Nodding, he seemed to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I suspect it would be.”
I pointed my thumb behind me. “So . . . I’ll just go put on some actual clothes.”
“All right. Let me shower and I’ll meet you downstairs?” he asked as I turned to go back in my room.
Imaginary Secretary, please add Watching Niall Stella Shower to my bucket list. Move it to the top, if it’s not too much trouble.
“Good plan.”
He nodded once crisply. “I’ll be fast.”
“No,” I said, too loud, too quickly. I closed my eyes, inhaling a calming breath. “Take your time.”
He paused with his keycard inserted into the door next to mine and looked over his shoulder at me. The tiny smile told me he read every thought on my face before I had a chance to pull it into order.
“All right?” he asked quietly.
“I’m good. Just need coffee.”
His eyes twinkled with some mysterious delight. As if he enjoyed my absolute, desperate torment. “Right, then. See you downstairs.”
Game on, Mr. Darcy.
The elevator ride to the lobby was the longest of my life. I counted down each floor on the screen near the top, my nerves twisting tighter the farther down I went. Niall would be waiting for me and then we’d walk to the temporary office together. Just us. No distractions. Alone. No big deal.
Except that it was a huge deal. This was the start of one of my most exciting professional experiences, and also a day full of the person I was fairly sure was the Most Amazing Man on the Planet.
I smoothed my dress, straightened the collar on my jacket, and double-checked everything: purse, laptop, cell phone, ass and underwear covered. Despite my nerves, I was still tired. My laptop case felt heavier than normal and seemed to weigh down my right shoulder, the combination of fatigue and jitters leaving me feeling slightly speedy.
I checked my reflection again in the gleaming doors, suddenly questioning my outfit. It would be cold out but likely too warm in the office, where the heat would be turned up to compensate for the March chill. I’d chosen knee-length boots with a reasonable heel; they would double as both comfortable to walk in, and warm enough should our day find us venturing out into the city and down into one of the many subway stations we’d be monitoring. I had every file and report I would need printed out. I was ready.
And yet, still terrified.
I reached the lobby and looked around for Niall, but I didn’t have to look long. He was behind me, back near the registration desk, and help me Jesus because paired with the overcoat he had slung over his arm, his suit was straight-up business porn.
“Holy shit, you wear a suit well.”
I’d thought those words a hundred times over the last few months. Thousands. I’d said them under my breath as I’d passed him in the halls and it was possible I’d had more than one X-rated fantasy that started out with those exact words. But never, not in any of them did he swallow, look down the length of my body, and reply with “I suspect you wear everything well.”
And then immediately look like he wanted to shove the words back into his mouth and die.
Pardon?
When I was little I had an Etch A Sketch. I spent hours staring at that red frame and flat gray board, pulling it out to doodle whenever my bus was late or while entertaining myself on a drive home. Most people drew pictures or played games, but I was obsessed with drawing my name and perfecting the art of getting each letter down without seeing the line where they connected.
My mom would tell me to draw something else, that I would burn the image of those letters into the screen if I continued to do the same thing, over and over. And she was right. Eventually, no matter how many times I shook the board, hoping to clear the image, a ghost of the letters still showed on the screen.
I knew this would be the exact same thing, but it would be branded on my brain for the rest of time.
I suspect you wear everything well.
Had Niall Stella really said that? Was I having a stroke? Would I ever think of any other sentence for the rest of my life?
When I came to my senses, I realized he was already off and nearly gone. I quickened my steps and followed him out the hotel’s revolving door and left, down Fifty-Sixth Street.
I suspect you wear everything well.
“—all right?” he said, and I blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, rushing to keep up with his long strides. Seriously, walking beside him was like galloping next to a giraffe.
“I asked if my assistant Jo had sent everything along? Whether everything had come across all right? Normally I wouldn’t send you things, as you’re not working for me here, but thought it might be best if we were both on the same page.”
“Oh, yes. Yes,” I said, nodding. “Emails arrived yesterday as soon as we’d landed. She’s very . . . efficient.”
Niall Stella blinked over to me with his obscenely long lashes. “She is.”
“How long has she worked for you?” I asked, my voice sounding a bit distracted, even to my own ears. I’d never been with him out in broad daylight like this, and I was feeling flustered with just how good-looking he was: his skin was gorgeous, clear and smooth and absolutely flawless. It was obvious he took his time shaving, and everything was perfect, right down to his sideburns. I wondered if he measured them with a ruler.
He considered this. “Four years, this twelfth of September.”
“Wow. That’s . . . specific.”
He smiled, looking back to his phone.
I suspect you wear everything well.
The morning air was cool on my face, and I closed my eyes, grateful for the touch of biting wind this morning. It helped clear my head as we covered the first block, and turned right onto Avenue of the Americas.
