Once Upon A Mattress

Hilary wiped her eyes with a tissue. “You’re all right.”

“Got any chicken soup?”

“Hungry?”

“No, but you look like you could use some. I could go to the store if your cupboard is bare.” She looked like a woman with bare cupboards.

“You trying to get on my good side?”

“Do you have a good side, Miss Sinclair?”

Hilary smiled, a little wobbly, but bright enough to stop the rain. “If you’re not careful, Mr. MacAllister, I’m going to change my opinion of you.”

Quickly Ben climbed up the ladder, suddenly needing to study the hole in her ceiling.

On a more rational day, it would have been easy to stay away from Hilary Sinclair. She was prickly and arrogant and obviously didn’t like him. But for the past few months, he’d felt decidedly irrational. Ben stole a quick look down, and caught her smile.

Whoa. Definitely irrational.

HILARY SAT CURLED UP on the corner chair, sipping hot tea and watching as Ben worked on her ceiling. The cold medicine she’d taken was starting to make her woozy, but she didn’t want to sleep, she just wanted to sit here and watch him in action. He didn’t say much, which surprised her. She had figured the Ben MacAllisters of the world didn’t understand the value of silence.

She knew about those charming types who always had a joke or an insincere compliment. The guys that liked to regale the world with the tales of their exploits.

Before today she would have bet her Visa bill that Ben was one of them.

But she was wrong about him.

Being wrong never sat well with Hilary, and eventually it bugged her so much that she turned on the stereo, just to fill the silence that was far too comforting. At six o’clock, the calm, melodious tones of Dr. Tracy filled the house.

“Do you mind listening to her?” she asked, liking the way he moved as he worked. His shirt hung loose on his frame, and she could see the strong lines of his arms and back as he lifted the boards into place.

Ben picked up a nail and began to hammer. “Dr. Tracy? She’s a little opinionated, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t think it hurts to take a stand on things.”

“No, I guess not,” he said, a smile playing around his mouth.

He was humoring her. Hilary didn’t take humoring lightly. “I bet you think she’s too old-fashioned,” she shot back.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“She’s my sister-in-law.”

“No kidding? That’s so amazing.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m surprised Allen didn’t tell you the first day you walked in the door. That’s what he does to just about everyone else. He’s real proud of her. Thinks she knows everything.”

“Because she does. You should try doing her job sometime,” Hilary snapped. Guys like him thought everything was so easy. Life was just one big piece of chocolate cake. Dr. Tracy knew better.

Their eyes met, hers daring, his amused. “Okay, we’ll play advice counselor. Turn up the volume.”

Hilary adjusted the knob and they both listened to the female caller’s voice.

“Dr. Tracy, I’m eighteen, and I’m in love with a great guy. We’ve only known each other for about six months, but I can tell that he’s the one. We’ve been talking about marriage, but I know my parents won’t approve. What should I do?”

Hilary muted the radio and shot a curious look at Ben. “So, what is your advice, Dr. MacAllister?”

He put down the hammer and leaned on the top step of the ladder. “Elope. Skip the confrontation with the parents and just go for it. Et tu, Dr. Sinclair?”

Just as she had suspected. Fly-by-night. Entirely irresponsible. She took a sip of tea, mulling over her response. “What about college? What about learning what this guy is about? What if he’s a deadbeat?”

Ben lifted another board and she got a little dry in the mouth in the presence of such amazing biceps.

She nearly missed his response. “What about love?” he asked.

At that exact moment in the world, she was sure that some little porker had just sprung wings. “You’re a romantic.”

“No, just practical.”

“How so?”

“If things don’t work out, a divorce, no harm, no foul.”

Trust a man to be so slapdash about marriage. Mark hadn’t been slapdash. “They should wait. Take their time. Eighteen is too young to get married, and divorce is not an option.”

He shot her a curious look. “Catholic, Miss Sinclair?”

Hilary raised her chin. “No, I just have high standards.” Too late. She realized that she might have put her foot in it. “Have you been married before, Mr. MacAllister?”

“Nope.”

“So you have loads of experience to draw on?”

“Have you been married before, Miss Sinclair?”

“No.”

“What about Mark?”

