Cassie's Grand Plan

Nothing to worry about? This was the worst flight she’d ever been on. Surely when she opened her eyes there’d be chaos, people screaming, children crying, panicked flight attendants running down the aisles.

She cracked an eye. Everything looked…normal.

The businessman across the aisle nonchalantly turned the page of his newspaper. The child in the seat in front of her yawned and dropped his half-chewed apple on the floor. The women behind them continued to talk about the shoe and handbag shopping they’d done in Melbourne’s famous laneways.

Cassie sucked in a deep breath and opened both eyes.

The breath froze in her lungs.

Ronan McGuire was twisted in his seat, his face just inches from hers. He clasped her hand in both of his, stroking the inside of her wrist with one thumb, seemingly unconcerned by the death grip she had on him. He was peering at her, and those calculating blue eyes of his were filled with concern and compassion and—around the edges—amusement.

As her eyes met his, a slow smile spread across his face. “So you don’t like flying much, huh?”

Cassie swallowed hard and had to force her voice not to waver. “It’s…it’s not my favorite activity.” His research clearly hadn’t covered her family background.

“And you’ve signed us up for a week of travel?”

That devastating single arched eyebrow again. Thankfully this time Cassie was too wound up to let it affect her. Much.

“I’ve never let my little problem interfere with my job.” Cassie bristled at the insinuation and it helped to dampen her fear. The plane had leveled out and a loud ding sounded as the seat-belt sign went off.

Ronan’s thumb was still stroking the inside of her wrist. It had been comforting before, now it was…now it was…

She loosened her fingers from around his and gave him a tight smile, tugging her hand free of his grasp.

It took him a moment to release her. His thumb paused against her pulse point, his eyes still locked with hers. Something flashed there, an awareness, and Cassie hoped like hell he couldn’t read her mind. Not only was she grateful for his calm support, but more than anything she wanted him to hold her hand for the next four hours. Forever, if possible. And that stroking thumb of his? She was absolutely not thinking about what it might be like if it explored her arm, her shoulder, her breast, lower…

“I’m sure you haven’t,” he drawled as he settled back in his seat by her side. “You’re far too professional for that.”

Cassie drew in a breath, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed that he’d let her go. To cover her confusion, she was about to launch into a review of all the work-related travel she’d done for Country Style, when he leaned forward, pulled out the laptop he’d slid under the seat in front before they’d taken off, opened it and appeared to get to work.

Cassie closed her mouth with an audible snap.

He didn’t so much as look up from the screen, and Cassie had the strange feeling she’d been dismissed. Fine. It was for the best. There was no point entertaining thoughts about Ronan McGuire, his strong fingers and lush mouth. It had been enough that ideas like that had kept her awake most of the night before.

Besides every other logical reason she had not to encourage this crush she seemed to have developed, guys like him didn’t go for girls like her. He was suave, sophisticated, experienced. And she was…the opposite. Plain. Inexperienced. Nervous.

She didn’t want a guy like him, anyway, she told herself for the billionth time. A jet-setting playboy, he probably had a girl in every port and his closest relationship was with the air hostesses he met as he flew between them. He would think Cassie’s ideas of stability, work, home and family old-fashioned and boring. God forbid he ever hear about her Plan-with-a-capital-P. He’d laugh until his sides split.

Cassie pulled out her own laptop, ignoring Ronan’s dismissal. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough to do—there were still the hundred or so things to be done before the Hawthorn store opened and then there were the notes she needed to make for each of the store managers they’d be visiting.

The rest of the flight passed without incident. Occasionally, Ronan had popped his head up to ask Cassie something and a couple of times those questions had led into discussions about the operations of Country Style.

They talked briefly and politely when the flight attendants brought around a morning snack and they had to momentarily each put their computers away, but otherwise he paid her little attention—peering at his laptop and typing furiously right up until the plane was about to land.

