Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
I’m running late for obvious reasons when I screech to a stop in front of my house, slamming Harry the Honda into park with a satisfying jolt. My brain is already spinning possible excuses to toss at Lila as to why I’m so late—and since oh, I stayed at Matthew’s last night but didn’t have a change of clothes for today —probably won’t go over well, I’m hoping to brainstorm something a tad more creative. But I’m distracted from spinning my deceptive tales when I spot my elderly neighbor—Tilda? Zelda?—standing on my porch, taping something to my front door.
Great.
I sigh, half hoping she’ll scuttle away before I get out of the car. But no, she hears me as soon as I open the car door, her head snapping up like she’s been caught committing a crime.
“Oh! Ellie, I thought you were at work!” she exclaims, pulling down the piece of paper and handing it to me.
Ellie—I have a letter for you. Tilda.
“Thanks.” I resist the urge to correct my name even as I wonder if someone on the block named Ellie is missing her mail.
I smile again, mostly because I don’t know what to say, and she takes that opportunity to pass me a brown paper bag that rattles when I shake it. Which makes me pretty certain there’s more in there than a letter.
She must see the confusion on my face, because she smiles, pats my arm, then says, “I know how much you single girls like candy. I had some left over from Halloween and thought I should spread the love.”
“Great.” I somehow manage a smile as I imagine biting into an eight-month-old, sugar-coated gummy concoction. “It was sweet of you to think of me,” I add, because it’s true. Even if delivering misdirected mail with a side of stale candy is more than a little odd.
She just stands there, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tip her or make conversation. I decide to go for a polite-but-bland smile. “I’m so late for work.” I pause, hoping she takes the hint. “Just one of those days,” I add, when she continues to linger.
“Hmm,” she says, squinting at me with the sharp, discerning gaze of someone who’s about to launch into a story I don’t have time for.
But all she says is, “Long night?” and I feel heat bloom across my cheeks.
“Something like that,” I mutter, willing her to just saunter back to her house. But no, now she’s shifting her weight and adjusting her oversized purse like we’re settling in for a chat.
“The letter in there was mis-delivered weeks ago,” she says. “I’m sorry to have held onto it so long. I’ve been away—an Australian cruise. So magnificent! And my dear, you would not believe the kangaroos. They’re so?—”
“That sounds fabulous” I interrupt, my voice a little too high-pitched. “But I’m terribly late for a meeting.”
Not true, of course, but the mental image of Lila’s stony-eyed glare is enough to put the fear of God into me. I start shifting from foot to foot, hoping this universal sign of urgency will get her to wrap things up.
“Oh, of course. You working girls. Always busy. My Betsy goes a mile a minute, and I can’t ever seem to?—”
“I’m really sorry. But you know I work at Hardline, and I have a conference call with Steven Spielberg in less than an hour, so I really need to run.”
She presses a hand to her heart. “Indiana Jones is absolutely delicious, isn’t he?”
“Hell, yes,” I say, and right then, I’m being totally sincere.
“Well, I won’t keep you.” She finally starts tottering down the steps, moving at the speed of molasses.
I sigh again, then hurry to her side, taking an arm to steady her as she makes her way down, chattering all the while about koalas.
By the time I manage to get inside the house and close the door behind me, I’m practically vibrating with impatience. I toss the bag carelessly onto the entry table and sprint to my room, not even bothering to scope out the candy situation. I have zero need to apply fun-size Snickers directly to my ass in the days before I’m—hopefully—going to be up close and very personal with Matthew.
Besides, I bet Tilda only buys the cheap stuff for the little witches and warlocks.
Twenty minutes later, right when I’m finally showered, dressed, and ready to bolt out the door, my phone screen lights up with a text from Lila.
If you are running late, policy is to check in. If you are out sick, policy is the same.
I groan, then type a quick reply. Sorry. On my way.
I toss the phone onto the desk, then run my hands through my hair, frustration churning through me. I need time to think, but Lila won’t tolerate me blowing off work—especially not on my second day. And the last thing I need is her breathing down my neck.
I’m going to have to sacrifice something to the Business Gods, because despite being ridiculously late, Lila gave me no grief at all. I’m not sure if that’s because Matthew told her that I’d been working at home (a nice cover for which I was grateful) or because she’s had an epiphany and both likes and values me as a co-worker now.
I’m going to with option two. Because I’m just that kind of optimistic gal.