Only now did it occur to me that this was my first morning in New York City. London felt like a city, yes, and it was huge. But I always had the sense that I was standing in a place that had been there for centuries, that the trees and buildings and even the walkways I strolled on looked much like they had since they were put in. New York clearly had its older buildings, but many things were modern and new, steel and glass that stretched to the sky. It seemed to be in a constant cycle of rebirth. Scaffolding lined much of the sidewalks and we simply walked under it, or followed signs that led us around.
I tried to use this time to go over what might be waiting for us today: setting up meetings with the local officials, getting the complete schedule of all the different speakers, and compiling a list of which stations were most in need of repairs.
But I couldn’t focus, and each time the sound of traffic dulled and my thoughts finally started to string together, Niall would walk around someone and brush my shoulder. Maybe notice a loose board in a construction walkway, and touch my forearm while pointing it out in warning. We’d walked five minutes and if someone had asked what I’d been thinking about, I would have stuttered out some unintelligible nonsense and laughed awkwardly.
We reached the corner and waited for the signal to walk. Niall pocketed his phone and stood a respectable distance away from me, but close enough that the arm of his jacket brushed against mine when I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder. The morning was cold, and each one of his exhales sent a little puff of condensation out into the air in front of him. I had to force myself not to stare at his lips and the way his tongue peeked out to wet them.
When the light changed, the crowd moved in front of us, and I felt the press of his palm on the small of my back, urging me forward.
His hand on my lower back . . . just inches away from my ass. And if he was going to touch my ass, it was basically the same as him touching me between my legs. So, yes, my brain reacted like Niall Stella was touching my clit and I nearly tripped and sprawled flat in the intersection.
We reached the sidewalk on the other side, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to slow his steps.
“You don’t
have to slow down,” I told him. “I can keep up.”
Niall Stella shook his head. “Sorry?” he asked, feigning innocence. So one: he was trying to be polite and not point out that my far shorter legs were struggling to keep up with his. And two: he was a terrible liar.
“You’re like eight feet tall with legs that are twice as long as mine. Of course you’d walk faster than me. But I can keep up, I promise not to slow you down.”
A hint of a blush warmed his cheeks and he smiled. “You were nearly falling down there for a moment,” he teased, motioning behind us. My heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with sprinting down the streets of New York.
“I was trying to be smooth and pretend that didn’t happen,” I said, laughing. I was glad he kept his eyes forward, because my grin was so wide it was about to crack my face in half. “Forget the fancy shoes, next time I’ll wear my Nikes.”
“Those aren’t bad,” he said, nodding toward my boots. “Quite nice, really. I remember Portia would wear the highest heels, even when we’d travel. She’d—” He paused, glancing over to me as if just realizing I wouldn’t know any of this. “Sorry. Won’t bore you with the details of all that.”
Whoa, what?
Even in profile, I could see the way his brows drew together in a frown. He clearly hadn’t intended a stroll down memory lane, but I couldn’t deny the secret, dark part of me that delighted in the slip. That he’d let himself get into that comfortable place where he’d let his walls down, for just a moment.
“Portia was your wife?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational, light. Definitely not showing that I was hanging on his every word. He’d mentioned her on the plane, but hadn’t ever said her name.
We walked a few steps before he nodded, but didn’t add any more. I’d only seen the ex—Mrs. Stella in passing, but hadn’t known it was her until she was gone, and it was too late to scrutinize every detail. I’d heard stories, little bits here and there, but never much. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken rule about gossip in the office: a little is encouraged, but too many details would just be poor taste.
We passed a trio of beautiful bronze and verdigris green headless statues in front of a towering skyscraper, one set on one side of the building, and two on the other. “Those are supposed to represent Venus de Milo,” I said, pointing them out. “They’re called Looking Toward the Avenue.”
He followed my gaze. “But they have no heads,” he noted. “They aren’t looking anywhere.”
“I hadn’t really thought of that,” I said. “Lovely breasts, though.”
Niall made a sound as if he was choking.
“What?” I asked, laughing at his expression. “They are! The city actually gets a lot of complaints about them.”
“The breasts or lack of heads?” he asked.
“Maybe both?”
“How on earth do you know all this? You said you’d never been here before.”
“My mom had this sort of romanticized fascination with New York. I could be your tour guide and bore you with lots of random stuff.”
“That sounds like an amazing time,” he said, but his tone was strange. Was he being sarcastic, or—
Oh my God.
I stopped dead in my tracks, and Niall Stella had to turn. “What is it?” he asked, looking on ahead, as if he could make out whatever had caught my eye. “Is everything all right?”
“Radio City Music Hall,” I gasped, continuing on with quicker steps now.
“Iconic,” he agreed with a hint of amused confusion in his voice, easily keeping up with me as I practically sprinted closer.
“They do a Christmas show here every year and my mom is going to die that I’m this close.” My gloves made it nearly impossible to grasp on to anything as I fumbled in the pocket of my jacket in search of my phone. “Will you take a picture of me?”
You’d have thought I just asked him to draw me in the nude.
“I can’t—” he said, and then shook his head, looking around us. “What I mean to say is, we can’t just stand here.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s . . .”
