“That’s not sanitary,” Ryland says—like I’m five.
“Well, yeah…” I hold up my towel-wrapped finger. It’s the pointer one. You know, the most important when it comes to opening little packages.
Ryland shakes his head and laughs to himself. He takes the defiled bandage from me and tosses it in the trash. Then he washes his hands, rips open an alcohol wipe, and gestures for me to give him my hand.
I pretend to be put out, but I do as he asks.
He unwinds the paper towel and dabs at the ridiculous wound.
“Ow!” I draw in a hissing breath. “It stings.”
Not looking terribly remorseful, Ryland opens the bandage. “How did you manage to staple yourself?”
“I’ve been a little distracted today,” I admit, my pulse skipping as I say the words.
“I noticed.” Standing close, a knowing smile ghosts across his face. “Any idea what might be the cause?”
My stomach flutters, and suddenly my wound is forgotten.
“Maybe it’s because we’re expecting a new shipment of paperclips?”
“I see.” Ryland presses the brown fabric wings of the bandage into place. In a softer, deeper voice, he says, “Excited about it, are you?”
“Terribly.”
“I like paperclips, too.” Finished with his task, he meets my eyes. He doesn’t shift back. In fact, he might move closer. “Though I keep telling myself I shouldn’t think about them while I’m at the office.”
Gulping, I nod. “How do you manage?”
“Who said I was?” Ryland then leans in, caging me next to the cool marble counter. I’m trapped, and heaven help me, it’s like one of my workplace daydreams come to life.
“Ryland,” I breathe, reluctantly glancing at the door. Someone could walk in at any moment—one of the architects, Sophia from the front desk, his dad.
He flashes me an impish smile that steals my breath. “It’s Mr. Devlin while we’re at work.”
BAD.
His eyes then drop to my lips, and my hand rises to his chest. I tell myself I’m going to nudge him away, but my hand slides up to his shoulder all on its own—it’s certainly not trying to put space between us. If anything, I’m holding him in place just in case his better sense attempts to return at an inopportune moment.
You’re mine now, Mr. Devlin.
Just when I think Ryland’s going to kiss me, just when I’m certain I’m going to let him even though we’re at work, voices sound from just outside the door. We leap apart, and I busy myself with closing the top of the bandage box. Disappointment wars with panic, and my heart races like we were caught doing something scandalous.
Tyler’s eyes fall on the first aid kit when he steps into the break room, and he laughs. “Uh oh, Lucy. What did you do this time?”
I wince, not able to meet his eyes. “Stapled my finger.”
Does he suspect?
“How did you do that?” he asks.
“I’m talented.”
Finally, I work up the nerve to glance at Tyler, but he looks completely oblivious. As he pours a cup of coffee, he asks Ryland about a hockey game—a subject I know nothing about, so there’s no way they can draw me into the conversation. Which is good because I’m busy telling my heart to slow the heck down.
Studiously ignoring Ryland and his brother, I return the first aid kit and head for the door. Before I’m out, I glance back at Ryland. Though it appears his attention is fully on Tyler, he looks at me. Our eyes meet and hold.
I’ve never been a rebellious kind of girl—I don’t enjoy breaking rules, or even walking the line. But right now, exhilaration runs through my veins. It’s thrilling and terrifying and…
I want more.
14
Ryland
I need to tell Lucy I found the note.
Saturday made something clear to me: I want a relationship. Something real—not a fling or a passing office romance. I want to leave work together at five every evening and stay with her until the clock says I have no choice but to go home.
Sometime in the last three months, she slipped past my defenses, quietly and with surprising agility for someone so clumsy.
I smile as I shake my head. How did she staple her finger?
My cell phone rings, jerking me out of my thoughts.
“Hey, Chad,” I say when I answer.
Without a greeting, my friend says, “You’re still coming to my wedding this weekend, right?”
I cringe, realizing it’s this Saturday.
And then that feeling of dread dissipates because maybe I can convince Lucy to come with me.
“Of course, I’m coming. I sent my RSVP, didn’t I—”
Before I can finish the sentence, Chad cuts me off. “That’s great. You’ve been promoted to a groomsman.”
“What?” I demand. “You have four brothers.”
“Kenney was an alternative for a medical trip to Kenya, and a spot just became available. He’s leaving for Africa Thursday morning. Breanna is freaking out.”
“That leaves three,” I argue. “Surely three groomsmen are plenty.”
“Breanna has four bridesmaids,” Chad says, undaunted. “You can’t have uneven numbers.”
I growl, wishing I hadn’t answered the phone. Going to a wedding is bad enough, but standing up in one is far worse.
I dodged a bullet with Tyler’s wedding. Maybe this is my punishment?
“You need to get fitted for your tux tonight before the shop closes at six,” Chad continues as if I’ve already agreed. He then rattles off an address. “They’ll be expecting you.”
With a heavy sigh, I give in.
“Great,” Chad says, obviously confident he was going to win from the beginning. “The rehearsal is on Friday at six. Bring a date if you want. My parents have this big formal dinner planned. It will be stuffy as all get-out, but the food should be good.”
