Deb Kastner - The Heart of a Man

“It’s my life,” he complained, sounding as surly as a little boy. “What’s wrong with my flower store?”

“Nothing is wrong with your little shop. But have you ever thought about opening up a chain of stores? What about making a real name for yourself in the Denver social scene? Why not cater to a higher-level clientele, boost your own income?

“You spend as much time gallivanting around town, and who knows what else, as you do putting your strength and effort into your business.” Addison took an extended breath. “What you need is to go to the right parties and rub elbows with the right people. Build up relationships that mean something. Really make something important of yourself.”

Addison rubbed his palms together like sandpaper on wood. “I’ll help you. I have the connections, Dustin. But you can’t meet the right kind of people in jeans and a T-shirt.”

Dustin shook his head and grunted in disdain. “Relationships that mean something? Mean what, exactly? More money? More prestige? A nicer car? I’m never going to be like you, Addison. That’s not what I want out of life.”

“Perhaps not,” Addison agreed with a curt nod. “You and I have traveled different roads. Nevertheless, I do think Ms. Buckley can help you with this trust-fund issue, and I insist you meet with her.”

Dustin balked inside, but he didn’t let it show. He didn’t like being ordered around, especially by members of his family. “How long?”

“Six weeks. That shouldn’t be too much of a strain, even for you.” Addison began to pace, a sure sign he was losing his patience. Dustin knew his brother didn’t like this any better than he did.

And why should he? Dustin knew Addison wasn’t a bully at heart, childhood pranks notwithstanding. He was as pinched by their father’s will as anyone.

Better to wrap things up and let Addison get on his way. Back to work in his posh office, where he was more in his element.

“At the end of the six weeks, then, I get my inheritance money?”

Addison met his gaze straight on, staring as if trying to read his soul. Dustin let him look, knowing his own expression was unreadable. It was something he’d practiced.

“You know I’m taking a calculated risk here.” Addison cleared his throat and continued pacing back and forth in front of Dustin, his arms clasped behind his back. “And I expect a full return on my investment.”

“Meaning?”

“I want you to cooperate with Ms. Buckley fully. If she gives me a bad report, I will put your trust fund on hold and you won’t be able to touch it.”

Dustin opened his mouth to protest against these rules, but Addison held one hand up, palm out. He clearly didn’t want to be interrupted.

“If, however, you make a genuine effort toward your reform, the money is yours, with no limitations from me or anyone. I know that’s what you want. You just have to make an effort.”

He gave Dustin a genuine smile, but Dustin just winced at his brother’s stilted effort.

“This will work, Dustin, if you just give it half a chance.”

Dustin clenched his jaw tightly, still hardly believing his brother had set up such a scheme. Addison wasn’t married—he was as careful in dating as Dustin himself was. And for good reason.

Every woman in the world wanted to change a man; it was in their very nature to meddle that way. Every man alive knew that, and ran from it with his whole being until he inevitably got caught in some woman’s snare.

It was the extraordinary, seesaw-like balance between men and women that Dustin didn’t even try to comprehend, and generally attempted to steer away from.

That was at least partly the reason Dustin remained single at age thirty. His experience with relationships with the opposite sex had, frankly, made him more than a little world-wise when it came to women.

He liked being on his own, being his own man and answerable to no one but himself and God.

And for some strange woman to get paid for meddling in his private affairs, pushing her ideals on him—what kind of woman would take such a job?

This Isobel Buckley must be on a real power trip. He could only guess at what kinds of torture she would concoct for him.

Still, it was only six weeks.

What could happen in six weeks?

Isobel was more than a little anxious about meeting the man she’d heard so much about. With all she’d been told, she had absolutely no idea what to expect when she actually met the real person.

Dustin Fairfax.

She had thoughtfully recommended a public venue for their first meeting, knowing both of them would feel a bit more comfortable with other people around, especially at this first encounter.

She admitted being nervous herself, at least inwardly, which was silly, really. She did this for a living, after all.

But this was different. The nuances weren’t lost on her, and she was certain they weren’t lost on him, either. Dustin wasn’t coming to her for her expertise and help—or at least it was not his idea to do so—and she wasn’t even certain he was coming willingly.

Camille and Addison had made the arrangements, and here she sat, in a quiet deli on 16th Street, waiting for Dustin to show up.

If he actually materialized.

She still wasn’t convinced he was a willing guinea pig in this experiment, and that fact was something she meant to establish before this day was over. She wouldn’t blame him if he found somewhere else to be and didn’t make their meeting at all.

He was already twelve minutes late to their appointment, not that she was counting. She tried to distract herself by watching the people around her, the usual eclectic hodgepodge of faces and accents that made Denver so interesting. Coffee shops were the best for finding interesting people to view.

