Page 85 of One Night Only
“Okay, you can see me again.” I frown when he doesn’t move. “Now?”
He smiles at the reluctance in my voice. “No, not now. What about this weekend? I can give you a tour of our office. Prove to you that I’m the real deal. We can talk.”
“Talk?”
“Yeah,” he says, the smile widening. “Why? You have something else in mind?”
“You—” I stop talking. He’s teasing me again.
And I don’t hate it.
We watch each other for a beat, both of us still as the city bustles around us.
I realize belatedly that he is very handsome in his nice work jacket and his nice work pants, looking professional and sexy, which is ridiculous because it’s 3 p.m. on a Thursday and who looks this good 3 p.m. on a Thursday?
“Are you checking me out?”
“No,” I say, embarrassed he caught me. He always seems to know exactly when my mind wanders.
“You can if you want to.”
“I have to go back inside.”
“Or I could show you around now,” he says, a fresh glint in his eye. “Why wait?”
“I have to work.”
“This is work.”
“I’ll see you on Saturday.”
His smile remains. I don’t know whether I want to slap it or kiss it off his face. “So just to confirm, I’m definitely forgiven?”
“Goodbye, Declan.”
“I’ll see you on Saturday,” he calls as I head back to the office. “No take-backs.”
19
No take-backs.
The space to think is good. It’s calming, meaning when I meet him a little after eleven outside a shabby, squat office block the next morning, I’m feeling a lot more levelheaded. I didn’t exactly get eight hours of sleep, but I got at least five interrupted ones and drank one of Claire’s terrible green smoothies when I woke. It’s the best I’ve managed in a while.
Declan’s waiting for me when I arrive, holding two coffees and, I’m pleased to see, looking just as well intentioned as I am.
“Good morning.” He hands me a cup and I take a sip, only to wince as a sugary sweetness hits my tongue. “Why do you always make that face when I get you a drink?”
“What’s in this?” I cough as I wipe my lip. It’s not enough. I want to wash my mouth out.
“Coffee.”
“And?”
“Two pumps of vanilla, extra cinnamon, cream—”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, handing it back to him.
“The cream’s nonfat.”
