He’s watching me with that same look in his eye he had last night, the first moment we met — with razor-sharp curiosity, as though he’s never seen anything quite like me before. The thought makes my throat start to close. I swiftly decide I’ll happily lose our staring contest, if it means not being the subject of his study for another moment.
I drag my eyes from him and examine the office around me. I thought it would be soulless, colorless — the space of a corporate drone. Instead, I find myself surrounded on all sides by photographs. They line the walls in a kaleidoscope of color. Intrigued despite my better judgment, I wander a little closer to examine the ones on the nearest wall.
There’s no discernible pattern or theme — every frame is a different size, a different subject. There are massive canvases that take up several feet of wall space alongside tiny frames no larger than a postcard. Some are portraits — young faces, wrinkled features, every age in between. Some are places — recognizable streets of Boston, entirely foreign lands I couldn’t think to name.
Close-ups. Landscapes.
Unfocused. High-resolution.
They’re all unique. In fact, they only have one thing in common.
They’re all amazing.
Whoever took them knows their way around a camera lens, that’s for damn sure. Some of these should be hanging in museums, not a CEO’s office.
“Wow,” I murmur, stopped in my tracks by a particularly vivid shot of a couple hand-in-hand on a cobbled street, surrounded by thousands of pigeons in flight with a blazing, orange sunset in the background.
“Piazza San Marco, in Venice.” His response is quiet — I didn’t realize he’d heard my hushed exclamation. “I was cutting through on my way to dinner and just happened to have my camera with me. Some shots you wait all day for — that one unfolded totally on its own. Right place, right time.”
I glance at him. “You took this?”
He nods.
Spinning in a slow circle, I look around at the dozens of frames on his walls. “You took all of these,” I marvel.
There’s a beat of silence. “Did you come here to look at my pictures?”
The amused question draws my gaze back to him.
I suck in a breath. That half-smile of his is killer.
Focus! You’re here to get your flash drive back, not make moony eyes at the man or compliment his dreamy photography skills.
I fold my arms over my chest to mirror his pose. Sadly, I doubt I’m equally intimidating.
“I don’t care about your photos,” I say, wishing my voice didn’t sound so breathy. “That’s not why I came.”
“So, I’ll just have to assume you were desperate to see me again.” His grin is sinful. “Can’t say I blame you.”
I scoff.
He makes a tsk noise. “First you sexually harass me last night, then you track me down at my office… Do you have a crush on me, snookums?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Fine.” He chuckles. “How about boo-bear?”
“How about I shove my foot up your ass?”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a maybe.” His head tilts in thought. “Pumpkin?”
“Eat a dick.”
“Cuddles?”
“Go die.”
“Cookie? Sugar? Snickerdoodle?”
“Why are all of these food-themed?”
“I’m hungry.” His grin widens. “Want to go grab lunch?”
“Are you seriously asking me out right now?”
“Of course not.” He pauses. “Why, would you say yes if I did?”
“No.”
“We’ll get something light. Chinese food.” His forehead creases. “I’m always starving thirty minutes after I gorge on Chinese. Why is that?”
I glare at him in lieu of a response.
“Okay, no egg rolls for you. Got it.” He continues as though I’m fully engaged in the conversation. “Appetizers and drinks.”
“Stop.”
“Fine, fine. Just the drinks, then. You convinced me.” He pushes off the desk and takes a step closer. His eyes gleam with good humor. “Unless you change your mind and want to grab dinner afterward, of course.”
Shameless. The man is completely, totally, one hundred percent shameless.
I wonder why I find that so sexy.
“You’re trying to distract me again,” I say in an uppity tone.
“Is it working?”
“No.” Yes.
“Most girls would love to have dinner with me.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
He laughs and the sound pools in my stomach like a warm shot of whiskey. “You’ll cave eventually. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m extremely persistent when I find something I want.” He takes another step in my direction. “Like the time I was in Thailand and I wanted a massive quarter-pounder with bacon and American cheese. It wasn’t easy, I had to drive almost a hundred miles… but I found a burger place. And damn if it wasn’t the best burger I ever had.”
“Do you take anything seriously?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Not if I can help it.”
“So you aren’t at all concerned about the fact that the entire WestTech server is down?”
He sighs. “You want to know what I’m concerned about?”
“Not really, no.”
“Cronuts.” He gestures at the plate of leftover baked goods on the sleek coffee table to his left. “I mean… is it a doughnut or is it a croissant? Who decides these things?” He shakes his head, as if deeply troubled. “What if someone put a gun to your head and made you separate all baked goods into categories? What then, huh? Where the hell would the cronuts wind up?”