That was the real motivation behind Sunny’s agreement to help Brett: peace of mind. A little normalcy.
Living with an English lord might not be normal, but it was guaranteed to be proper and quiet and staid.
She’d settle for that. Gratefully.
In spite of the cool fall weather, Brett had shed his suit coat and strode into the coffee shop rolling up the sleeves of his tailored white dress shirt. Tall and darkly tanned, he was good-looking, Sunny grudgingly admitted. The kind of man who turned heads in his wake.
Brett’s gait was confident, athletic. His long arms swung loosely at his sides, and his wide shoulders and lean belly did great things for his business attire. She could imagine him in dungarees and a cotton knit sweater, too, his sinewy arms working the ropes of a sailboat. Heck, if his family was some kind of royalty they probably had a yacht. Maybe he just stood at the helm of it, like a hood ornament—or whatever they called it on a boat—with his hands folded behind his back, looking regal and important.
It fit, all of it.
His hair, the color of sun-drenched sand, was full-bodied, and so textured it actually reminded Sunny of ripples on the beach. His eyes, aquamarine-blue, were darkly fringed and deep set—as if made for staring out across an endless ocean.
Yet it was his accent that had caught Sunny’s attention all those months ago. Charming and bold, it added a musical, almost lyrical, quality to his deep, rich voice. The way he smiled when he talked made his mouth move sensuously, as if it had a will of its own.
All the women at Wintersoft rolled their eyes and fanned themselves in mock palpitations every time he walked by—and usually he’d toss off a teasing comment or a taunt. He was every bit the playboy who knew how to make feminine hearts flutter. Yet whenever Sunny stood next to him in the elevator, he barely nodded at her, or offered up some innocuous comment about the weather.
Their few encounters had left her feeling as dull and ordinary as the elevator music.
How, she asked herself, was she going to manage living with him? The Greek god of the English aristocracy.
He’d already predicted that his parents wouldn’t like her.
Heaven help her, what had she gotten herself into?
“Sunny,” Brett acknowledged, slipping into the seat across from her. He leaned so close she got a whiff of his aftershave, a tangy scent of saltwater and surf, heat and sand. “Sorry I’m late, luv. Lloyd wanted those contracts, and Carmella had papers for me to sign.”
“You know,” Sunny said wryly, “Lloyd’s daughter is the one you should be dangling in front of your family like a girlfriend.”
“Emily?” He looked surprised. “But she’s the boss’s daughter. Of course, she is rich. I suppose my parents would like that.”
“Well, I’m not rich,” Sunny informed him. “And it doesn’t look like I’m going to be. So please expect your parents to be highly disappointed.”
He chuckled as if she had said something extraordinarily funny. “Money isn’t everything,” he said. “They’ll appreciate your sensible qualities and your nice personality.”
Sunny bit down hard on the inside of her lip. “That,” she said, “is what people say about women they are trying to pawn off on a blind date.” Her voice drifted into a falsetto as she repeated the age-old line: “‘You’ll like her, she has a real nice personality.”’
Brett’s irresistible grin widened. “And cheery sense of humor,” he added.
“I have a common sense of humor,” she stressed. “Think common. As in commoner.”
He waved it off, unaffected. “It doesn’t matter, Sunny. Really. In spite of our differences, I have to believe my parents will come around. At least enough to let me out of this trap they insist on calling marriage.”
Sunny stared at him, realizing he had no idea how great their differences were. “I would have thought,” she said slowly, “that since you know so many of the women at the office, you might have asked one of them instead.”
“I…” He looked confused and lifted a shoulder. “I don’t really know any of them well.”
“But I’ve often seen you talking to all sorts of women.” Flirting, she wanted to say.
“Office demeanor,” he dismissed. “You know how some people like to carry on.”
Sunny was debating whether he was serious or not when the waitress, named Hazel, according to the plastic name tag pinned to her plump chest, stopped at their table. “Coffee?” she asked, simultaneously pulling a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad out of her apron pocket, “or something special?”
“Cappuccino,” Sunny said.
“A pot of tea, please,” Brett ordered. “With sugar and lemon.”
The waitress slid him a disbelieving look. “You into that antioxidant stuff, sonny?”
Brett’s lips twitched. “No, luv. That old English stuff,” he answered, pumping up his accent and giving her a broad wink.
The waitress snorted. “Cute,” she grumbled, jamming the pad into her pocket. “Everybody’s got to be a comedian. And they all think I got the time for it.”
As Hazel hurried away, Brett and Sunny looked at each other.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I don’t think she believed me,” Brett confided, his voice lowered.
Sunny felt the beginnings of a smile curve her lips. “Apparently not.”
“She probably wouldn’t have believed me if I professed to be an English lord, either.”
“Probably not.”
“That is a bit difficult, here in America, you know.”
Given Brett’s self-deprecating demeanor, some of the tension that had Sunny in knots subsided. She’d arrived at the coffee shop convinced Brett would lay out a list of expectations for her. He’d give her the dos and don’ts, all the while making her conscious of the haves and have nots. Instead, he’d come into the coffee shop with an apology for being late and a smile. Maybe she’d never given him a chance in the first place.
Brett sat back and openly studied her. “I don’t know why we haven’t really talked before,” he said thoughtfully.
“I imagine because we’re supposed to be working.” She shrugged, knowing that wasn’t the reason at all. He’d probably dismissed her as an underling. “You’re busy. I’m busy.”
“Mmm. Well, no matter. But I did want to talk to you about this—” Brett quickly glanced around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard “—lord and lady thing. So it’s probably good this came up as it did with the waitress. I would appreciate it if you would keep it in the strictest confidence. No one at the office knows.”
“But why?” Sunny lifted both shoulders. “I’d think you’d want to have that little prefix in front of your name. It must come with its own set of perks.”
“And responsibilities,” he said dryly. “No, I’d much prefer to just be me.”
Sunny didn’t believe him. Not for a moment. Here was a man who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d probably grown up in a castle, or on an estate that had been handed down through the generations. He’d most likely gone to private schools and worn jodhpurs instead of jeans when he went riding. “That can’t be easy, Brett. Adjusting to life without your title?”
“What isn’t easy is being different. Or being treated differently.”
Brett, Sunny realized, apparently didn’t have any idea how difficult being “different”