Page 21 of Just The Way You Aren't

His brow furrows. “Alfred?”

“Your assistant,” I respond, confused. “Right?”

Damien bursts out into more hearty guffaws. “One, Rhonda would have killed me if I asked her to print out everything in that folder. There’d be twice as much paper in here than you already have. And two, Alfred is most definitely not my assistant.”

I think I may spontaneously combust. His smile is so sexy. “Well, um, Alfred, you said…”

“He’s a member of my board of directors. And I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns.” He sighs, his mouth turningback down into its usual grimace. “He’s made it his mission on Earth to fuck with my life. Er, excuse my French.”

“Is he the one who was supposed to tell you not to wear a suit your first day here?” I ask, suspicious.

“Good guess. I’m sure he would have loved it if the press had been there that day to see me dressed completely inappropriately for the occasion.” He scowls. “Asshole.”

“Pardon your French,” I tease.

Damien cracks a smile. “Yes.”

We spend the next forty-five minutes poring over pictures and party favors, silverware and a slideshow about Silver Hearts. Though we argue every now and then, he still maintains his smile. In fact, he seems to smile more when we argue.

Suddenly, he looks down at the iPad, then at his Apple Watch, as though either one is going to give him different information. “I’m sorry. Our hour is up.”

“Our hour is up?” I repeat.

“Yes. I scheduled an hour for this meeting, and it’s up. But I’ll be back for the next planning session,” he informs me, standing.

I stand as well. “Yes, well, I’m sure—I mean, I know—I have very important things to do as well.”

We both head for the door at the same time and smash into each other when we both try to pass through at the same time.

“Oh dear,” I murmur. Then I look up into those captivating green eyes and for a moment I’m unable to move. Unable to do anything but stare into his gaze as if I’ve lost all good sense. “Oh, my.”

Damien stares back, unmoving, too. We’re so close, his breath fans my face. “Oh my is right.”

I stop breathing altogether as the air between us thickens. His head lowers and my lips tingle. Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me? I’m all but sure he’s going to. I lick my lips, an involuntary response to the way his sinful mouth inches closer and closer.

Then he abruptly pulls away. “Well, goodnight, Ms. Harper. Er, Willow. I’ll see you again, soon.”

He swiftly slides past me, then hurries out of the office without looking back.

I stare after him, my senses still swamped by desire. For Damien Langley—easily the most aggravatingly uptight man I’ve ever met.

What the hell just happened?

CHAPTER 8

DAMIEN

Silver forks clink delicately on fine bone china. Crystal water and wine glasses flash in the chandelier light. My mother looks small at the other end of the long table, but then, she has since my father died. My sister and brother-in-law sit on either side of her. Our mother ought to be holding court at the family estate, like a true matriarch. Instead, it’s my Park Avenue residence, my table, my dinnerware, and my chef we use every Thursday evening when we have family dinner.

Cynthia was seven minutes late getting here with her husband, Martin, and Mother. Miraculously, this irked the chef even more than it did me. It was unusual for them to be late, and outwardly I forgave them, but inwardly all I hear is the ticking of the minutes and wonder if I will have to carve out seven more minutes at the end of the evening to accommodate them.

“How have you been lately?” Cynthia breaks the silence of our formal dinner.

I like the formality of it. The tradition. We’ve had dinnerthis way for as long as I can remember, with Father when he was alive, and now without him—though sometimes Mother forgets that last part. I try to imagine Willow here and the idea almost makes me laugh aloud. With her warm personality and hippie garb, I imagine her freezing to death in a stiff and cold atmosphere like this.

Thinking of Willow inevitably also makes me think about that unsettling moment when I was nearly overcome with the impulse to kiss her. I mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m never at a loss for control, least of all in my personal relationships—such as they are.

But something about Willow makes me act out of sorts. Makes mefeelout of sorts. It must be the happy chaos that surrounds her. Is it rubbing off on me? Impossible, I reassure myself. That momentary near lapse in judgment was just an isolated incident. One that, fortunately, I was able to nip in the bud before I crossed a line I damn well don’t intend to cross. Least of all with her, the woman who’s supposed to be my ticket to restoring my public reputation.

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