Read Online His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lily Malone
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canvas flats, a crooked smile jagging the corner of his mouth.
Reaching back into the Golf she grabbed her cardigan and pulled it over her shoulders, retrieved handbag, hat and her takeaway latte, and stalked past him into a hangar that smelled of grilled beef, fried onion and motor oil. Suicidal mosquitoes had baked on to the overhead fluorescent light.
Inside, the wind contented itself with clanging the metal chains of the roller door instead of trying to throttle her with her scarf. She searched for a surface free of tools on which to sit, gave up and leaned against a bench, took a sip of coffee and wrapped her hands around the Styrofoam cup.
“So you’ve decided to add blackmail to your many talents?”
“I think blackmail’s a little strong,” he responded.
“You wrote the email.”
“Any new client relationship needs boundaries. I was just reminding you of ours.” He whipped the silver thing out of his pocket and started doing pilot stuff to the engine.
“I thought you said today is about research?”
“I did.”
It was like pulling teeth. “So what exactly are we researching?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Your email said—”
“Stop fishing, Christina, it’s a surprise . I’d pee before we take off though if I were you. The Ladies’ is to your left and round the corner.” He tossed the silver thing at his toolbox. It hit the upright lid with a clatter.
Lily Malone
“Surely you can tell me how far we’re—”
“ Christina .” He advanced a half step and her hands jerked, sloshing coffee in her cup.
“If you want me to design Cracked Pots it’s on my terms or not at all. Your choice.” His words were soft but she felt their weight.
She drained the coffee, hunted for a bin to dump the cup and found a milk crate half-filled with red and yellow fan‐shaped fries’ packets and drink cups with the straws still poking through the top.
“Scout’s honour, I’ll have you home before sundown.” He gave her a three‐fingered salute.
“Like you were ever a boy‐bloody‐scout.” She turned on her heel.
Pea‐sized gravel the grey of smoke‐stained snow sank beneath her shoes as she trudged to the windblown toilet block and shoved open the gate. She tried to think where anyone would fly in a plane like that for a day ex‐Adelaide. There really weren’t many options. Kangaroo Island? Port Lincoln? He wouldn’t take her diving with Great White Sharks. Would he ? How wild did he think she wanted this brand to be? His email was etched in her memory and she ran through it again as she hovered an inch above the cold plastic toilet seat, hoping she finished peeing before her thighs caved in.
Christina
You want an Australian brand that walks on the wild side? You need to broaden your horizons. There’s a lot more to Australia than your little patch of vineyard at McLaren Vale.
Meet me at Parafield Airport by 8.30am and we’ll do some research.
That’s if you like the concept. If not, no harm done.
Remember I own the copyright. I’d hate to see Cracked Pots crop up at Clay Wines under any other designer’s name.
T.
“If I like the concept,” she muttered to the wall. “Why else would I be standing here?”
The graffiti held lewd suggestions for her but no answers. She checked her eyes in the mirror. They were puffier than a panda’s and she slapped the sunglasses back on her nose.
Freezing water flowed from the tap making her wish she’d packed her gloves.
Perhaps Tate would consider gloves aeronautically appropriate attire because he sure as heck didn’t rate her shoes. She glared at them, orange and black spotted beacons at the end of a pair of nude footless tights.
The faux‐leopard flats had been bought on a whim about the time Bram began hinting she should wear more conventional clothes. “It wouldn’t kill you to tone it down, CC,” he’d said, in the I’m‐a‐serious‐political‐candidate‐now voice she’d fast grown to hate. “I need
Reaching back into the Golf she grabbed her cardigan and pulled it over her shoulders, retrieved handbag, hat and her takeaway latte, and stalked past him into a hangar that smelled of grilled beef, fried onion and motor oil. Suicidal mosquitoes had baked on to the overhead fluorescent light.
Inside, the wind contented itself with clanging the metal chains of the roller door instead of trying to throttle her with her scarf. She searched for a surface free of tools on which to sit, gave up and leaned against a bench, took a sip of coffee and wrapped her hands around the Styrofoam cup.
“So you’ve decided to add blackmail to your many talents?”
“I think blackmail’s a little strong,” he responded.
“You wrote the email.”
“Any new client relationship needs boundaries. I was just reminding you of ours.” He whipped the silver thing out of his pocket and started doing pilot stuff to the engine.
“I thought you said today is about research?”
“I did.”
It was like pulling teeth. “So what exactly are we researching?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Your email said—”
“Stop fishing, Christina, it’s a surprise . I’d pee before we take off though if I were you. The Ladies’ is to your left and round the corner.” He tossed the silver thing at his toolbox. It hit the upright lid with a clatter.
Lily Malone
“Surely you can tell me how far we’re—”
“ Christina .” He advanced a half step and her hands jerked, sloshing coffee in her cup.
“If you want me to design Cracked Pots it’s on my terms or not at all. Your choice.” His words were soft but she felt their weight.
She drained the coffee, hunted for a bin to dump the cup and found a milk crate half-filled with red and yellow fan‐shaped fries’ packets and drink cups with the straws still poking through the top.
“Scout’s honour, I’ll have you home before sundown.” He gave her a three‐fingered salute.
“Like you were ever a boy‐bloody‐scout.” She turned on her heel.
Pea‐sized gravel the grey of smoke‐stained snow sank beneath her shoes as she trudged to the windblown toilet block and shoved open the gate. She tried to think where anyone would fly in a plane like that for a day ex‐Adelaide. There really weren’t many options. Kangaroo Island? Port Lincoln? He wouldn’t take her diving with Great White Sharks. Would he ? How wild did he think she wanted this brand to be? His email was etched in her memory and she ran through it again as she hovered an inch above the cold plastic toilet seat, hoping she finished peeing before her thighs caved in.
Christina
You want an Australian brand that walks on the wild side? You need to broaden your horizons. There’s a lot more to Australia than your little patch of vineyard at McLaren Vale.
Meet me at Parafield Airport by 8.30am and we’ll do some research.
That’s if you like the concept. If not, no harm done.
Remember I own the copyright. I’d hate to see Cracked Pots crop up at Clay Wines under any other designer’s name.
T.
“If I like the concept,” she muttered to the wall. “Why else would I be standing here?”
The graffiti held lewd suggestions for her but no answers. She checked her eyes in the mirror. They were puffier than a panda’s and she slapped the sunglasses back on her nose.
Freezing water flowed from the tap making her wish she’d packed her gloves.
Perhaps Tate would consider gloves aeronautically appropriate attire because he sure as heck didn’t rate her shoes. She glared at them, orange and black spotted beacons at the end of a pair of nude footless tights.
The faux‐leopard flats had been bought on a whim about the time Bram began hinting she should wear more conventional clothes. “It wouldn’t kill you to tone it down, CC,” he’d said, in the I’m‐a‐serious‐political‐candidate‐now voice she’d fast grown to hate. “I need
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