No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,15
loomed in the door that led from the garage into the house—Mr. Buttoned-down himself, in a beige suede sport coat, classic gray trousers, silk tie and handsewn loafers. Not exactly dressed to spend a day scraping pumpkins and playing touch football. She exhaled despondently. What had she expected? Actual cooperation?
With a twinge of anxiety, she realized his somewhat judgmental scrutiny was focused on her. When their eyes met, she grew flustered. She was clad in jeans and a heavy, red wool sweater. Suddenly, a surge of old insecurities rushed through her, for she’d been brought up in a home where jeans were considered low-class attire.
Her parents had contended that the wearing of jeans was tantamount to a mortal sin. While her folks had had private prep-school sensibilities, they could ill afford it. So she’d had to endure attending public school while adhering to her parents’ dress code.
Each time there’d been a casual party thrown by one of her classmates, and she was the only one to show up in ruffles and ribbons, she’d been humiliated. She still cringed at the memories. Too many times she’d been driven to tears, begging her parents to reconsider. But no. “First impressions, Jessica,” her mother had preached time and again. “Never, never allow your first impression to be less than the best! Jeans give the wrong sort of image for a Ritter. Image is everything!”
Well, maybe to her mother and father, jeans were for lower-class types, but to her, ribbons and ruffles had made her the object of childish ridicule, and utterly, abjectly lonely. Nowadays, she only “dressed for success” when Mr. Roxbury’s needs required such clothing. She was most comfortable in jeans, helping troubled kids—and most uncomfortable in suits, rubbing elbows with self-important specimens like Lucas Brand.
The man studying her from beneath lowered lids would have been her parents’ ideal son. However, he was far from her ideal!
The unease she always felt around him—an unease she feared to put a name to—had returned with a vengeance. No matter how much she wanted to dart off and lose herself in the confusion of laughing, scrambling volunteers, she did need to speak with him. It was part of her job. The kids would be arriving in less than an hour, and there was no putting it off. Her adrenaline level shot up to prepare her for conflict as Jess propelled herself in his direction.
He made her come all the way to him. Didn’t even move down the three steps to the garage level. Her unease swelled. It was clear that he didn’t plan to make her job easier by giving an inch. Trying to discipline her voice to maintain the facade of nonchalance, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Brand. I hope we’re not inconveniencing you too much.”
His rough-hewn features were arresting, even in disapproval. “Don’t think a thing about it, Mrs. Glen,” he said flatly. “My house and my staff—what’s left of it—are at your disposal.”
She heard the mockery, but chose to ignore it. “Thanks. As you see, we’ll be having the kids do most of the work here in the garage to spare your house.”
“I’m gratified.”
“And though we’re cooking the turkeys outside, we’ll need the kitchen—”
“Mrs. Glen,” he interrupted, making her lose her train of thought.
“Yes?” she asked, apprehensive and not sure why.
“Where’s Mr. Glen? Is he here?”
She flinched at the unexpected question. With watchful hesitation, she tried to formulate an answer. Nothing came. Nothing smart, or casual or flip. Only the plain truth, so she simply stated it. “I—he—we’re divorced.” Divorce wasn’t against the law, for heaven’s sake, so she didn’t know why the admission bothered her so. Or did she? She glanced at him with a sideways squint. His face registered nothing in particular, no great joy or disgust. She wanted to change the subject, so she asked, “Do you own any jeans?”
He lifted a brow. “Why?”
“Because you’ll ruin those clothes. Don’t you have any casual things?”
He pursed his lips, seeming to be in sober contemplation. “Whose idea was it?” he asked after a pause.
“About wearing jeans?”
“The divorce. Whose idea?”
Her cheeks blazed. “I hope you don’t take this badly,” she blurted, tasting bitter bile. “But that question was uncalled-for, and positively none of your business!”
He moved to lounge against the doorjamb, sizing her up with a one-sided grin. “How, exactly, would you have phrased it if you had wanted me to take it badly, Jess? I hope you don’t mind me calling you Jess.”
“To be frank,” she muttered, “I’d prefer it if