He didn’t say “undignified” out loud, but his face was screaming it.
I looked around where we stood, at the scores of people doing that very same thing. “Nobody’s paying any attention to us. We could probably make out on the sidewalk and people would just walk right by.”
His eyes grew wide before he sighed and pulled out his phone. “I’ll do it on mine and send to you. Your case is covered in hideous girly rhinestones.” A tiny smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Look at me. I’m far too masculine for such a thing.”
I’d had a taste of it last night, but I was still blindsided seeing it again: Niall Stella was polite, brilliant, refined, and contained, yes, but Niall Stella was capable of being a guy, and he was a total flirt.
I knew I was pushing my luck, but damn, he looked so cute standing there, a sea of tourists rushing by while he opened the camera app. He might have been protesting but the expression on his face when he snapped the first picture made him look a little . . . charmed?
“Right,” he said, and turned the phone to show me. “Quite lovely.”
“Okay now, you come here.” He crossed toward me and I took his phone, examining the photo. “Let’s get one together,” I said, holding his phone out in front of us.
“Wha—” he started to say, but thought better of it. “Your arms aren’t long enough.”
“Are you kidding me? My selfie game is strong. Just . . . bend your knees a little, this is like my head and your deltoids, which—don’t get me wrong—isn’t a bad thing, but—”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, snatching the phone from my hand.
“I promise I won’t tell Max you took a selfie on Sixth Avenue,” I whispered, and he turned his head, eyes meeting mine.
He was only inches from my face. We were practically married right then.
He held my gaze for a fraction of a second before he cleared his throat. “I’m holding you to that.”
It took a few tries to get the right angle, and for the last one, he wrapped an arm around my waist, and pulled me in tight.
And that was it. I mentally entered a “one” in the Number of Times Niall Stella Put His Arm Around My Waist and Pulled Me Close column. I knew right then what it would feel like to celebrate Christmas and birthdays and a job promotion and have the best orgasm of my life all at the same time.
He looked at the photo and turned the screen so I could see. It was a good picture, fucking great actually. We were both smiling; the camera caught us mid-laugh as he’d tried to snap the photo with his gloves still on.
“What’s your number?” he asked, looking down at his screen. I watched as his cheeks grew redder than they were already from the sharp, cold wind.
I recited it, watching as he typed. He hit SEND and smiled up at me: a little shy, a little playful, a little something else I wasn’t sure I was ready to believe. In that moment, he didn’t look anything like a vice president, an intimidating ultra-crush, or a man who finished school before he was twenty. He just looked like a beautiful guy, outside in the city with me.
In the pocket of my coat, my phone buzzed.
I tried not to think about the fact that he now had pictures of me, and of the two of us together, on his phone. I tried not to think about the fact that he now had my cell number. I tried not to think about how easy it had just been between us, when I stopped worrying about how to act around Niall Stella, and had just enjoyed this unguarded moment with Niall. Just Niall.
As he pocketed his phone and motioned for me to follow him to the crosswalk, I noted his enormous grin.
I tried not to think about how he looked pretty thrilled with all of this, too.
Our temporary office was on an empty floor of a large commercial building. The entire suite had been rented as temporary office space for visiting consultants by the Metropolitan Transportat
ion Authority. It’s true, beggars can’t be choosers, but honesty time: our office was the size of my hotel shower, and the heater was clearly cranked up to Sinner’s Inferno. The window had been permanently painted shut, and we figured that out only after Niall struggled with it for a good five minutes. He definitely had my attention the entire time. His broad back demanded separate billing: Niall Stella and The Deltoids.
I suspect you wear everything well.
Too small an office meant Niall was mere feet from me all day, making it nearly impossible to concentrate on even the simplest task. And too hot meant that within an hour of arriving he’d removed his suit jacket and—after much visible consternation on his part—loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He’d also rolled his sleeves up his forearms. If I could, I probably would have ratcheted the thermostat up another ten degrees to get a peek at his bare chest. See also: why I should never be in charge.
I’d never seen his forearms before (a giddy check in the Number of Times I’ve Seen Niall Stella’s Bare Forearms column), and, as expected, his skin was perfect: arms toned and wrists tapering into long, slender fingers. As covertly as possible, I watched the ticking of muscles when he typed, the way they flexed in sequence as he spun a pencil around his desk when he was thinking, the way the tendons in his hands tightened as he drummed his fingertips on the arm of the chair.
Niall Stella was a fidgeter.
We didn’t talk much as we worked at our respective desks, sifting through boxes and setting things up. For lunch we stepped out, stopping at a vendor selling hot dogs from a stand on the corner. This took some persuasion on my part.
“You go to the one with the longest line,” I explained, patiently waiting my turn. “Don’t you ever watch the Food Network? See how there’s a huge wait for this one and only two people in line for the one across the street? The short-line hot dogs are probably made out of feral cat.”
He sighed, muttering something in his posh accent about how he’d probably be dead by the end of the day, and throwing a “You call these chips?” in there, too.
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