She took a gratifying pause, as if his request settled her. “I can arrange that.”
Then he deployed the kicker. “And you have to go with me.”
Another pause, this time deliberate while, he was sure, she thought of how to refuse. “You don’t need me along.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” he said. “You’re the one brokering this deal. You need to see what you’re trying to sell me or the deal is off.”
He didn’t give her a choice. Not like he’d given her a choice about going on a date with him. He made the deal even sweeter, at least for him. “But I don’t want the owner to accompany us. It’s awkward when they hover. People never like to have the owners at an open house, and a boat is no different.”
Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t fault his logic. “All right, fine.” There was a definite snap in her tone. “Do you want the crew to be on standby? Or would you prefer to take it out yourself?”
Oh no. He wouldn’t crew the yacht himself. He wouldn’t be allowed to without a boating license. Besides, he intended to devote all his time to her. “We’ll need the crew. I can’t assess everything if I’m trying to sail a boat.”
“It’s not a sailboat,” she said. “It’s a yacht.”
And it would have cabins with beds in them, a sundeck, and a pool. Maybe even a hot tub.
The perfect place for seduction.
He was already planning the picnic he’d bring.
He would turn this into a date whether she wanted to call it that or not.
If Troy wanted to make this the most fabulous date—and yes, no matter what Michaela said, it was a date—he needed help. Desperately. All he knew about her food preferences was that she liked pad thai. And chicken satay with peanut sauce. She hadn’t requested gluten-free noodles, so that ruled out allergies to gluten and nuts.
But what would she relish? If she could choose anything in the world, what would it be?
He knew of only one source of information: Susan Spencer, who had become friendly with Michaela’s mom. He could get her to ask Flo and take notes while they talked. It was a brilliant idea.
He made his way to Susan and Bob Spencer’s Portola Valley home that very afternoon. Michaela had called back with the date for the cruise: Thursday. He had only tomorrow to prepare, which meant he had to hustle.
Cars filled the circular drive. When he’d called, Susan had said it was fine to come over, but it seemed she was hosting a party.
There was nothing for it. He had to go in. He needed all the deets.
The Mavericks had moved their parents from Chicago a year and a half ago. Where once the entire Maverick family, the four foster boys included, had resided in a cramped apartment in a subpar neighborhood of Chicago, as soon as they could, the Mavericks had moved the Spencers out to the suburbs. While Susan and Bob had a lovely home there—which the Mavericks had provided, paying it forward for all the Spencers had done for them—with all the grandchildren arriving, they wanted to be in the Bay Area.
He respected that about the Mavericks. They took care of their own, Bob Spencer working as a baggage handler, even after his back could no longer take it, and Susan as a waitress. They’d supported one little girl, Lyssa, and five strapping boys who probably ate them out of house and home. Troy admired Susan greatly. If he ever let himself dwell on it, which he didn’t, he would have wished his parents had been as caring as the Spencers.
Susan answered the door, wearing a pretty blouse and white shorts. A lovely woman approaching sixty, she became ageless when she smiled.
Grabbing his arm, she pulled him inside for a hug.
“It looks like I’m disturbing a party,” he said. “We could do this another time.” Which was merely politeness. There was no other time.
“It’s not a party,” she said with a breezy wave. “It’s not even a get-together. The girls wanted to stop by with the babies.” She shrugged, lifting her hands. “What could I do?” But he knew she adored all her grandchildren.
Still with her hand on his arm, she said, “You aren’t afraid of a few babies, are you?”
Of course he was. “Absolutely not.” Even more, he wasn’t looking forward to discussing his love problems with an audience of Maverick women.
But he had no choice as Susan propelled him through the kitchen and out to the backyard, where several Maverick ladies, a gaggle of children of various ages, and Jeremy, Harper Franconi’s younger brother, gawked at him as if he were Bigfoot.
The estrogen on that deck enveloped him like a cloud. The two boys, Jorge and Noah, splashed in the pool, while their mothers, Ari and Rosie, sat at the table, watching over them. A huge playpen had been set up on the deck—though it looked more like a corral for puppies—with innumerable babies crawling or toddling around. As Owen, Lyssa’s little boy, bonked his head against the side of the playpen, it was obvious that without the corral, he would been over the edge of the deck before anybody could grab him. Isabella, Rosie’s baby girl, clung to the railing, holding herself up, and Penelope, Ari’s daughter, went wherever Isabella did.
Behind him, Susan whispered, glee in her voice, “They’ll all be taking their first steps any day now.”
Jeremy, the very big brother at twenty-one years old, gamboled on the lawn with Paige and Evan Collins’s twin toddlers. He was a wonderful big kid himself, and Troy didn’t think Jeremy had ever been happier than when he had toddlers and babies to play with.