Читать книгу Her Frog Prince - Shirley Jump - Страница 10

Brad Smith wasn’t a fisherman, but he was one of the few men Merry figured could stand toe-to-toe with Parris and win. She closed her magical cell phone, blessing the powers that allowed her to keep tabs on her matchmaking efforts from afar, and settled back in the deck chair.

Getting Parris a happy ending wasn’t an impossible task. But it wasn’t going to be an easy one, either. Still, she’d done quite well with Jackie and Steven, and Ruthie and Diego, who would be celebrating their marriage soon. Maybe this wasn’t out of her reach.

And maybe Miss Prissy Parris could learn a lesson or two about life, love and acceptance out of the whole thing. A real happy ending.

Yes, Bradford Smith and Parris Hammond. It could work. Right?

Brad stepped out of the shower and swiped the steam off the mirror. He stared at the reflection before him and realized a hard, sad truth. Parris Hammond had a point. One he’d done a good job of ignoring until she’d gone and brought it up.

There wasn’t a hell of a lot of difference between Brad the sea-roughened marine biologist and Brad the cleaned-up version. He still looked like something that had washed up at low tide with the kelp and dead crabs.

Aw, hell. The meeting with the research foundation was only ten days away. His research was good and solid, the specimens he’d collected well preserved, but the biologist…well, Brad had to admit he’d gotten a little rough around the edges lately.

He rubbed his beard. Okay, a lot. Jeez, no wonder Parris Hammond had recoiled from him like a third-grader from brussels sprouts.

Problem was, Brad wasn’t the kind of guy who cared a hell of a lot about appearances. His own or other people’s. Hell, he worked with squid all day. That alone was a clue to his regard for the company he kept. If there was an uglier animal on the planet, he’d yet to see it. But it had been enough to garner a comment from Parris, so maybe it was time he did something about himself.

He left the bathroom of the studio apartment connected to his research offices and went into the main lab. Jerry, his assistant, and the only one he could still afford to pay now that his first grant had just about run out, sat at the counter, making notations in the log.

“Jerry, tell me the truth. You think I need a little help in the, ah, appearance department?” Brad asked.

Jerry looked up from his work, cast a quick glance at Brad’s T-shirt and khakis and shrugged. “The squid don’t care what you look like and neither do I. Or are you asking me for some other reason?”

“Yeah. That research foundation thing. If I go in there, looking like this, I doubt they’ll take me seriously.”

The fish didn’t care if he showed up in a tux and tails or a duck costume when he went out to do his research. But if he went into the meeting with The National Aquatic Research Foundation looking like something Jacques Cousteau had dragged out of the depths, he had zero chance of getting that grant and continuing his funding. If there was anything a committee liked, it was a good-looking scientist they could parade in front of the media. That and someone who sounded like they were professional, on the ball—and ahead of the research curve.

“Well,” Jerry said, running a hand through his red hair. “You could use a new look.”

“What do you suggest? I chuck my wardrobe and go shopping for some black silk pants and bow ties?”

“Uh, I dunno. I’m not exactly the one to ask.” Jerry patted the front of his Real Men Belch T-shirt.

“I see your point.”

“What about your mom? Isn’t that the kind of thing moms live for? To dress up their kids like their own personal Barbie dolls?”

Brad got to his feet and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. After sitting there in a hot pot all day, the liquid had metamorphosed into something dark as night and almost unrecognizable as java. “Calling my mother is not a good idea.”

“That’s right. She’s not exactly the president of your squid fan club, is she?”

Asking his mother for advice would be inviting her opinion, something Brad had learned long ago wasn’t in his best interests. “Right now, my mother is all wrapped up in the charity auction at La Torchere. She’s raising funds for the aquarium she wants to build.”

“Well, that’s support for what you do, isn’t it?”

“Building cages for sea life instead of supporting the study of them in the wild? No, I wouldn’t call it support.” Brad took a long gulp of coffee, ignoring the bitter taste. “All she wants me to do is serve on the Board of Directors. She doesn’t want me actually getting my hands dirty.”

