Merger to Marriage (Boardrooms and Billi - By Addison Fox Page 0,18
the possibility of prying eyes or interruptions. “There’s a small diner on the main drag in town. We passed it on the way in yesterday.”
“Good. I’ll meet you back down in the lobby in an hour.”
…
Holt parked his two-seater in front of a quaint restaurant he’d seen on his drive in. The early morning hour ensured the crowds were minimal and parking readily available. The heavy smell of the ocean floated on the breeze, and he was captivated by the way it blew the dark strands of hair around Mayson’s face. After a swift mental shake to pull him out of his reverie, Holt crossed around the car and snagged her door just as she had it open, one long leg planted on the asphalt.
Damn, but she was gorgeous.
The thought hit him hard, with a heavy clutch in the belly. He was captivated by her. And while the outer package was beautiful, it was the woman inside he kept snagging glimpses of that had his fascination growing deeper.
A bright smile filled her face as she looked up and down the street. “I can feel the ocean, even if I can’t see it. It sort of surrounds you here.”
“We’ll go look at it after breakfast. I’m starved and in desperate need of coffee.”
That smile stayed firmly in place as she offered him a jaunty little salute. “Excellent idea, Captain.”
Within moments, they were seated in a booth, the vivid smells of toast, muffins and coffee replacing the lingering scent of saltwater. A young girl stopped by their table, a full pot of coffee in hand. “What can I get you?”
Mayson handed over her menu, her eyes bright and her smile warm and open. “Spinach and cheese omelet, a side of corned beef hash, and a croissant. And orange juice.”
“I’ll have the same, with bacon instead of the corned beef.”
Their waitress departed, and Mayson assessed him over her mug. “You’re not a corned beef fan?”
“Only on St. Patrick’s Day, and even then, I prefer mine in a sandwich.”
“Some think it’s an acquired taste for breakfast.” She let out a small laugh. “It was one of my grandfather’s favorites. On the rare occasion my grandmother allowed him to indulge.”
“A treat’s a treat, no matter the age.”
“That’s what he always said.”
“You have good memories of him?”
“The best. He was absolutely everything a grandfather should be. Warm and caring, and he spoiled my sisters and I rotten. And he believed in who we were and always looked at us as if we were perfect.”
“You mean, the formidable McBride sisters aren’t perfect?”
“Hardly. But it was nice that both my grandparents never seemed to notice.”
“I think it’s part of the job description.”
The image Holt had in his mind’s eye—a vague memory of seeing an interview with her grandfather late in his life—wasn’t one of a doting grandfather, but more of a cunning business man. Her warm memories and soft smile only proved a fact he’d long knew—the image one person generally held of another was forged in the circumstances of the relationship.
“So what about you? You had to be the apple of a doting grandmother’s eye. Or a doting mama excited about your accomplishments.”
The reality couldn’t be any farther from the truth, but Holt wasn’t about to tell her that. Instead, he offered up the same polite platitudes he’d uttered on the rare occasion a business reporter probed into his private life. “I lost my family pretty young, so my memories are limited.”
He uttered those words many times throughout his adult life and had never felt a moment of remorse at the implication in his words. His loss of family had been through choice, not death, but most simply took the comment at face value. So why did he feel a distinct layer of guilt now? Before he could dwell on it, Mayson reached out and closed a hand over his. An unexpected jolt at the contact coursed up his arm, but in lieu of the sympathy, he only saw understanding.
The strangest urge to tell her about his mother gripped him, but years of keeping up pretenses prevented him from saying anything. Then the moment was broken by the arrival of their waitress bearing breakfast, but he felt the subtle squeeze of Mayson’s fingers over his before she removed her hand. And as she reached for the orange juice the waitress set down with her meal, Mayson deftly moved the subject to less choppy waters. “So how’d you end up in real estate?”
“I’m not sure it was a