the marble-topped center island, or the array of terra-cotta-toned Calphalon pots and pans hanging from the hand-hammered silver overhead rack, he didn’t mention it. Nor did he seem to even notice them. Of course, things like that were probably par for the course for his lifestyle.
He was opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, but she doubted he was taking inventory. “Not much to work with here,” he murmured.
“I’ve got it.” Riley stepped around the center island and walked over to the small breakfast nook table and the three-tier crystal cupcake display. She grabbed a few of the color-coordinated napkins that were artfully arranged next to the themed paper plates and plastic forks, then edged back around the center island to the twin stainless-steel sinks. “Really, you should take a look—”
“Here.” He came right up behind her just as she’d turned on the water and shoved a wadded-up napkin underneath the steady stream.
As in,
right
behind her. Deep in her personal space. Like she hadn’t just recently recovered her ability to breathe normally.
“Let me.” Quinn put one broad palm on her shoulder and turned her to face him, relieving her of the soggy party napkins with his other hand, which he used to carefully dab at the scratches on her cheek and her forehead. And her chin. And her neck.
How lovely that must look.
She couldn’t think about that. Unless she closed her eyes, there was nowhere else to look but directly into his, and though he was busy attending to her wounds and not really looking at her ... she couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him.
And, up close? He looked even better. Every laugh line, every crinkle, even with a tiny scar just above one temple ... he was truly and spectacularly gorgeous. So unfair. Even scratch-free, she wouldn’t hold up to the same up-close-and-personal perusal. For one, she had freckles. And not that faint little scatter you got from being out in the sun. No, she had real freckles. Thirty-one years old. With freckles. Not adorable at that age. Then there was the whole mouth situation. Hers was wide and full, just not in that sexy and mysterious Angelina Jolie kind of way. Instead of a vampy pout that did wonders for selling lipstick and lingerie, Riley’s was sort of perpetually curved in a big, goofy smile. At best, good for selling bubble gum.
She always looked like she was smiling, which shouldn’t be a bad thing. But just try being taken seriously in an editorial meeting full of men when no matter how much you tried on your stern, I-mean-business face, you always looked like a brainless bimbo. Dolly Parton looked fiercer than she did.
And don’t even get her started on being a natural blonde. With curls. Lots of them. Long or short didn’t matter. Her hair fell in big, happy, springy sproings no matter what. No one took that seriously, either. No matter how sleek a bun she’d torture her hair into, curls sprang out to frame her apple-cheeked, freckled face. Throw in the bombshell-sized boobs, with a back porch to match and ... yeah. Maybe slim, perfectly coiffed ice princess blondes got respect, but she couldn’t pull off even a hint of that kind of frost. Smiley, sproingy, and stacked never added up to frost. No matter how you did the math. And that had been before factoring in a year’s worth of Cupcake Club get-togethers.
“There,” he said, with a final dab.
“Thanks.” She felt herself flush as his eyes finally met hers.
The corners of his eyes crinkled ever-so-fabulously as he smiled. “Least I could do.”
“Right.” She heard the breathy note in her voice. She needed to get out of his personal space, pronto, or get him out of hers, before she made an even bigger fool of herself. If that were possible. “I mean, no worries. It was just one of those things. Could have happened to anyone.” She took a step back, banged her hip into the counter, then turned with the intent of putting herself anywhere but in proximity to him and caught the edge of the refrigerator handle where it jutted out just a bit farther than the cabinets and counters. “Oooh, ouch!”