He goes on for a bit longer, giving me details I don’t want.
“You’ll be there, right?” Chad confirms before he hangs up.
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
I can practically feel his relief. “Thanks, Devlin. You’ve saved my life.”
“You owe me.”
He laughs. “Just add it to my tab.”
After I end the call, I glance out the glass wall. Lucy’s at her computer, working on an invoice. Her long hair sways as she bobs her head, obviously listening to music despite my objections, fully engrossed in her task.
I smile despite myself and glance at the clock. It’s four thirty-eight—close enough to five.
After finishing up my last few tasks for the day, I walk out of my office and stop in front of Lucy’s desk. Oblivious to my presence, she continues working.
Carina saw everything even when she looked distracted. Lucy sees nothing but what’s in front of her. Her focus is applaudable, but it’s also her greatest weakness. More than half of her slip-ups have been caused by her tunnel vision.
I clear my throat, but she still doesn’t notice me.
“Lucy,” I finally say loudly.
She jumps in her seat and swivels toward me. “Sorry,” she says, turning to her phone and pausing her playlist. “I didn’t see you there.”
“What did I say about music at work?”
With a smirk, she pushes her hair behind her ear, revealing a wireless earbud. “It’s Bluetooth—no tacky cords.”
I shake my head, suppressing a smile. “I suppose it’s a decent compromise—as long as I don’t have to yell at you to get your attention.”
Her smirk becomes a real smile, making me feel like a troll for not giving in sooner. I’d do just about anything to earn a smile like that every day.
“I need to leave work early tonight,” I say, changing the subject.
Lucy’s expression falls, and she looks at the desk, gathering several pens and depositing them into their ugly mug. “That’s all right,” she says with fake cheer. “I can take the bus.”
“I’ve just found out I’m in a wedding this weekend. I have to get fitted for my tux before the shop closes.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shoot up. “This weekend?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“The one I’m buying the gift for tomorrow?”
“The same.” I pause. “You could go with me.”
She licks her lips, thinking, drawing my attention to her mouth. “To the tux fitting?”
Technically, I meant the wedding, but for now, the tux fitting will do.
I nod.
“Okay.”
“Are you ready to leave?” I ask.
“Oh.” Lucy looks back at her computer. “Can you give me five minutes to finish this up?”
I nod, quietly pleased that she takes her job seriously, even if she does keep her pens in a pink llama cup. “I need to speak with Tyler. Find me when you’re ready to go.”
“I’ll hurry,” she promises, already turning back to her computer.
As I walk through the office, I plan my strategy. This weekend, I will admit I found her note, and I will confess my feelings.
If all goes according to plan, by Saturday night, Lucy will not only be my secretary, she’ll be my girlfriend.
15
Lucy
It doesn’t escape anyone’s notice that Ryland and I are leaving the office together.
“Have a good evening,” Sophia calls as we head for the elevator. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I don’t think I’m imagining the teasing lilt in her voice—like she knows Mr. Devlin almost kissed me earlier.
“There aren’t security cameras in the breakroom, are there?” I demand suddenly.
Ryland looks at me as the elevator passes the third floor, highly amused. “No.”
“Oh.” I flash him a nervous smile. “Okay.”
Looking untouchable in his perfectly pressed suit, he turns back to the closed metal doors. Casually, he adds, “There aren’t any in the elevators either—just in case you were curious.”
If I were drinking something, I would likely choke. Before I can think of a retort for that, the doors slide open, revealing the bustling main floor and killing any ideas I might have had of acting out one of my numerous elevator fantasies.
Last week, they seemed like a distant, hazy dream. But now…
It’s probably best the ride is a short one, or who knows what kind of trouble I might get myself into. It’s going to be difficult to keep our personal and business relationships separate.
Relationship.
Just thinking about the word makes me feel warm and fuzzy, but it also reminds me I need to pace myself.
I glance at Ryland, unsure where we stand. One moonlit kiss doesn’t mean we’re together, but that’s where my poor heart wants to jump. I’m picturing those cozy evenings on the couch, weekend dates, and dinners at his parents’ house.
But…it was just a kiss. (A fabulous kiss.)
And there was almost another in the break room, I’m sure of it. So, we’ll count that as two.
Does Ryland want to start something? Or am I jumping to dangerous conclusions? After all, it’s not as if Ryland has an empty social calendar. He goes on dates often, even if he claims they’re business meetings.
Now that I think about it, there’s a good possibility Ryland is far more comfortable mixing his business life with his personal life than I am. This isn’t exactly new to him. In fact, he’d likely be appalled if he knew how much I’ve thought about him these last forty-eight hours.
Ryland unlocks my door and holds it open for me, smiling in that quiet, almost non-existent way of his that is quickly becoming my favorite thing ever. “Should we get dinner after we’re done?”
“Sure,” I say nonchalantly, like I do this casual dating thing all the time. I can play it cool.
After I hook my seatbelt, I clasp my hands in my lap.
Ryland steps into the driver’s seat, leaving the door open.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Right now, we’re at work,” he says smoothly, and then he shuts the door, giving me a pointed look. “And now we’re not.”