Jerry put on a bright face, clearly seeing Brad’s mother was a sore point to be dropped. “Then what you need, my friend, is a girl. Preferably one with style.” Jerry tapped his chin with a pen. “Do we know any of those? Not Lucy. She does that thing with eating her hair. Mary’s okay, but I’m not sure she can see with those glasses. And Kitty is always wearing those red socks with purple shorts. Even I know your socks shouldn’t be brighter than your shorts.” Jerry put up a finger. “Wait a minute. There’s Susan. She’s gorgeous, well acquainted with whatever it is they talk about in those fashion magazines, and—”

“My ex-fiancé.”

“I forgot that detail. Guess you don’t want to call her for help?”

“I believe she’s on her honeymoon right now. With husband number two.”

“Oh. Yeah. Timing might be bad.” Jerry sighed. “Well, that’s the end of my list of people who know how to mix and match.” He spun a formaldehyde-filled jar of preserved squid on the counter. “I don’t think these guys are going to be any help. You’re on your own, buddy.”

“I know a woman,” Brad said finally. “And she wears that designer stuff you see in the magazines.”

“Jackpot! Where’d you meet her?”

“She, ah, sort of climbed into my boat when I was out there today.”

Jerry looked at him askance. “Uh-huh. A beautiful woman just happened to climb out of the sea and into your boat. Like a mermaid. Next you’ll be telling me they’re running unicorns at the horse track.”

“She fell off Lady’s Delight. You know, the boat for the resort? I was there, so I picked her up.”

“Was she cute?”

“I wouldn’t call her cute, but rather…” He thought a minute. “Sassy.”

Jerry grinned. “Sounds interesting.”

“She was. In a way.”

“So, you gonna call her?”

Brad rubbed at his chin again. The shoe Parris had left in his boat sat on the back counter, like the proverbial glass slipper waiting to be fitted on the right foot. “Yeah. Maybe make a personal visit.”

Jerry grabbed a research journal, flipped to a blank page and took up a pencil. “Wait, let me make a note of this.” He scribbled the date at the top, then the time.

“What are you doing?”

“A minor miracle is happening in front of my eyes, I thought I’d document it for posterity.”

“Minor miracle?”

“Workaholic Brad is calling a woman for a date. Hey, you might actually have something besides squid on your mind for once.”

“I am not calling her for a date. More a—” he glanced again at the pink sandal “—consultation.”

Jerry tossed the journal and pencil to the side, then sat back down on the stool. “You spoil all my fun. How’s a guy going to live vicariously if you don’t live at all?”

Parris took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her hair, stopping outside The Banyan Room to look in the mirror and check for the twentieth time that no seaweed or trace of her ocean adventure remained. Everything was as it should be. After a quick shower and change of clothes, She looked capable. Smart. Like she could handle this.

In other words, like a fairy tale. Truth was, Parris wasn’t sure she could handle this. But she wanted to. Wanted to prove she could.

When her younger sister Jackie had left her in charge of planning and hosting this huge charity auction worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to go off to marry Steven, Parris had, at first, felt angry and put upon. Then, as the days passed, she’d begun to feel energized by the challenge. As a woman who’d never taken the opportunity to be anything more than a society princess, this was new ground.

Exciting ground. And yet, at the same time, terrifying territory because her footing was unsure. The auction was the first big event for Hammond Events and Consulting, the company their father had given them as a sort of test and as his convoluted way of bringing his two daughters together.

With Jackie living among the cow patties and horseflies in connubial bliss at Steven’s Florida ranch while Parris did all the auction work, togetherness wasn’t happening. And with all the donor problems they’d had in recent weeks, Parris wasn’t so sure the auction was happening, either. She wanted this to work out, more now than ever. In the past few weeks, she’d seen the opportunity the auction presented to make something of her life. Of herself.

Toward that goal, she had to convince the Phipps-Stovers to make a donation. She squared her shoulders, flicked a piece of lint off her suit and took in a breath.

Merry Montrose, the resort’s manager, came up to her before Parris could enter the restaurant. “How are you, Miss Hammond? I heard about your awful accident.”