But no matter how hard she tried, her gaze kept straying back to the front door, her adrenaline rushing every time the bell indicated a new customer was entering or exiting.

She had purposefully taken a seat at a corner table where she could easily see the entrance. She wanted to have a moment to watch Dustin before they were formally introduced.

She wiped her palms against her conservative navy blue, calf-length-split rayon skirt, ostensibly to straighten it—for at least the tenth time. She straightened her back and adjusted her posture, an incidental habit she was hardly aware of but often performed.

Suddenly a man burst through the door like a Tasmanian devil, lifting his hat and scrubbing his hands through his thick black hair. He looked around, his eyes sweeping across the tables with a glazed, harried look.

He was obviously searching for someone, and he definitely fit the profile she’d been given for Mr. Fairfax—six feet tall, medium build, black hair, green eyes.

Isobel froze, not giving any indication she saw him at all. She lowered her eyes to the table and pinched her lips.

She was afraid this was how it would be.

Her first impression wasn’t good.

Dustin’s black hair, what she could see of it from under a backward-faced, navy newsboy cap, was long—nearly shoulder length—and thick and curly. She wondered if anyone had ever told him his hair-style had gone out in the eighties.

Way out.

The thought made her laugh, and she politely covered her mouth with her hand.

His big green eyes were friendly, though, and he was smiling. Those were immediate pluses, in her book. Not many people faced life with a grin these days. It was a rare blessing to see.

Polishing up the outside of a man would be a piece of cake for her, but how could she ever hope to turn some weirdo into a socialite?

Apparently, that was one worry she could cross off her list. Kindness showed in every line of his face. Somehow, after seeing him in person, she felt in her heart she could work with him.

His clothes were another matter.

He was attired in faded, holey blue jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that had seen better days. She couldn’t even decipher the writing on the front. And his old tennis shoes—once white, as far as she could guess, but now a scuffed gray—were abominable.

She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. Part of her screamed to duck under the table, however ungracefully, and hide from the man. Back out of the plan. Get away from it all.

But then she remembered her purpose here, and with this thought came resolution. This was a job like any other job, however different in form it—he—presented itself.

It was time to buck up and do what she was hired to do.

Of course, Dustin was an unconventional scalawag who was continually late to his appointments. Hadn’t she discussed this very thing with Addison and Camille? Why else would Addison feel compelled to hire an image consultant to clean him up and generally organize his life for him?

And how hard could it be, really?

Her mind was already envisioning a sharp pair of scissors in her hand, lopping off great handfuls of his thick black hair. Her smile widened.

“Mr. Fairfax,” she called, waving her hand. “Over here.”

The man turned at her voice and smiled as he approached. “Please, call me Dustin,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “All my friends do. And you must be Iz-a-belle,” he said, pronouncing her name with a crisp Italian accent. His emphasis was strongly on the last syllable. “Belle. It has a nice ring to it.” He laughed at his own joke, but Isobel just shook her head.

She stared at him for a moment, trying to get her bearings. No one had ever, in the whole course of her life, called her Belle before.

Everyone, even her mother, called her Isobel. Camille called her Izzy sometimes, but they had known each other forever.

“Isobel Buckley,” she corrected subtly, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Dustin Fairfax,” he said, turning his chair around and straddling it. “But of course, you already know my name.”

“Yes,” she agreed mildly, linking her fingers on the tabletop to keep from fidgeting. It was important that Dustin have confidence in her dignity and refinement if he was going to take any advice from her. It wasn’t his problem she was feeling as if she were walking on shaky ground at the moment.

“Don’t feel awkward on my account,” he said with a wink.

Despite herself, her heart fluttered. The man was certainly a charmer, if a badly dressed one. And how had he known she was feeling off-kilter? Had he seen it in her expression? She determined then and there to take better control of herself and the situation.

She cleared her throat and looped a lock of her deep brown hair around her index finger, twirling it in lazy circles. “Let’s start at the beginning,” she suggested.

“Sounds reasonable,” he agreed. That he was genuinely amicable was clearly apparent to Isobel and worked immediately in his favor. He appeared unusually relaxed and free of the usual stark brassiness most men his age wore about themselves like a cloak.

Dustin was simply himself, and he offered that openness willingly to her; and, she suspected, to all those he encountered in the—what was it?

Oh, yes. Flower shop.

If she was successful in her endeavor, she very well could be about to change all that. It was one of the things his brother had mentioned—in the negative category of Dustin’s life.

One small shop was all he owned. He didn’t even have a second one located across town at one of the many available malls and outlets.

She felt a shiver she couldn’t identify as anticipation or warning.

“You were late,” she said without preamble. She had to start somewhere.