Instantly Hilary was back in Atlanta, back in the condo, eating Thursday-night lasagna and playing poker. Mark couldn’t stand to lose, so she would always let him win. In seven years, he never caught on. He just thought she was a crappy player. She drew up her knees tightly, reluctant to talk to Ben about Mark. She’d already mistaken him for Mark once and look where that got her. “You almost done up there?”

Ben picked up the hammer once more and began pounding. “Yeah. Just a few minutes.”

They were as different as two men could be. Mark had dark hair, cut in a short, practical manner. Ben had light brown hair that never seemed to stay in place. Mark was steady and reliable. But Ben MacAllister was a 24/7 candy store that believed in free samples. The man coasted on a wink and a smile.

Yet there was Mr. Unreliable, stuck on a ladder fixing her ceiling.

How did that work? Hilary shook her head, feeling too tired to contemplate the possibility of being wrong twice in one evening.

She leaned her head back against the soft cushions of her chair and listened as Dr. Tracy dispatched words of wisdom—agreeing with Hilary, of course—and gloried in the amazing power of Mr. Unreliable’s biceps.

IT WAS ALMOST TEN o’clock before her roof was somewhat restored. The boards looked pretty unsightly, unfinished pine over mangled Sheetrock, but it was a small price to pay now that it no longer rained in her house. If it really got to her, she supposed she could paint it a fashionable shade of purple. Ben finished packing up her tools and collapsed on her couch.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” he said, pushing wayward hair out of his eyes. “You look wiped.” Actually, she thought he was being kind. She felt miserable, but she couldn’t quite force herself to stop watching him. It was like staring after a car wreck. You hate yourself for doing it, but you can’t bring yourself to avoid it, either.

“You’re sitting on my bed.”

It was as if she’d told him he was sitting on nitro. He jumped up, and then took a good look around the place. She was too drained to be embarrassed, but her toes curled anyway. She’d never been an incredibly material person, but she did have some pride.

“You don’t own anything, do you?” he asked, now leaning against the back of the couch, his hands jammed in his pockets. She watched her pride flutter out the window.

“I manage,” she said, tossing her head in a very Mae manner.

“Yeah,” he answered, a wealth of disbelief in the word, the Mae gesture completely wasted.

It was an odd moment. She knew he should leave, and he knew he should leave as well. Yet, both of them continued talking, trading barbs, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. An insidious memory crept into her mind, the feel of his mouth at her breast. Suddenly the soft material of her robe became unbearable.

He seemed to feel the tension as well. “Stay at home tomorrow. Get well.” He picked up his overcoat and started to the door.

“I have a conference call scheduled in the morning,” she said, willing him to stay.

“I can get Helga to reschedule it for you,” he answered, shrugging into the coat.

“No. I want to renegotiate the rate we’re getting for cotton batting, and I’ve finally gotten on the calendar with a VP at Masters Bonded Fibers.”

“Then I’ll take the call for you.”

He sounded serious. Even in the drug-induced haze of her brain, she recognized the sincerity in his voice. Curious, she studied him, searching for the punch line. But there didn’t seem to be one. “No offense, but I can handle it.”

His face cleared, all sincerity gone. Instead, he assumed the vacant look that he seemed to have perfected and shook a warning finger at her. “Fine. Take the call, be stubborn, but if the entire company comes down with the flu, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“I don’t have the flu,” she said, mainly because she felt like crap and didn’t like listening to lectures.

Ben stopped in the doorway, then swore softly and turned around. “You do have blankets, don’t you?”

“There are a couple in the back room.”

“Go lie down then,” he said, with a gesture at the couch.

While he retrieved the bed linens, Hilary sank gratefully onto the long, leather couch. Her bones felt as if they were made of water, and as she lay down, she sighed in relief.

A warm blanket covered her, her herbal pillow placed under her head. She closed her eyes, comfortable for the first time in days.

For a moment he stroked her hair with a gentle hand. “Good night, Hilary Sinclair.”

“Good night, Ben MacAllister.”

There was a click as he flipped off the lights, and the room was shrouded in the night, the rain no longer a miserable thing, now it seemed more like a friend.

He walked toward the door, and she lifted her head up, watching his silhouette in the darkness. “Ben?”