As the flight attendants made preparations for landing, Cassie could feel the familiar panic begin to build. She knew it was irrational, and she wasn’t proud of her fear. It was just something she couldn’t control. Crashes happened, as she knew all too well. And although the odds weren’t high—especially on a large passenger jet—it was still possible.

She screwed her eyes shut again in an attempt to block everything out. Hopefully Ronan would think she was taking a nap.

“Cassie?”

She silently cursed her traitorous responses as a shiver went through her at the sound of her name on his lips. Would he hold her hand again?

“Yes?” she answered. It was too late to try to hide her terror from him, but she still tried her best to sound calm. She opened one eye.

He gestured to a hard copy spreadsheet he’d pulled out when he’d been forced to pack away his laptop. “I’ve noticed an anomaly with this supplier, Brentons. They seem to deliver late, almost every time.”

Cassie blew out a breath. Of course he’d noticed that. She opened both eyes to look at the report he referred to.

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “They are unreliable. But the cabinets they make are one of our top sellers.” Beautiful timbers, handcrafted and hand painted, Brentons made mini works of art, not just furniture.

He frowned. “But not one of your most profitable.”

“No. But they pull in traffic—all our managers know if they’re having a slow week, put a Brentons cabinet in the window and they can double the passing trade.”

“So they’re a loss leader for you?”

“We don’t make a loss, but you’re right, they’re not especially profitable. And when they’re late with deliveries, it does make our lives difficult.”

His lips tightened in thought. “So why not pull them into line? They’re a boutique supplier—Country Style must be their biggest customer. Have threats not worked?”

Threats? Cassie shook her head in disbelief and a mounting sense of anger. “No, it’s not like that.” She shifted to face him, memories of her last conversation with the owners of Brentons fresh in her mind. “Brentons is run by a couple—it’s a family business, like ours. They’ve had a rough year—their daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. She’s only seven and understandably her treatment has interrupted their time with the business. They’ve worked very hard to fill our orders, but I’ve let it slide when they’ve occasionally delivered late.”

“Occasionally?” An eyebrow quirked as he ran a finger down a column that Cassie knew was showing him that the Brentons had consistently run late—very late—for the past year.

“Okay, so more than occasionally. But I decided to cut them some slack, given the circumstances.”

“Can Country Style afford for such personal concerns to take precedence over efficiency and reliability? Surely you can find another supplier who’d make something comparable? And probably cheaper. What about sourcing a similar product overseas, say in China?”

Yesterday Ronan’s questions had been gentle, probing; more like suggestions, really. Apparently he’d just been letting her in easy, preparing her for the onslaught. Once again, Cassie had to tell herself to be on guard at all times, no matter how charming and good-looking he was. Despite the lack of pocket protector or bow tie, he clearly had a heart made of spreadsheets and calculators instead of flesh and blood.

“Yes, we probably could get a cheaper product overseas,” she answered, her tone betraying her outrage at his callousness. She couldn’t help it. “Although I doubt we would find the dedication to quality and craftsmanship that Brentons pride themselves in. But more important the Brentons have been valuable partners to Country Style for a number of years—as our business has grown so has theirs. I felt that given what was happening to Molly—that’s their little girl—they deserved some compassion and leeway.”

His eyes met hers and he nodded. “Fair enough. I probably would have made the same call.” And then he smiled, something Cassie didn’t understand until the announcement came over the PA.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Perth. Please remain seated until we have come to a full stop at the gate and the captain has turned off the fasten-seat-belts sign.”

Comprehension dawned.

“Did you do that to distract me?” A wave of irritation flooded through her, although she wasn’t sure why. She should probably be thankful—but that idea grated.

The slight smile tipped into a cocky grin. “Not entirely. I did want to find out the official story.”

“Official story?”

“In the warehouse yesterday I commented on one of the Brentons cabinets. Beautiful pieces of furniture, by the way—you’re right about the craftsmanship. The warehouse manager told me all about the late deliveries, and about Molly, and even some of the fundraising Country Style has done for children’s leukemia charities.”

“That is the official story.”