Perhaps my surprise shows on my face because he chuckles quietly as he slips his key into the ignition.
“Yes, but you still look like you’re at work, Mr. Devlin,” I point out, figuring two can play his game. “Since you’re still wearing your tie.”
The car rumbles to life as Ryland starts it. As he pulls out of the space, he turns, resting his arm on the back of his seat to check his blind spots. With the finesse of a man who’s been sporting a suit since he turned eighteen, he loosens the knot with one hand and pulls the tie over his head.
When he tosses it to me, his almost-smile deepens to something wicked. “Better?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t actually want an answer since I’m not sure I can form coherent words at the moment.
I run my hands over the silken tie as he drives to the tux shop, carefully rolling the material. As it’s so prone to do, my mind wanders.
Ryland was nicer today, far less contrary. I fully expected him to snarl at me for using the earbuds. (All right, I might have hoped he was going to get a little huffy about it.) He didn’t, though.
Is it because of the note? Did he take my words to heart? Is there some way he might not have realized he was so…awful?
Guilt edges in on my happiness. I didn’t mean to tell him, at least not like that. I was venting, that’s all.
And I should probably apologize.
But what if he didn’t read the note? I could ruin…everything.
“You’re unusually quiet,” Ryland says, coaxing me out my head.
I hold up his tie. “I’m just marveling at how quickly men can be convinced to shed their clothing.”
Surprised amusement flashes in his eyes, and he barks out a laugh. “You’re taking this division of professional time and personal time very seriously, aren’t you?”
I shrug, feeling victorious for earning a laugh.
When we arrive at the tux shop just forty-five minutes before they close, we find it packed.
“Why is this place so busy?” Ryland asks me quietly, looking as if he’d like to turn on his heel and march right back out.
“We’ll be with you in a minute!” a blond-haired woman chirps as she hurries by us. “There’s coffee and water on the table over there. Help yourself.”
“It’s almost spring,” I tell Ryland after thanking the woman. “The bridal season.”
“So, it’s like hunting season,” he says dryly, “but different.”
I grin. “Not that different.”
And Ryland laughs again. I’m on a roll.
A few minutes later, an older seamstress in a loud floral print blouse hurries over to us. She’s flung a measuring tape over her shoulder, and several pins poke from the pincushion secured at her wrist. “What wedding are you with, love?”
I glance at Ryland, wickedly amused. Something tells me he’s not going to take kindly to being called “love.” And I’m right—the angle of his brows betrays his displeasure.
But if you didn’t know him as well as I do, you’d never be able to tell. Outwardly, Ryland is nothing but pleasant. (Except with me, of course. But I’d like to think that’s because I’m special. I managed to get under Ryland’s skin from day one.)
Ryland gives the woman the wedding info. She then motions for us to follow her into the back, where she proceeds to measure Ryland for his tux, the lucky woman—and lucky me for getting to watch.
Sadly, there is no actual tux involved in the process. The woman explains it won’t be in until Thursday, and that’s with a rushed order.
“It usually takes over a month,” the seamstress says as she finishes writing Ryland’s measurements onto the form. “We’ll just have to cross our fingers and hope it shows up in time.”
Ryland nods, though he looks as if he wouldn’t be too upset if a delay forced him out of the wedding party.
“We’ll give you a ca
ll when it’s in,” the woman says. “What phone number can we reach you at?”
Ryland rattles off my work number.
“Is that a cell?” she asks.
“It’s my assistant’s number. You should be able to reach her during regular business hours.” He glances at me, hiding a smile. “Unless she’s stapled her finger again.”
“One time,” I mutter.
The woman glances at me questioningly. “You’re the assistant?”
“That’s right.”
She laughs, looking back at the form. “I thought you were the girlfriend.”
“Not yet.” Ryland presses his hand to the small of my back to lead me out of the shop. “Are we free to leave?”
Not.
Yet.
“I have all I need,” she says, giving me a subtle look. “I’ll let you know when it arrives so you can come in for your final fitting.”
After Ryland thanks her, he escorts me past the gaggle of uncomfortable men and their starry-eyed fiancées. I don’t question him on the way out; I don’t press him to see what he meant. It’s a practice in patience, and I tell myself I will be strong.
But the moment we’re tucked inside the privacy of his car, I blurt out, “Not yet?”
Slowly, Ryland meets my eyes and studies me. After several long seconds, he asks, “You have objections?”
Feeling as if I can’t seem too eager, I say, “You’re not the only man in my life, you know.”
“There are more besides the spam caller?”
I bristle a little, not loving that he’s aware of how dead my social life is. “Well, there’s Oliver, too.”
“You just made up a name.”
Laughing, I say, “I did not—he’s the neighbor who gave me the cactus.”
Irritation flashes across Ryland’s face, but he smothers it with a confident smile. “Yes, but you don’t like him.”
“What makes you say that?”
He leans forward, much too close in the vintage sports car. “Because you like me.”
“You’re terribly confident.”
“It’s one of my faults.” He arches a brow. “Some people might even say it’s one of many.”
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