Parris bit back the momentary thought that Merry had somehow been the one doing the tripping this afternoon. “I’m fine. Just surprised no one heard me fall in or turned around when I started screaming.”

“Oh, you know how those excursion boats are. So noisy. And at my age, the hearing’s not so good.”

Merry leaned closer, her blue-violet eyes zeroing in on Parris’s. When she was younger, she must have been gorgeous, Parris decided.

“I heard you were rescued.”

“There was a man in a boat who fished me out.”

“A true knight in shining armor?”

“I wouldn’t call him that.” She didn’t know what she’d call Brad Smith, but “knight” wasn’t the word that came to mind. “I don’t believe in those kinds of things anyway.”

“What kinds of things?”

Oh God. The woman was going to stand here all day and delay Parris from her meeting. But because the auction was being held at the resort, Parris couldn’t afford to offend the manager.

“Fairy tales,” Parris said curtly, trying her best to end the conversation. “All the Brothers Grimm did was warp a lot of impressionable young minds.”

“Do I detect some bitterness?”

Nosy old woman. Parris didn’t answer. She wasn’t about to get into a conversation about her personal life with the resort manager. Lately the woman had seemed to be quite the busybody, as if she had some kind of personal stake in Parris’s life. Maybe she fancied herself a matchmaker. Parris didn’t need help from her to find Mr. Right. She didn’t even have time for Mr. Right. She had a career to build, not a relationship to find.

Merry had turned and was looking through the oval glass in the doors that led into The Banyan Room. “There’s a happy ending in there.”

Parris peered through the glass, too. Inside, the Phipps-Stovers were sitting at a table for four by the fireplace, sipping champagne and eating the strawberry-topped cheesecake Parris had arranged as a special treat. Brian Phipps-Stover fed his wife a bit of cheesecake. Joyce giggled as she slipped the bite into her mouth.

God save Parris from newlyweds.

Didn’t they know what was going to happen three weeks, three months, three years—maybe even three hours—from now? The little charade of happiness would stop and everyone would show their true ugly colors, turning happily-ever-after into a-nightmare-a-day.

Parris had watched her parents’ marriage self-destruct. She’d seen her own fall apart before she’d even come within fifty feet of the altar. Happy endings were a con perpetrated by couples who pretended to live in harmony while they tucked the fights over bills and in-laws out of sight when company arrived.

“Everyone can have a happy ending,” Merry said, as if reading Parris’s mind.

“All I want is a happy auction.” Parris excused herself, then pushed on the doors and entered the up-scale restaurant. She glanced at her watch. Only three minutes late. If she hadn’t had that conversation with Merry, she would have been on time.

Parris pasted on a smile and crossed to the Phipps-Stovers, trying to stomach the endearments of “pookie” and “truffle lips” that echoed between them as they finished off the last of the cheesecake.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps-Stover. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” Parris said, extending her hand. “I’m Parris Hammond, co-owner of Hammond Events and Consulting. I believe you’ve already talked with my sister Jackie.”

Both Phipps-Stovers rose and greeted her in turn. “Is that Miss Hammond or Mrs.?” Joyce asked.

“Miss. I’m afraid I haven’t been as lucky as you.” Parris put a broader smile on her face as all three of them sat down. “I’ve yet to find a man who suits my taste.”

“Luck hasn’t much to do with marriage,” Brian said, spearing a strawberry with his dessert fork. “I’ve had better luck in Vegas.”

Joyce pursed her lips and cast him a sour look but didn’t say anything.

“First, I wanted to thank you for your support of the Victoria Catherine Smith Memorial Aquarium Fund,” Parris said. “It’s a wonderful cause and your donation will enable us to showcase the wonderful marine life in this area for everyone to see.”

“I like fish. They entertain me.” Brian shrugged, popped the strawberry in his mouth, then took a sip from the flute of champagne.

“Darling, you sip the champagne, then bite the strawberry,” Joyce said. “That provides the maximum epicurean effect.”

“If I do that, pookie, I get seeds stuck in my teeth. I eat the berry first and then wash it down with champagne.”

Joyce’s smile strained against her cheeks. “Really darling, people will think you’re uncouth if you do that.”

