My head snaps sideways and Michael’s just standing there beside a wardrobe trailer. Hands shoved in both pockets, he gives me that eccentric, dimpled grin that’s already vying to become a part of me.
“Hi!” I hug the folder full of meeting notes against my chest, and the very first thing I notice is my name. On his shirt, emblazoned across the front: O’Neill. So, why would he suddenly be wearing a shirt with my name on it; I can’t quite figure that out, and a Ben wannabe wanders into my mental vision for a half-second.
“Are you all right, Rebecca?” The question has me pulling focus back on Michael.
I point toward his shirt, feeling a little accusatory—and stupid for that fact. But Ben’s shadow falls over lots of parts of my life. “Your shirt.” I point a little harder, making a jabbing gesture. “It says O’Neill.”
He gazes downward in confusion, the confident smile slipping a little. “Oh, yeah, like—” He points from the shirt to me, drawing the connection I’d intended.
“Like Rebecca O’Neill,” I finish for him, smiling again. Michael isn’t Ben and he definitely isn’t a stalker.
“Or… like surfer gear. Wet suits and all that.” He rubs a palm over his spiky hair with a boyish grin.
“Ohhh,” I say. Geez, am I a nitwit? How could I forget the O’Neill brand? “I didn’t know you were into surfing.”
The smile fades now, and he hesitates before answering. “Alex was a lifelong surfer boy. I just gave it my best shot on his account.”
“So you don’t surf anymore?” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “I’ve always thought it would be cool, but haven’t ever tried it.”
“I could teach you sometime.” His eyes brighten again, ever so slightly.
“You really think I could surf?” I scrunch my nose up in curious disbelief. “I’m not too… small? I wouldn’t want to wash away or anything.”
“Nah, Andrea even surfs some. In some ways it helps to be compact,” he says, that southern Virginia drawl popping right on out.
“I’ve always wished I weren’t so small,” I admit, brushing at my hair nervously. A strand catches on my thumb ring, and I have to give an extra tug that makes me wince.
“You aren’t small.” He steps a little closer until he’s invading my physical zone. My face warms at the intimacy as he leans low and whispers, “No, Rebecca. You’re delicate. Really feminine. And that’s a good thing.”
The warmth shoots from my face down into my neck. Up into my scalp. I’m burning at his simple compliment. How does he always manage to make me feel so beautiful?
“And that Armani suit.” His voice grows even softer, his gaze traveling the length of me appreciatively. “Looks absolutely amazing on you.”
“I’m impressed.” I fan myself with my folder, trying to get a little breeze going. I’m burning up, and my Irish cheeks have surely stained deep red, like a warning flag on a surfer’s beach.
“Impressed…?”
“Oh, just that you’ve gotta love a guy who knows his designer labels, that’s all.”
He stares down at his weathered work boots. “Hey, don’t forget. I spent twelve years as a doctor’s wife.” Then the beautiful eyes track upward and lock with mine, and there’s humor there. Even he realizes the irony of his remark, with him all decked out in his tool belt and boots. “It’s tough duty being a doctor’s wife, too. Having good fashion sense is part of the job.”
“I can see that.” I eye his faded surfer shirt and denim blue jeans pointedly.
“Didn’t say I had to use it, now.” That smoky-voiced southern accent traipses up my backbone, and desire chases right along with it. “Just possess it.”
“Maybe I should take you shopping with me someday. You know, for a consultation.”
“Happy to oblige you any time.”
We fall silent, me scuffing the sole of my new Prada shoe against the asphalt, Michael glancing around. I clear my throat, wishing one of us could come up with something to say. Then all at once, like two shy people thunking foreheads together in an awkward moment, we start talking at the same time.
As if on cue, a golf cart bearing some “suit” talking on his cell phone speeds at us, and we part like Cecil B. DeMille’s Red Sea.
“You go,” I say once the cart has buzzed by. “Tell me what you were going to say.”
“No, you go on.” Just my luck, he’s chivalrous to the core.
“Lunch? I mean, it’s Monday and I like to go out to a nice lunch on Mondays, not do the pitch thing. Still, my job, you know…I need to get out and be seen. Circulate, all that. Which, of course, might not be something you’d like to do—”
“What time?”
“Today?”