My Dad's Best Friend (A Touch of Taboo #3) - Katee Robert Page 0,3

and… Yeah, I’m not going to think about that too hard. I hastily yank the shirt over my head and try to dry my hair a little more with the towel.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks nothing like the confident business owner that I wanted to project when I arrived. My hair is wet, I’m wearing Jonas’s shirt and it somehow makes my legs look even longer, and there’s no denying the way my nipples press against the thin fabric.

Cold. It’s because I’m cold.

I cross my arms over my chest, but that just makes it worse because it pulls the fabric tighter against my body. That’s it, I’m going to ask him for shorts right now. Maybe a giant sweatshirt or something, too.

I jerk open the bathroom door and nearly run into Jonas. He catches my shoulders. “Whoa.”

The sight of him is so unexpected, it completely derails my thoughts. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house.” He still hasn’t let go of my shoulders. “And it’s been ten minutes. You were ogling the tile work, weren’t you?”

My face goes hot. “It’s very nice tile work.”

“Uh huh.” He seems to realize he’s still touching me and withdraws his hands. Jonas looks away and I get the strange feeling that he’s trying very hard not to look at me. “The tea’s ready.”

I follow him back downstairs, this situation starting to feel more and more unreal. I’m achingly aware of the fact that I’m naked under his shirt and really regretting the decision to leave my panties hanging to dry. Surely a little discomfort is worth the extra layer?

Back in the kitchen, Jonas pushes a mug in my direction. I lift it and inhale. It smells like chai and something else, and I cautiously take a sip. “Oh wow, this is really good.”

“A local lady makes it.” He leans against the counter across from me and lifts his mug in my direction. “Okay, out with it. What’s the pitch?”

I set the mug down. I can do this. I’ve gone over this a hundred times since the Hendersons first listed him as their dream architect. “I have a client that wants to work with you. It would be a similar deal to how you partnered with my father back when you were still within the company—you’ll have full design control, though the client gets ultimate veto power. I’ll source anything you need, hire the necessary people to get the job done, and oversee day-to-day work once construction starts. They already have the plot of land, and they’d like the house to work with it and disrupt as little of the natural geography as possible.” I glance over my shoulder at the front door. “I have the details in my car, if you—”

“No.”

I turn back to him. “What?”

“No. Which is what I’ve been saying since you first contacted me. I’ve been down that road before and I have no interest working on a residential house with people who have more money than sense.”

I lift my brows. “You got rich doing exactly that.”

“Yeah, and I don’t do it anymore.” He takes a drink of his tea. “Your father had a list of architects frothing at the mouth to work with him before he retired. Use one of them.”

I wish that I could. “The Hendersons don’t want one of them. They want you.”

“Too fucking bad.”

“Jonas, they’re dream clients. They’re so starstruck by the thought of you designing their home that they’ll take your input as the word of god. It won’t be like it was before.” Before when a series of tumultuous accounts drove him to break his business partnership with my father. Or at least that’s my father’s side of things. No matter what else is true, it didn’t affect their friendship any. “And it’s only one job. I’m not looking for a partner.”

“Sounds like you need one if you’re wasting this much energy chasing down someone who doesn’t want to be chased.”

The sentence stings more than it has right to. I can’t help holding it up against that night at the Christmas party. He didn’t want to be chased then, either. I swallow hard. I won’t beg. No matter what else is true, I have a tiny sliver of pride left and it’s the only thing getting me through the challenges of the last six months. I lift my chin. “Is that your final answer?”

“Yes.” He says it firmly, a little bite to the word. “I’m not doing it.”

I take a