Brian’s gaze narrowed. He put down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “People? Or just you?”

Uh-oh. The bloom was already off the Phipps-Stover rose. Their union more resembled a bunch of thorns covered with a few lingering petals.

“Let’s discuss what you’re donating to the auction,” Parris said, interjecting a change of subject before the strawberries became the beginning of a food fight.

The Phipps-Stovers recovered their manners from somewhere off the floor and slipped back into proper society mode. Brian reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a checkbook. “If you’ll just give me a pen—”

“Oh no, darling.” Joyce laughed. “We aren’t writing a check. That’s so…impersonal. I thought we’d donate a piece of art.”

“What piece of art?”

“That painting in the parlor. The one over the fireplace.”

“My great-aunt painted that.”

“Darling, it’s just a bit risqué for our tastes, don’t you think? I mean, all those orchids and lilies. It’s…well, it doesn’t send the right message.”

“Are you trying to say my aunt’s painting is the equivalent of an HBO special?” He was half out of his seat.

Oh God. This wasn’t going well at all. Parris had no idea what to do. The only event planning she’d ever done was RSVPing to a party invitation. She had to save the situation. But how?

“Your aunt was institutionalized, dear. For her overabundance of men.” Joyce put on a tight smile and gritted her teeth. “Her paintings reflected her…needs, shall we say? And they certainly are the talk of the town. They’d fetch quite the price.”

“My great-aunt was a Stover. That makes her someone to be respected, not gossiped about.”

It looked like the Phipps-Stovers were about to come to blows. Parris wished for the hundredth time that Jackie was there to help her. But no, Jackie had to go off and get married. Granted, Jackie deserved a happy life, but still, couldn’t it have waited until after the auction was over?

“I’m sure we can work it—” Parris began.

Brian got to his feet. “I’m through with this. Forget the whole thing.”

“Please stay. I’m sure we can—”

Joyce rose as well. “I’m not staying, either. In fact, I’m not even staying on the island.”

“Good. There’ll be more room on the beach, considering all you do is take up sand and bake yourself to a crisp.”

Joyce let out an indignant gasp. “I do not!”

“Before you know it, you’ll look as old and wrinkled as that sculpture your grandmother dumped on us.”

Joyce put a hand over her gaping mouth. “I cannot believe you said that. That marble bust of Great-Grandfather Phipps is an heirloom. A piece of history.”

“It’s a piece of—”

“There’s an easy way to settle this,” said a male voice Parris had hoped she wouldn’t hear again.

She spun around and found Brad Smith standing a few feet away, a small bag in one hand. He was freshly showered and in a different T-shirt, but he still looked more like a California college student than a grown-up.

Both the Phipps-Stovers had stopped arguing, though. Either they were waiting with bated breath for Brad’s solution or they’d been stunned into silence by the appearance of a beach bum in The Banyan Room.

Brad dug into his pocket and tossed a quarter at them. Brian caught it in his right hand. “There’s your solution,” Brad said.

“Flip a coin?” Joyce looked horrified.

“It’s a true fifty-fifty chance. And the best way to end a battle between two people who both want to be right.”

“We’re not battling…exactly.” Joyce said.

“We’re newlyweds,” Brian added.

“That explains everything,” Brad said with a smile. “Try it. You don’t really want to fight, do you?”

Joyce looked at Brian. Brian looked at Joyce. Then he shrugged. “Why not? I’m a betting man.” He jiggled the coin in his hand. “Call it, babycakes.”

She pursed her lips, let out a sigh. “Heads.”

Brian tossed the quarter into the air, caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. Before revealing the coin’s position, he paused. “Whatever this is, we abide by it. I don’t want to fight with you anymore, honeybunny.”

“Oh, me either.” Joyce nodded.

Brian lifted his right palm. “You win.”

“No, we both win, sweetums.” Joyce grasped his arm and gave her husband a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.

And just like that, the storm between the Phipps-Stovers had passed. “We’ll donate the painting,” Brian said. “Someone else will surely love it as much as I do.”

“And then we’ll go shopping for something together. Something that’s just us,” Joyce said.

