Beautiful Secret

“All right?” he asked quietly.

“I’m good. Just need coffee.”

His eyes twinkled with some mysterious delight. As if he enjoyed my absolute, desperate torment. “Right, then. See you downstairs.”

Game on, Mr. Darcy.

The elevator ride to the lobby was the longest of my life. I counted down each floor on the screen near the top, my nerves twisting tighter the farther down I went. Niall would be waiting for me and then we’d walk to the temporary office together. Just us. No distractions. Alone. No big deal.

Except that it was a huge deal. This was the start of one of my most exciting professional experiences, and also a day full of the person I was fairly sure was the Most Amazing Man on the Planet.

I smoothed my dress, straightened the collar on my jacket, and double-checked everything: purse, laptop, cell phone, ass and underwear covered. Despite my nerves, I was still tired. My laptop case felt heavier than normal and seemed to weigh down my right shoulder, the combination of fatigue and jitters leaving me feeling slightly speedy.

I checked my reflection again in the gleaming doors, suddenly questioning my outfit. It would be cold out but likely too warm in the office, where the heat would be turned up to compensate for the March chill. I’d chosen knee-length boots with a reasonable heel; they would double as both comfortable to walk in, and warm enough should our day find us venturing out into the city and down into one of the many subway stations we’d be monitoring. I had every file and report I would need printed out. I was ready.

And yet, still terrified.

I reached the lobby and looked around for Niall, but I didn’t have to look long. He was behind me, back near the registration desk, and help me Jesus because paired with the overcoat he had slung over his arm, his suit was straight-up business porn.

“Holy shit, you wear a suit well.”

I’d thought those words a hundred times over the last few months. Thousands. I’d said them under my breath as I’d passed him in the halls and it was possible I’d had more than one X-rated fantasy that started out with those exact words. But never, not in any of them did he swallow, look down the length of my body, and reply with “I suspect you wear everything well.”

And then immediately look like he wanted to shove the words back into his mouth and die.

Pardon?

When I was little I had an Etch A Sketch. I spent hours staring at that red frame and flat gray board, pulling it out to doodle whenever my bus was late or while entertaining myself on a drive home. Most people drew pictures or played games, but I was obsessed with drawing my name and perfecting the art of getting each letter down without seeing the line where they connected.

My mom would tell me to draw something else, that I would burn the image of those letters into the screen if I continued to do the same thing, over and over. And she was right. Eventually, no matter how many times I shook the board, hoping to clear the image, a ghost of the letters still showed on the screen.

I knew this would be the exact same thing, but it would be branded on my brain for the rest of time.

I suspect you wear everything well.

Had Niall Stella really said that? Was I having a stroke? Would I ever think of any other sentence for the rest of my life?

When I came to my senses, I realized he was already off and nearly gone. I quickened my steps and followed him out the hotel’s revolving door and left, down Fifty-Sixth Street.

I suspect you wear everything well.

“—all right?” he said, and I blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, rushing to keep up with his long strides. Seriously, walking beside him was like galloping next to a giraffe.

“I asked if my assistant Jo had sent everything along? Whether everything had come across all right? Normally I wouldn’t send you things, as you’re not working for me here, but thought it might be best if we were both on the same page.”

“Oh, yes. Yes,” I said, nodding. “Emails arrived yesterday as soon as we’d landed. She’s very . . . efficient.”

Niall Stella blinked over to me with his obscenely long lashes. “She is.”

“How long has she worked for you?” I asked, my voice sounding a bit distracted, even to my own ears. I’d never been with him out in broad daylight like this, and I was feeling flustered with just how good-looking he was: his skin was gorgeous, clear and smooth and absolutely flawless. It was obvious he took his time shaving, and everything was perfect, right down to his sideburns. I wondered if he measured them with a ruler.

He considered this. “Four years, this twelfth of September.”

“Wow. That’s . . . specific.”