Page 4 of Honor

In the end, Randall Fitzpatrick and his two sisters became millionaires overnight and never had to bake another sweet roll. That was all any of them wanted.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll start on my work for the day.”

Since I assigned the majority of it late last night in an email, I nod. “I’ll be out of the office for lunch today. Move my one o’clock to six.”

A frown mars her pretty face when she realizes that means she’ll be stuck in this building tonight while I negotiate a potential deal with a member of Vidori’s legal team and a lawyer representing a small winery located on Long Island.

I expect Miss Starling to be present whenever I’m conducting a meeting in the office in the event I need her to make a call or find a file for me.

I’m more than capable of doing both myself, but I pay her well enough that she can save me from mundane tasks.

“I need you to pick up my dry cleaning,” I say without a shift in my expression. “Drop it off at my apartment before noon.”

There’s no rhyme or reason to the timing, but concise instructions leave little room for misinterpretation.

I’ve never seen her jot down anything I’ve told her to do for me, and yet, she’s never failed to do exactly as asked.

“Is that all, sir?”

Hardly.

“Water my plants while you’re at my home, and check on the schedule for the cleaning crew. They mentioned something about needing to come Thursday, but I want them there tomorrow.”

“Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Hunt?”

“Arrange a birthday gift for my sister. It will need to be delivered to her in Denver on Friday.” I don’t provide more detail than that because I’m curious to see what Miss Starling will come up with.

“Not a problem.” She glances over her shoulder. “I’ll get back to my desk to answer a few pressing emails sent to you overnight, and then I’ll take care of everything else.”

I have no doubt she will.

CHAPTER THREE

Evie

“What’sthat saying about the suit making the man?” A blonde woman standing in front of me glances over her shoulder. “The man who wearsthosesuits must be a special specimen.”

She’s referring to the three suits I’ve been lugging around Manhattan for the past twenty minutes. Sure, they’re custom-made and ordered directly from some big deal tailor in Italy, but they’re also heavy as hell.

I smile at the woman because it’s not her fault Mr. Hunt is just over six feet tall. At times like this, I wish he hovered around the five foot mark like me. It would make for a lighter load because there would be a lot less material.

“He’s something,” I say.

Her gaze wanders over my bare left hand. “Unless he didn’t spring for a ring, he’s not your husband or fiancé.”

I shudder at the thought. Literally. My entire body quakes at the mere suggestion of being married to my boss.

“He’s not either of those.” I shift the clear garment bag containing the suits from one arm to the other. “These belong to my boss.”

Her green eyes skim my face. “You’re not a fan?”

“In no way, shape, or form,” I tell her since she’ll never know Mr. Hunt’s name.

Nodding, she glances at the jeweler we’re both waiting to speak with.

I have business with the man because Mr. Hunt sent me a text message twenty seconds after I picked up his dry cleaning. I swear he put a tracking device in one of the jacket pockets.

The message was concise and got right to his point.

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