Page 2 of I Almost Do

When I breeze past the outer executive offices and head straight for James’s door, Rebecca, visibly flustered, rises from behind her desk.

She’s one of his executive assistants.Theexecutive assistant, if you ask her. She’s ruthlessly efficient, gorgeous, midthirties, and svelte, with long blonde hair that drops in a perfectly straight fall that could rival a ruler.

She has a golden tan, as if she’s recently spent time in the sun. And if a freckle ever had the nerve to appear on her flawless face, she’d…. Honestly, I have no idea what she’d do. No freckle would ever have the audacity.

“Mrs. Mellinger, I thought you were—”

“In the Hamptons. I know. Surprise!” I say with a smile and waving hands.

“I didn’t see you on the schedule—”

Her desk buzzes, and James’s voice comes through loud and clear. “Have you made those calls to Lofton yet?”

She looks down, distracted, then presses a button on her desk. “Not yet. It’s the middle of the night in his time zone.”

James grunts. “If he’d done his job yesterday, we wouldn’t need to interrupt his beauty sleep now. Call him.”

“Of course. Um, yourwifeis—”

I don’t give her a chance to finish. In the time it took for their brief conversation, I’d already slipped past her and pushed open James’s door.

His chair is turned so he can admire the view from his enormous windows, tinted on the inside but mirrored from the outside. At the sound of the door opening, he swivels back toward me in surprise.

“I see that,” he says into his Bluetooth headset. “No interruptions.” He reaches for the headset, makes a show of removing it and turning it off, then leans forward and laces his fingers together tightly on his desk to form a single fist. His knuckles are white.

No smile. No hug. My stomach lurches because this isn’t the reception I expected. I thought he might be angry later, but not yet. Not before he heard me out.

I shut the door, then take off my jacket and lay it over the back of a chair. Smoothing down my skirt, I fiddle nervously with my briefcase and pull out the manila folder inside.

I bought the briefcase specially for this occasion. Because briefcases are serious. Professional.Competent. It’s still pretty and a bit feminine becausewhy not?But it’s also secure, because the last thing I need is the paperwork in this thing making it into the hands of the press before it’s in my husband’s.

I try to give James a tentative smile, but it stalls on my face at the hard, flat expression on his. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I saw him for the first time in person in six months, but I know it wasn’t this nonreaction.

He stands, and the sight of him has my heart in my throat and my knees weak. And suddenly, I can’t believe I had the nerve to just show up like this without calling ahead first. Without telling him about the lawyer. It seemed like such a good idea when I planned this moment. I’d march in all Boss Babe Miss Independent. I’d show him how together I have my life. How I don’t need him anymore.

But James isn’t giving me any reaction at all to go on. Is he pleased to see me, or would he just like to get this interruption over with so he can go back to the things he does in this fancy office, in the fancy building, with my father’s name lighting the New York City skyline? Did I misinterpret his letter?

James doesn’t smile. He just sends his burning blue gaze in a slow slide from the top of my curly auburn head to my cute ruby ankle boots and back up again.

I should have worn black stilettos or at least a pair of pumps. But the slim gray pencil skirt, ivory button-down, andbriefcasewere as far as I was willing to go in my bid to convince my husband to take me seriously. I’d looked at those stupid stilettos and couldn’t do it. They were a bridge too far.

Liking cute shoes that don’t hurt my feet doesn’t make me immature. It makes me fun and practical.

Looking at my husband, I’m struck again by just how utterly beautiful James is. I don’t use that word lightly. He’s tall and fit, with a swimmer’s physique he keeps honed with hours spent in the pool. His hair is dark, with just a touch of a wave to it. I drink him in like I’ve been in the desert, and he’s a tall drink of water.

Like Rebecca, he has a bit of a tan right now too.

James is dressed in a bespoke suit that cost more than some people pay for a car. His tie is off, though, and the top button of his shirt is undone. He moves to sit on the edge of his desk and beckons me closer.

My feet move before my brain gives them permission. And then I’m standing in front of him, close enough that if he reaches out, he can touch me. Close enough that I can smell the warm, familiar spice of his cologne. Close enough to see the little dent in the center of his full lower lip.

I stare at the tiny scar on his earlobe because that should be safe. No one lusts after earlobes. Except, apparently, me.Damn it.I want to touch him. My fingers practically vibrate with the need.

The silence is stretching painfully between us. Involuntarily, I sneak a peek at his eyes. He’s watching my mouth. And there’s something so tormented about him that it hurts to look at.

His lashes lift, and his gaze clashes with my own. He has on that severe expression he sometimes wears. His eyes burn like a blue flame, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

He looks so angry. But why? He doesn’t even know I’ve been to a lawyer.

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