The way my name is caressed by his accent is without a doubt sexy as hell.
As he brushes his lips over my knuckles, the stubble along his jaw grazing over the soft skin of my hand, I don’t respond, but when he keeps his hold a beat too long, I pull away. His smirk remains, as if amused by my reaction.
He casually turns to the man that was showing me around and dismisses him. Turning back to me, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks and asks, “So, what do you think?”
“I think my husband was right; it’s the perfect place to host the party.”
“Great. Did you need to look around anymore?”
“I think I’ve gotten my fill for the moment.”
He seems humored by something, maybe me, and pulls his hands out of his pockets, placing one on my back as he leads me out of the room.
“Let’s go to my office and discuss the details then.”
We make our way into his office, and I stand in the center of the oversized room as he walks over to his desk, moving with a relaxed confidence, and grabs the laptop. He nods his head towards the leather couch, saying, “Please, have a seat.”
I situate myself and open my planner, flipping through the pages to find my calendar, when I feel his eyes on me.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask when I look up at him, feigning my annoyance.
“Where does one even buy a paper planner anymore?” he teases.
“Lots of places.”
“I haven’t seen one of those in years. You do know they make these things called tablets now.”
Smiling at his banter, I say, “Yes. Every now and then I’m able to crawl out from under my rock to keep up to speed with modern technology, thank you.”
He shakes his head and laughs as I watch his smile reach his green eyes and crinkle at the corners.
“Do you even own one?” he asks, still smirking at me.
“No.”
He doesn’t respond, but his unfaltering look pulls out my answer to his unspoken ‘Why?’
“I like privacy. Technology disrupts that. I can burn paper and throw the ashes away as if it never existed. Untraceable.” Giving the sly grin back to him, I add, “But you? Don’t you think it’s foolish that you’re putting yourself out there? To be exposed?”
“Is this a riddle?”
I laugh, ignoring his question as I flip through my calendar and confirm, “You have December 31st open, correct?”
Sighing, he shifts and looks at his laptop, saying, “Yes.”
“Great. Bennett likes to keep this event small, two hundred or so. Security is important to him—”
“You as well?” he interrupts and I soften my face, smile, and say, “Yes. Me, as well. As I was saying, guests will need to check in, so will your staff provide that amenity?”
“Anything you want.”
We spend the next hour discussing ideas for setup and scheduling meetings with a few vendors for the next couple of weeks before I call to have Baldwin pick me up. Declan’s well-bred manners sway to the salacious side with the way he kisses me when I leave, gripping my upper arms in his hands and dragging his lips along my cheek before pressing his lips on the shell of my ear, whispering, “Until next time.”
DECLAN CALLED ME two days ago to confirm my meeting with the florist. He recommended the company located in Andersonville that his hotel uses to outfit the lobby, so I agreed. After discussing the masked ball theme with Bennett this morning, he gave me the green light, which made me happy. I can tell he misses me from our phone call—he wasn’t quick to hang up—but he’ll be returning from Dubai tomorrow evening. Despite his loneliness, he was happy to have acquired the production plant that he set out to buy from the nearly bankrupt company over there.
The drive to Andersonville takes longer than usual with the weather. Winters in Chicago are brutal to the city but a brutality that I enjoy. So as I ride in the backseat, I find myself watching the white snow hit the window and slowly melt to a drizzling cascade down the glass.
Arriving at Marguerite Gardens, I walk into the rustic shop. Brick walls, weathered wooden floors, extravagant floral arrangements set atop the agrarian tables, and him. Standing there in charcoal slacks and a light blue button-up, he turns away from the woman he’s speaking with and smiles as I walk over to him. Miffed.
“What are you doing here?”
“You made it,” Declan announces quietly with what looks like irritation and drops a scant kiss to my hand when he takes it.
“I didn’t know you’d be joining me.”
“I promised your husband I would oversee everything to ensure you get exactly what you want. So here I am,” he states, and then lowers his voice, “ensuring you get exactly what you want.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“That,” I say. “Your crass flirting.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?”
Completely ignoring my question, he turns around and calls out, “Betty, show us what you have.”