Even better, she’s out of the office now, leaving me to my own devices. I have no idea where she’s gone, but I sent up a silent thank you to whoever drew her away, even though that leaves me alone to handle the office despite not fully knowing all the ropes. But Matthew’s in his office tackling dozens of return phone calls, so if I’m desperate I can catch him between the time one light on the phone goes out and another lights up. Or, I can try.
Besides, the work Lila left on my desk doesn’t require an in-depth knowledge of the company or the entertainment business. Filing only requires the alphabet, and I’ve had that down pat for years.
By the time I’m three hours into the project, however, my chipper mood fades. Life, I’m beginning to think, might be a lot easier if the Phoenicians had left well enough alone.
I’ve reached a point where the Alphabet Song is going non-stop through my head and I’m seriously considering a lobotomy when there’s a tap at my door. Then Matthew pokes his head in, his smile as refreshing as a cool glass of water. “I thought you looked incredible last night, but you may have one-upped yourself today.”
I think he’s joking, but there’s real heat in his expression, and I do a quick mental assessment. I’m wearing reading glasses, my hair is pulled back with a messy fringe tickling my face, and my fitted tank only barely passes as work attire. Hardly a look to drive men wild.
“What?” I say defensively as he lingers, still silently scoping me out.
“Nothing.” His grin widens. “I’m just trying to figure out if it’s the sexy librarian vibe or the chaos of your desk that’s doing it for me.”
I fight a smile as I lean back in my chair. “It’s the chaos. Your sadistic side gets off on watching people suffer.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Only if they look good doing it.” He steps closer. “And you, Ms. Parker, make filing look like an art form.”
I lift a brow, feigning nonchalance. “You get off watching me file?”
“Maybe.” His tone drops, low and teasing. “But it’s not just the filing. Or the tank top. Or the way your hair keeps falling in your eyes no matter how many times you push it back.”
I wait for him to continue, but he stays silent. “What then?”
“It’s the way you jump into things headfirst.” His voice is soft, his grin fading into something more serious. “Like you’re ready to conquer the world. It’s kind of irresistible.”
My heart skips a beat, his words hitting me harder than I want to admit. For a moment, I let myself wonder if he really sees me that way—if maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this thing between us than banter and chemistry.
Then his grin returns, and he steps back, shattering the moment with a wink. “But yeah, it’s mostly the filing.”
I laugh, the tension breaking, though my pulse is still racing. “Good to know where I stand.”
“Right at the top of the organizational hierarchy.” He backs toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it. But don’t forget—I never play fair.”
My stomach growls, and I glance at the clock. Already past one. I reach to press the intercom, then sway in my chair, silently debating. Finally, I go for it. “Mr. Holt?”
I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Yes, Ms. Parker?”
“Lila texted that she’ll be back in fifteen. I think I’m going to step out for lunch. Have you eaten?”
“Actually, I’m having lunch in Santa Monica.”
“Oh. That sounds like fun.” I wait a beat, expecting him to invite me, then kick myself for being unreasonably disappointed when he doesn’t. I remind myself that we’re not dating— Are we dating? —and even if we are, we wouldn’t be flouting it during working hours.
Plus, when I check his calendar, I can see that it’s a business lunch.
I’d still rather grab a bite with him, but my ego is assuaged. Besides, the Hardline Dining Room serves amazing sushi.
“Then I’ll see you after your lunch,” I say.
“I won’t be coming back to the office.”
“Oh.”
I’m shocked by the depth of disappointment that crashes through me. I’ve never been one to fall hard or fast, but that’s what’s happening with Matthew. My relief is palpable when he adds, “But we’re still on for eight?”
I smile so wide my mouth aches. I couldn’t play coy with this man right now if I tried. And despite having walked into this office with a mission, the truth is I don’t want to go down that road. For better or worse, I trust him.
“Eight o’clock,” I repeat. “Absolutely.”
“Good,” he says, his tone low. “I can’t wait.”
“Neither can I.” The words, so true, send a bolt of fear cutting through me. I’m falling for this guy like I’ve never fallen before. Faster and deeper. So much, that I feel a little out of control.
Honestly, I like the feeling.
But at the same time, I know that if this goes sideways—if I’m wrong about him—it won’t just be my heart on the line.
It’ll be everything.
I think of Jenny, and a chill cuts through me.
It could even be my life.