At her voice, he stopped, and she stared after him. Another time she might have asked him to stay, but it wouldn’t be this night. He wasn’t the right man, so “Thank you” was what she ended up saying.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, and left.

Once more Hilary was all alone. After she heard the whir of his engine, and she was sure he was gone, she crept back into her bedroom and took Benjamin Franklin from his box.

She crawled back under the blankets, Benjamin securely at her side.

THE NEXT MORNING, Ben had scavenged all the documentation he could on MacAllister Beds. The Hacking Exposed book was stowed far back in his desk drawer. He had bigger plans, now, not that they were going so well. He could do more than security. In only one week he’d gotten a rudimentary understanding of mattress design, next up was finance. He was slugging through the quarterly statement when Hilary walked into his office.

Today she didn’t wear her usual skirt and hose; instead, she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. And he would have been remiss not to notice the two coffee blotches on the T-shirt front and center. She could look like death warmed over, but God forbid, apparently didn’t skimp on the coffee.

Stubborn woman. “I thought I told you to stay home,” he said, trying for a tone of authority.

Rather than answer him, she went to his white board and wrote, I can’t talk.

Ben stalked over to the white board and wrote back. Go home.

I have the call, she wrote.

He put down his marker. “Go home. I’ll reschedule it for you.”

Hilary stared at him, murder in her eyes, and shook her head.

Stubborn, he scrawled, underlining it heavily.

I need your help.

Ben stared at the lopsided words that she had scribbled and smiled. How had she managed in Atlanta?

Oh yeah—Mark. That’s how she had done it. Still he couldn’t help the leap in his voice, couldn’t stop the simple hope. “What do you want?”

Take the call on the speakerphone. I can write what you need to say.

He rocked back on his heels, frustrated that she had so little trust in him. “Okay, but at least tell me what you want to do, so I’m not blindsided by anything.”

She studied him, looking ready for battle, but apparently she saw the futility in a white-board debate. She nodded and picked up the marker. Here’s what we need to do.

It took about an hour and a half, but by the time she was done, Ben was feeling pretty good. She simply wanted to renegotiate the rates and volumes for the cotton fiber. He could do that, and he even had a few more ideas, but he kept those to himself.

At noon, she was situated in his office and he dialed out.

“John Spears speaking.”

“John, this is Ben MacAllister from MacAllister Beds.”

“Oh, hello Mr. MacAllister. I had thought we were scheduled with Ms. Sinclair, but of course we’re always happy to talk with the owner.”

Click…click…click. Ben watched as Hilary repeatedly capped and uncapped the marker. Finally she wrote. Owner, schmowner.

Ben was actually starting to enjoy her loss of voice. Just to tick her off, he smiled broadly and resumed his conversation.

“Ah, yes. Now what we’re trying to do is—”

Furiously she scribbled on the board and Ben repeated what she wrote. “…evaluate the value proposition with Masters, and to be honest, we’re not sure we’re there yet.” Getting a little confident, he started to put in things on his own. “In these times, we just need to stay aware of the market and what’s driving it. Customer commitment, that’s what makes MacAllister Beds, and primary among those commitments is price.”

Hilary rolled her eyes. He winked back at her.

“Well, of course, aren’t we all? But we’re already giving you the best numbers we can.”

Hilary scribbled and Ben read. “We’ve found some more competitive pricing from Midwest Cotton and before we make any changes, we wanted to give Masters an opportunity to match the quotes.”

There was some hemming and hawing on the line. “Well, of course, our quality can’t be beat. You don’t want to put shoddy fiber into your mattresses.”

Again Hilary picked up her pen and wrote. Midwest was rated number one by The National Institute of Fiber. Can’t argue with that. I believe Masters was number five.

Ben looked at Hilary with appreciation. Good job, he mouthed, and then read the information to Spears.

“Perhaps we can do something about it,” the man answered.

Hilary folded her arms across her chest and smiled, completely confident in her abilities. For the first time in his short time at MacAllister Beds, Ben felt the thrill of the chase. “And while you’re at it, John, maybe you can re-evaluate those contracts for the organic cotton for our hypoallergenic line. Just due diligence after all.” Hilary’s eyes widened and she shook her head. Ben ignored her.

“We’ll do that, Mr. MacAllister. I’ll be back in touch on Monday with a new quote.”

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