“Hello, Mr. Burkhardt,” she said, her voice so professionally neutral it could have moderated a debate between the Dalai Lama and Satan without taking sides.
“Mr. Burkhardt? Really? After what we... I mean, after yesterday?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice.
“I’m at the office,” she replied, her tone softening. “Mari and Devonna are within earshot, and they’re already suspicious enough after the island.”
“Ah.” That made sense. “Can you talk?”
“About business matters, yes.”
Business matters. Right. Because that’s all this was. Business. Except for the part where I couldn’t stop thinking about the little gasp she’d made when I’d kissed that spot just below her ear, a sound that had taken up permanent residence in my spank bank’s VIP section.
“I need a date for the Children’s Hospital Gala tomorrow night,” I blurted, abandoning my carefully planned opening.
There was a pause. “I’m sure Angie would be available.”
“I told you, I broke things off.” I ran a hand through my hair, pacing across my office like a caged tiger with erectile dysfunction. “I’m not calling her.”
“I’m sure I could fix that if you?—”
“I’m not asking someone else,” I interrupted. “I’m asking you.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Is this professional or personal?”
“Does it have to be one or the other?” I countered, then immediately regretted it. “I mean... I’d like you to come. As my date. But I understand if you’d rather keep things strictly professional.”
I held my breath, waiting for her answer.
“Okay,” she said finally.
“Okay?” I repeated, not quite believing it.
“Yes. I’ll go with you to the gala.”
“Great!” I winced at my over-enthusiastic tone. “I mean, good. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven works. Text me the details about the dress code.”
“Will do. And Anica?”
“Yes?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
There was the briefest hesitation before she replied, “Me too,” and hung up.
I stared at my phone, an idiotic grin spreading across my face. She’d said yes. She was coming to the gala. With me. As my date.
“You’ve changed that tie four times now,” Erika observed from the doorway of my bedroom. “Should I be concerned you’re having some kind of fashion-related breakdown? Or is this early-onset dementia? If so, can I have your yacht when you lose all cognitive function?”
“The blue one looked too corporate. The burgundy one was too much. The gray one was boring. And this one...” I frowned at my reflection, tugging at the green silk tie I’d just knotted. “This one makes me look like I’m trying too hard.”
“Heaven forbid you look like you’re putting effort into your appearance,” my assistant remarked. “The world might stop spinning. Small children would weep. The stock market would crash.”
I shot her a look. “So good to have you back, Erika.”
“Would it be more helpful if I pointed out that you’ve never spent this long getting ready for any event, including your TED talk and that time you met the Queen of England? You were less nervous when you testified before Congress about privacy violations. You spent less time preparing for your Harvard commencement speech than you have choosing a tie for this date.”
“I’m beginning to regret giving you a key to my penthouse,” I muttered, unknotting the green tie and reaching for the blue one again.
