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.”
He smiled, looking back to his phone.
I suspect you wear everything well.
The morning air was cool on my face, and I closed my eyes, grateful for the touch of biting wind this morning. It helped clear my head as we covered the first block, and turned right onto Avenue of the Americas.
Only now did it occur to me that this was my first morning in New York City. London felt like a city, yes, and it was huge. But I always had the sense that I was standing in a place that had been there for centuries, that the trees and buildings and even the walkways I strolled on looked much like they had since they were put in. New York clearly had its older buildings, but many things were modern and new, steel and glass that stretched to the sky. It seemed to be in a constant cycle of rebirth. Scaffolding lined much of the sidewalks and we simply walked under it, or followed signs that led us around.
I tried to use this time to go over what might be waiting for us today: setting up meetings with the local officials, getting the complete schedule of all the different speakers, and compiling a list of which stations were most in need of repairs.
But I couldn’t focus, and each time the sound of traffic dulled and my thoughts finally started to string together, Niall would walk around someone and brush my shoulder. Maybe notice a loose board in a construction walkway, and touch my forearm while pointing it out in warning. We’d walked five minutes and if someone had asked what I’d been thinking about, I would have stuttered out some unintelligible nonsense and laughed awkwardly.
We reached the corner and waited for the signal to walk. Niall pocketed his phone and stood a respectable distance away from me, but close enough that the arm of his jacket brushed against mine when I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder. The morning was cold, and each one of his exhales sent a little puff of condensation out into the air in front of him. I had to force myself not to stare at his lips and the way his tongue peeked out to wet them.
When the light changed, the crowd moved in front of us, and I felt the press of his palm on the small of my back, urging me forward.
His hand on my lower back . . . just inches away from my ass. And if he was going to touch my ass, it was basically the same as him touching me between my legs. So, yes, my brain reacted like Niall Stella was touching my clit and I nearly tripped and sprawled flat in the intersection.
We reached the sidewalk on the other side, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to slow his steps.
“You don’t have to slow down,” I told him. “I can keep up.”
Niall Stella shook his head. “Sorry?” he asked, feigning innocence. So one: he was trying to be polite and not point out that my far shorter legs were struggling to keep up with his. And two: he was a terrible liar.
“You’re like eight feet tall with legs that are twice as long as mine. Of course you’d walk faster than me. But I can keep up, I promise not to slow you down.”
A hint of a blush warmed his cheeks and he smiled. “You were nearly falling down there for a moment,” he teased, motioning behind us. My heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with sprinting down the streets of New York.
“I was trying to be smooth and pretend that didn’t happen,” I said, laughing. I was glad he kept his eyes forward, because my grin was so wide it was about to crack my face in half. “Forget the fancy shoes, next time I’ll wear my Nikes.”
“Those aren’t bad,” he said, nodding toward my boots. “Quite nice, really. I remember Portia would wear the highest heels, even when we’d travel. She’d—” He paused, glancing over to me as if just realizing I wouldn’t know any of this. “Sorry. Won’t bore you with the details of all that.”
Whoa, what?
Even in profile, I could see the way his brows drew together in a frown. He clearly hadn’t intended a stroll down memory lane, but I couldn’t deny the secret, dark part of me that delighted in the slip. That he’d let himself get into that comfortable place where he’d let his walls down, for just a moment.
“Portia was your wife?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational, light. Definitely not showing that I was hanging on his every word. He’d mentioned her on the plane, but hadn’t ever said her name.