“Oh, truffle lips, you’re so perfect.”

Happiness had been restored. Within a few minutes, the Phipps-Stovers had completed the paperwork for their donation and had left the restaurant, snuggled once again in newlywed bliss. Brad and Parris wandered out of The Banyan Room and onto the veranda.

“Now you owe me twice,” Brad said, smiling at her. “Actually, three times.” He handed her the bag.

When he smiled, his eyes lit up and something traveled between them, like a connection of energy. How could that be? She’d known the man, what, forty minutes, and spent most of that time dripping wet and mad as hell at him.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your glass slipper, Cinderella. You left it in my boat.”

She felt her face flush. For the briefest of seconds, she had felt like she was in a fairy tale. Who was she kidding? She was an heiress and he was a squid hunter. That was fairy-tale hell. “Thanks,” she said. “Again.”

“I want more than a little gratitude.”

“What…money? Are you some mercenary rescuer who goes looking for damsels in distress?”

He cocked his head, considering that for a minute. “If I could find a way to make it lucrative, I might. Make my time on the ocean a little more productive.”

“I’m not paying you for rescuing me.” She raised her chin. “It’s the deed of a good citizen. And you look like…”

“Like what?”

“Well, like you could be a good citizen.” The last thing she wanted to be was indebted to him. That meant spending time with Brad Smith. A man like him—who drove her crazy and sent her thoughts careening into wild, impossible corners—wasn’t what she needed right now.

“If I cleaned up a bit. Put on a tie, you mean?”

“Well…” She glanced at his T-shirt. Plain, un-adorned, no beer-swilling logo or sea life on it. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“You said you’re available for personal consultations. And I want one.”

Oh no. No way. She knew what he meant. It wasn’t a “consultation” at all. He wanted some kind of sex thing, she was sure. No one hired her. She didn’t have any experience. “Is this some weird way of asking me out on a date? Because—”

“I want to hire you.”

“Hire me?” She blinked. “As in pay me money to help you with a project?”

“Yeah, is that so unusual? I mean, that is what you do in your business, right?”

“Oh yeah.” She let out a hiccup of a laugh. “All the time.” At least all the time in the past few weeks. Before that, the only thing she’d been good at was signing her name on charge-card receipts.

“Good. Then you can help me.”

“Help you with what?”

He patted his chest. “Become more of a tie guy.”

She didn’t believe him for a second. Most men were happy with the way they looked and had a heart attack if a woman changed the brand of athletic socks they wore. There was no way this guy was for real. He wanted something else. Something definitely not involving “consulting.”

Besides, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could afford her fee, whatever it might be, since this was her first real customer, other than organizing the auction for Victoria Smith. “And how were you planning on paying me?”

“I already paid in advance. With the rescue in the water and by helping that couple. I’m low on cash otherwise.”

Parris held the stack of auction papers close to her chest. There were a hundred details yet to take care of before the auction on Saturday, just four days away. With Jackie gone, she couldn’t afford to lose her focus, not for a second. If there was anything Brad Smith would surely make her do, it was lose her focus. Even if he was sincere about hiring her—which she couldn’t imagine he was since he didn’t need a tie to pull up squids—she didn’t have time for him. “I can’t right now. I’m too busy with the auction.”

“Let me guess. The auction to benefit the Victoria Catherine Smith Memorial Aquarium, right?”

“You’ve heard about it?”

“Often.” Brad scowled. Apparently he hadn’t heard anything good. Was her PR campaign that bad? “I can see why that might be more…demanding.”

“Yes, it is. So, you understand why I can’t take you on right now.” There. She had a valid excuse not to get involved with him, whether she owed him a favor or not. She’d write him an IOU and hope he’d forget about it.

He took a step forward, invading her space, forcing her to deal with him. “No, I don’t. But if you say you can’t, I intend to find a way around that.”

A soft breeze whispered through the veranda, lifting her hair. Resort guests came and went, drifting down to the beach or back up to their rooms for a nap.

“There is no way around that, Mr. Smith. If I say I’m busy, I am. My apologies.” She started flipping through the paperwork, hoping she looked too consumed to deal with him.