Page 45 of Toy Shop

“What am I, then?” I ask, curious about her thoughts about me, to hear them out loud instead of guessing them through her eyes.

The soft amber glow of the night lamp casts a tender light on her face, illuminating her smile. “You’re exactly how you should be.”

Jesus. How can she be this assured I’m worthy of her when I’m not?

“You’re something else.” I brush a long, wavy strand away from her cheek to get a better view of her. “Perfect.”

“I’m aware.”

Her sassy attitude is designed to mask her exhaustion, one I can’t miss. “You’re also up way past your bedtime.”

“Alistair…”

I chuckle at her warning. “I’m not patronizing. It’s almost one a.m.”

“Big fucking whoop.” On principle, she forces her eyes to open. “I have the afternoon shift.”

“Still, you’ve been up for hours. You need to sleep.”

A yawn escapes her. My winning argument. I quirk an eyebrow. She answers with a frown. Another huff of a laugh escapes me. I reach for the pull chain of the night lamp, switching off the light.

“Good night, Nola.” I rub her back in soothing circles.

“Night, Alistair.”

Her gentle tugs at the smattering of my chest hair slowly diminish, her breaths turn shallow. Only when I’m confident she’s safe in her sleep do I permit myself the same luxury, meeting her in my dreams.

“Come on in,” I answer the knock on my office door the next day.

Hannah Smith, my assistant, pushes the door to my office and lets herself in. A cream-colored folder containing stacks of papers is enfolded in her hands, a pleased expression on her face.

“This much joy on a Monday?” I lace my fingers on the table, leaning forward. After working for over ten years together, we developed a friendship where our titles don’t impede our banter. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hannah?”

“You’re too clever for your own good, Mr. Cromwell.” The sixty-year-old assistant refuses to call me by my first name, banter or not. “I adore the day-to-day work here, but whenever I’m fortunate enough to witness you opening a charity, I truly love it.”

“Well, I’m in luck, then. This company wouldn’t function without you.”

Although I fell asleep right after Nola, my mind couldn’t. I woke up four hours later with an idea of how to aid Nola in getting her dream while maintaining the boundaries she set.

I called my lawyers and my accountant as early as six in the morning, and gave them the orders I had in mind for the new philanthropist charity I would donate to.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Cromwell. Especially not in the good graces of Mr. Smith.” Hannah lays the folder on my mahogany desk. A square, blue slip of paper is pressed on top of it. “Here’s the number of the gentleman you asked me to find for you. You’re sure you don’t want me to place the call?”

“Absolutely.” I snatch Rhodes’s cell number, knowing better than to come off as a condescending prick to Nola’s best friend. “Thank you, Hannah.”

“You’re most welcome.” She spins on her heels, closing the door behind her.

His phone rings twice. “Hello?”

“Rhodes, hi, this is Alistair.”

Silence permeates the line. “Alistair Cromwell? Nola’s boyfriend?”

An unfamiliar warmth engulfs me, and I have to blink my eyes against the foreign assault. When I left Nola this morning at seven, she woke up to kiss me goodbye, returning to her peaceful sleep a second later.

It’s only nine a.m. now, and she’s already talked to him about us.

She’s too good for you, the incessant voice keeps whispering.

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