Anne Winston - The Baby Consultant

“He’ll be with you in a moment.” The receptionist with the disgustingly gorgeous figure and the perfect teeth smiled sweetly at Frannie before closing the door of the office. It figured. She would have bet good green bucks that this man would hire help that looked like something out of a sports magazine’s annual swimsuit issue. It would have been easy to hate her if she hadn’t been so nice.

He was still talking on the telephone, one hand splayed across his hip in what looked like exasperation. “I said I’m sorry, Mona. I have a game that day or you know I’d love to take you.” His voice oozed smooth honey, but Frannie doubted that Mona would think he was so charming if she could see the way he was practically gritting his teeth. It was obvious he didn’t want to do whatever the woman at the other end was trying to rope him into.

Deliberately trying not to eavesdrop, she pulled her briefcase onto her lap and extracted the portfolio of her work she’d brought along. Flipping it open, she forgot about Jack Ferris and his famous charm. With a critical eye, she studied the photos of some of the wedding dresses she’d made. That cream satin one had such nice pearl work and embroidered detail on the bodice—she should have taken a shot from the front as well as the back. The ruffled Chantilly lace on the chapel-length train was gorgeous, if she did say so herself. And the Victorian...not her style, but it had looked lovely on the girl for whom she’d made it, with its leg-o’-mutton sleeves. The girl had pinned her hair up loosely and forsaken a veil for a stately plumed hat Frannie had suggested, which should have looked ridiculous but didn’t. And here was that darling silk sheath with a yoke of alençon lace. She’d enjoyed making that one. But perhaps she should have brought all traditional styles along. That was what most brides wanted, she’d discovered, and if she was considering placing some of them in a brochure—oh, bother. Wasn’t that why she was here? So this highly recommended ad agency could tell her what would be best?

As she shuffled through the photos again, the telephone’s small beep told her that the consultant was off the phone.

“Miss Brooks. I apologize for the delay. I’m Jack Ferris.” He advanced across the room with three long strides, hand outstretched and that intimate smile projected full blast at her.

It was impossible not to respond. She half rose to meet his outstretched hand—and then made a futile grab for the photos, which slipped and spilled all over the floor.

“Oh, dear.” She knelt to retrieve her photos. Jack Ferris did the same, and their knees bumped. Her head was inches from his chin, and she caught a whiff of clean male scent. Frannie quickly moved away. She felt as if the air grew syrup thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe this close to him.

In a moment everything had been gathered up and Frannie couldn’t avoid looking at him, on his knees on the carpet, face-to-face with her. Time froze as she met his gaze again. She didn’t know how he did it, but he made her stomach positively quiver when he was so near.

But it wouldn’t do to let him see he affected her. She suspected he was used to women falling at his feet and she had no intention of encouraging him.

Summoning a wry smile, she extended her hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Ferris. Let’s try this again.”

“Please, call me Jack.” He took her hand, the warm strength in his surrounding her much smaller one, reminding her forcibly that she was female, soft and giving, and he was all hard, unyielding male power. He helped her to her feet, but didn’t release her hand. She couldn’t free herself without making an issue of it, so she nodded as he led her to the love seat and chairs arranged around a coffee table topped with glass in the corner next to the wide window. “Why don’t we talk over here? I’m not big on formality.”

He seated her on the love seat before taking a chair angled next to hers. “So. You need some advice on marketing your—” he consulted a note on the yellow pad in front of him “—your sewing business.”

“My bridal gown design business,” she corrected. “What I do is create handmade wedding gowns and help the brides select accessories to complement the dress. I also design dresses for other occasions, and once in a while I’m asked to restore someone’s grandmother’s gown that has been packed away in an attic for fifty years.”

“Sorry.” Jack Ferris looked amused. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I have the greatest respect for someone who wields a needle. I’m stitch impaired—can’t even sew on a button.”

She had to laugh at the description. “A lot of people tell me similar things. It’s really not hard to learn the basics.”

He smiled slowly. “My hands are too big. And I may have great reflexes, but my fine-motor skills are lousy. Anyway—” his eyes bored into her with that single-minded intensity again “—how can I help you?”

“I’m not sure.” When his eyebrows rose, she went on. “I only opened the shop last year. It’s gone well, even better than I expected in Westminster, and I’m considering a little modest advertising to introduce me to the Baltimore area on a larger scale. So far my advertising has been mostly word-of-mouth.”

“How did you get it off the ground when you opened?” He leaned forward, genuinely curious, and she remembered that marketing was what he did for a living.

“Well, I have this friend who’s...very good at getting her own way.” She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. “Once she decided to introduce me to a few people, I was busy instantly. Those people told other people, and—you know how that works.”

“It only works if you have a quality product,” he said. “So you must be good. Where did you learn to sew—sorry, design.” His grin was unrepentant and cocky, as if he knew he would be forgiven.

“I studied at a school in Philadelphia for two years before coming back home.”

“You’re originally from the Westminster area?”

“Not exactly. I moved to Butler County at the same time I started the shop. My family lives in Taneytown, just up the road.” She took a deep breath. “The thing is, Mr.—Jack, I’m on a tight budget. I can’t afford a huge ad campaign.”

“I have clients with all kinds of different needs.” When he smiled at her this time, she was prepared. She doubted he was talking strictly about business, either, from the amusement gleaming in his eyes. But she wasn’t in the market for a playboy who flirted with every female in sight, no matter how attractive he was.

She didn’t smile in return. “I’m scheduled for displays at several local bridal shows next spring. I was thinking of some kind of brochure or flyer that people could take away with them.”

Jack nodded. “That’s a good first step for increasing your customer base. You’ve certainly got the right market.” Again, that smile that invited her to step into his world. “All those brides-to-be with money to burn and dresses to be drooled over.”

“Most brides-to-be are very budget conscious.” The harder he tried to get her to relax, the more tense she became. She’d run into men like him before. One, in particular, and now she knew why he made her feel so uptight. Oliver had been charming, too. Correction: Oliver had been good at using charm. Just like Jack Ferris.

Jack’s eyes had grown thoughtful and faraway as he pulled up a yellow legal pad and began to take notes. “That’s a good place to start. With affordability.” He paused, and he was back in the present with her. “Are your gowns affordable?”

She nodded. “For handmade items, my prices are reasonable. I’ve compared them to a few others.”