A Professional Engagement. Darcy Maguire

like a rose…a bird I want to hold, like a Porsche with shining bodywork—’

      ‘I don’t think so…’ she said gently.

      ‘But—’

      Tara bit her lip, looking down at her client, her chest tight. ‘Maybe you should go home and think about it some more?’

      He shook his head. ‘No. I have to practise. I know you don’t usually help with the words themselves, but I’m so hopeless when it comes to this sort of stuff.’

      ‘You’re doing—’

      ‘No, I’m not.’ Mr Faulkner looked up at her, his face creased in pain. ‘I really need you to hear it and help me get it right.’

      Tara nodded.

      He sucked in a deep breath. ‘I want you. I want to keep you. I want to wake up to your smiling face in the morning, and hold you tight every night. Be my wife. Please.’

      ‘It could work…’ Tara stood up and approached the poor guy, still kneeling, still staring at the chair where his sweetheart would be for the real thing.

      He shook his head. ‘I don’t want it to just work, I want my proposal to rock her world.’

      Tara stared at him. He was barely as old as she was. How did he think at twenty-six that he knew what he wanted? How did he know that he’d found his soul mate? That sharing a life with someone else was going to make his better?

      ‘Get up and stretch for a bit,’ she offered, looking down at her notes, unable to meet his eyes. ‘You’re doing…well.’ And at least he was into it, unlike Mr Keene.

      Patrick Keene. What a hunk, if you liked that clean-shaven, strong jawed, short back and sides, office dweller look. Tara tapped her pen against her lips. He did it well, even if the colour scheme of his clothes was a little out there.

      She should have expected him to say no. The man was obviously sitting on top of the world with his gigantic office in one of Sydney’s largest buildings, in that tailor-made suit that hugged his wide shoulders and accentuated his height and power.

      He hadn’t seemed like the type of man to seek assistance for anything, let alone a proposal.

      She bit the end of her pen and stared out of the window to the parked cars on the side street. She often fantasised about what a rich and influential client could do for their business. In the few hours from when Mr Steel had come to see her, until the moment she had laid eyes on Patrick Keene, she’d thought it was finally coming true.

      The family business of Camelot would have thrived from the compliments Steel would have given their services, become a bustling hub of activity, everything that she planned it to be, just far sooner.

      Pulling together her family’s talents, Tara had promised both her sisters and her mother all the security and success they were looking for. And with her at the helm she was sure their fledgling business would be a winner.

      They’d just have to manage without Patrick Keene.

      Did Patrick know that Miss Steel was the one? She turned around and looked at the young man mouthing words silently to the chair, practising. This guy couldn’t seem to find the words that expressed what it was about his partner that touched him deeply enough for him to consider spending the rest of his life monogamously with her.

      Did Mr Faulkner really believe she’d be smiling every morning? That she’d want him to hold her every night? After the third baby arrived, after he’d been out with the boys, after he’d forgotten to put out the trash again, or after he’d come home late from work for the umpteenth time without an explanation….

      Tara strode back to her desk, breathing short and fast. She straightened the papers, lined up the telephone to the edge and rearranged the pens in the cup.

      ‘We’ve been at this for an hour. I guess I’ve tortured you enough, Miss Andrews?’

      Tara swung to face the man.

      He stood up and straightened his trousers, his brow furrowed. ‘I’m not going to give up, you know.’

      She nodded. ‘I think it would be good for you to work on it at home for a few days.’ She walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a poetry book. ‘You might find it helpful to read this and make notes about which words represent what you feel about your girlfriend.’

      ‘Poetry?’ He dug his hands deep into his pockets, nodding slowly, then slipped into his suit jacket and took the book. ‘It couldn’t hurt.’

      Tara glanced at her watch and headed for the door. ‘At least we have all the rest of the arrangements sorted out for you. You can give me a call and I’ll organise things for you, or you can do it yourself. You’ve got all the information.’

      ‘I have to get the words right first,’ he said tightly.

      ‘And you will.’ She opened the door wide, offering him a smile of encouragement. ‘I’ll see you next Thursday.’

      Tara closed the door after him, sagging against the timber. What had she got herself into?

      When she’d first introduced the proposal planning she’d expected to be planning the venue, the flowers, the music and lighting—something not much different to helping her mother and her sister, Skye, with the wedding planning. But listening to the words themselves…no. It was the last thing she’d considered doing.

      She should have expected it. On the wedding side, the choice of vows was often reviewed, the best man’s speech screened, and sometimes even written for him, and the toasts at the reception were often tweaked when requested by the clients.

      Tara walked back to her desk and dropped into the large red chair. Listening to the amazing sweet nothings they uttered, even his—she looked at the door—was getting to her, reminding her of what she didn’t have.

      She could get a boyfriend…But—

      She looked around her office, all red and white, all hearts and romance. The perfect setting for helping everyone else’s boyfriends who were too busy, or too romantically-challenged, to come up with the perfect proposal plans on their own.

      She wished she could help herself.

      She ran a hand over her face. It helped to be busy—have the business to run, the books to look after, the bills to pay, weddings to help organise with her sister or her mum. And now her proposal planning, something her sisters weren’t already doing, could take up the rest of her time efficiently and effectively.

      She loved that she could complement the business with another service, one all of her own. Men were good to deal with. Not too emotional, not too mushy or sensitive. Not like some of the women her sister, Skye, had to deal with in the wedding planning. And the mothers!

      Tara flicked the page over on the folder on her desk and scanned the appointments for the wedding boutique, cataloguing her involvement.

      She tapped her pen on her bottom lip. So many variables…How many more weddings could her mother and Skye take on without putting on more staff? When would Skye be at work full time? How could they cut costs but increase clientele? How were they going to pay for that advertising campaign they’d had done?

      Tara bit the end of the pen. Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed for them to move from their home base to these professional offices until they had more cash flow…

      The rap on the door was sharp and short.

      ‘Come in.’

      Camelot’s secretary-cum-receptionist walked in, a cup of steaming hot coffee in her hand. She was a young woman fresh out of college, running over with enthusiasm.

      ‘Is Mr Faulkner getting better yet?’ Maggie grinned. ‘The way he’s going his mystery woman will be eighty before he gets to proposing.’

      Tara shrugged, trying not to smile at the girl’s appraisal of the situation. He just