Kathryn Springer - Family Treasures

So that was the spin Caitlin had put on the situation. And it affirmed that his original suspicion had been right. For some inexplicable reason, she had let him off the hook.

When the door behind the reception area opened a few minutes later an elderly woman, dressed from head to toe in lavender, emerged and made a beeline for the exit. Muttering something about swatches and pumpkins.

She spotted Devon and pointed her finger at him. “Don’t let her push you around,” she muttered. “Everybody looks good in pink.”

Devon closed his eyes.

Tell me why I’m here, Lord?

When he opened them again, the first thing Devon saw was Caitlin. She swept into the room with the easy, unaffected grace of a ballet dancer. Clutching both of her shoes in one perfectly manicured hand while she tugged her hair free from a gold clip with the other.

Devon grinned.

She needed to change her logo. First impressions didn’t always last.

She had to be dreaming.

Or hallucinating.

Those were the only explanations Caitlin could come up with when she saw Devon Walsh in a casual slouch next to the coffee station, his lean frame and tousled dark hair a striking contrast against the ivory and apricot wallpaper.

Caitlin ignored the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart and let her professional instincts kick into gear.

With a practiced eye, her assessment began at the scuffed loafers on Devon’s feet and went from there. Jeans so faded they looked more white than blue. The loose, uneven hem of his black fisherman’s sweater proved he hadn’t followed the proper washing instructions on the label: Hand Wash, Dry Flat. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms still tanned a golden brown from the summer sun.

But somehow, dark-eyed, unshaven and slightly rumpled, Devon Walsh still managed to spark the strangest feeling that he was the type of man a woman would run to for protection, not away from.

And if that unwelcome thought hadn’t been enough to throw off Caitlin’s balance, the slow smile Devon aimed in her direction momentarily stripped away her ability to speak.

Because that was the moment Caitlin remembered her shoes. The shoes she’d taken off on her way down the hall. The shoes she now held in her hand.

She’d had enough moments of acute embarrassment early on in her life to know that the floor, no matter how much one wished it, never opened up and swallowed a person whole, saving one from complete and utter mortification.

One had to save oneself. And one saved oneself by appearing confident and self-assured no matter what the circumstances.

Caitlin lifted her chin and met his gaze without flinching, resisting the urge to smooth back the strands of hair that had flopped over one eye when she’d pulled out the hair clip. “Good afternoon, Mr. Walsh.”

Responding to her tone, Devon’s smile obediently subsided into a small but beguiling twitch at the corner of his lips. “Ms. McBride.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time—” Caitlin’s heart jumped in time with the unsettling thought that suddenly came to mind. Given Devon’s guarded reception the first time they’d met, she could think of only one thing that might compel him to pace the floor of IMAGEine’s reception area for nearly an hour.

Or one person.

Even though it was none of her business, Caitlin found herself asking anyway. “Is everything all right with Jennifer?”

Devon frowned. “Jenny’s fine.”

Caitlin decided the unexpected relief she felt was due to empathy—after all, she’d practically relived her own adolescence every time her eyes had met Jenny’s—and not due to any…maternal…instincts.

Caitlin was fairly certain she didn’t have any of those.

Other than the etiquette classes she taught twice a month, her exposure to children was limited. She left the nurturing to her two younger sisters, who seemed to have a special knack for it. Evie and Meghan drew children in as effortlessly as the tinkling bells on the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

There were times Caitlin listened to her peers raise concerns about when to marry and start a family, but she’d never been inclined to join in the conversation. She paid more attention to her wristwatch than her biological clock. And it was difficult to hear the ticking of that particular clock over the voices of her clients.

Successful businesses didn’t just happen. Someone had to make them happen. And in order to make them happen, a person had to be willing to make sacrifices. To keep her eyes trained on the goal and not get distracted by things that might take her off the goal…

The reminder brought Caitlin up short. She focused on a point just past Devon’s shoulder and deliberately kept her tone brisk and businesslike.

“Well, if you aren’t here about Jenny, Mr. Walsh, what can I do for you?”

Landing on her feet, Devon thought with admiration, was obviously something Caitlin McBride had perfected.

And it didn’t even require shoes.

How much energy did it take to keep the slight edge honed on that husky contralto? To keep her features as smooth and expressionless as a marble statue?

But Devon knew he’d glimpsed something…some flicker of indefinable emotion in her eyes when she’d asked about Jenny.

And it made him curious.

“The gift certificate. I…” Came to return it. That’s what Devon had planned to say. But for some reason, the words that came out of his mouth didn’t sound like that at all. In fact, they sounded more like “I have no clue what a style analysis is.”

That Devon even remembered the term shocked him.

Caitlin appeared a little shocked, too.

Somehow, it made Devon feel better.

She crossed her arms and eyed him like a boxer sizing up an opponent on the other side of the ring. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Walsh?”

Devon frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me.”

Don’t forget, you started this, Devon reminded himself with a sigh. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer.” Caitlin’s straight little nose pleated like an accordion, the only evidence of her opinion about his chosen career. “But what do you do for a…living?”

“That’s what I do.”

Caitlin’s eyebrows arched in doubt, giving Devon the impression that if his answers were earning points, his response had just plunged him into the negative digits.

“All right. And do you work out of your…” A delicate pause while she searched for the right word. “Home…or do you have an office?”

“My home.”

“Interests?”

Keeping his family together immediately came to mind. But Devon wasn’t about to open that door. Not even a crack.

“I do a little carpentry. Remodeling projects. Are you, ah, going somewhere with all this or did you forget the original question?”

Caitlin’s lips twitched but Devon wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide her irritation or subdue a smile.

“I didn’t forget the question. These are some of the things I ask all my clients during the initial assessment. You see, everyone has a unique style based on a number of different things. Personality. Profession. Lifestyle. Hobbies. Together these form the image we present to others. I help people project their true—”

Devon stopped listening.

That’s what it always came down to, he thought cynically. And it was all Ashleigh had cared about after her modeling career had taken off.

I can’t let people know that I grew up in this little hick town. I have to wear designer clothes—that’s what people expect. Devon, don’t wear those old blue jeans when we go out. You are so stubborn. Can’t you at least pretend to care that a photographer might be watching?