As we pushed through the lobby doors into the night air, I wondered if we’d ever finish what we’d started.
Chapter
Eight
LANGSTON
I adjusted my tie; the fabric suddenly felt like a noose around my neck. Aven was sitting at her desk, which was still in my fucking office, by the way, typing something with that furrow between her eyebrows she got when she was concentrating. It had been two days since we got stuck in the elevator, two days of remembering how she tasted on my fingers.
Numbers blurred in the expense report in front of me. My eyes drifted back to Aven. She wore a painted-on blue dress that hugged every curve. Her hair was pulled up in a complicated twist, exposing the back of her neck, the same neck I had my mouth on before the goddamn elevator started moving again.
My jaw tightened. My teeth grinded together hard enough that I’d probably need to see my dentist soon. Focus, Black. These quarterly numbers weren’t going to review themselves. Yet three minutes later, Aven stretched her arms overhead, making a small, satisfied sound as her spine popped, and my pen snapped between my fingers, causing blue ink to splatter across the report.
“Shit,” I muttered, grabbing tissues from my desk to blot the mess.
“You okay over there?” Aven asked, not looking up from her screen but with a little smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She knew what she was doing to me.
“Fine… equipment failure.” I grunted, tossing the broken pen in the trash.
The phrase conjured images I didn’t need right now of her pressed against the elevator wall. My equipment worked fine until those lights came back on. I shifted in my chair, adjusting myself as discreetly as possible. This was fucking ridiculous. I was thirty-four years old, not some hormone-crazed teenager who couldn’t control himself around a pretty girl.
Except Aven wasn’t just any pretty girl. She was the one who’d been under my skin since we were seventeen, the one who saved my ass when nobody else would, the one who left and took something vital with her. And now she was right here, close enough to touch but professionally untouchable.
I wanted to maintain a professional demeanor in certain settings. I was her boss, her protector. Not the man who had her spread across this very desk after hours, but her gasping still echoed in my head.
A sharp knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts. Tamika entered the doorway with her tablet in hand. Her expression was unusually animated for my typically reserved assistant.
“Mr. Black, we’ve identified the person leaving items for Ms. Compton,” she announced. Her eyes darted between me and Aven.
I was on my feet instantly. “Who?”
“Mrs. Patrice from Bean & Brew. The coffee shop owner.” Tamika’s usually perfect posture showed a hint of excitement. “She’s here, actually. Martinez caught her on camera this morning placing another… item… by the coffee machine while delivering pastries for the meeting. When security approached her, she broke down crying, asking to speak with you both.”
Aven stood now, too, confusion evident on her face. “Mrs. Patrice? From Brew & Bean? Who always gives me extra whipped cream?”
Tamika nodded. “She’s waiting in the conference room. Martinez is with her.”
“Bring her in here,” I insisted, straightening my tie again, relief and confusion warring for dominance. It wasn’t Leo or some dangerous international stalker, just the local coffee shop owner who made those blueberry muffins Aven loved.
Moments later, Martinez ushered in Mrs. Patrice, the woman I contracted to deliver coffee and pastries for meetings. A plump woman in her sixties, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a bun, eyes red and swollen from crying. Mrs. Patrice’s hands twisted a tissue into shreds as she stood inside the doorway, looking like she might run at any moment.
“Ms. Compton, Mr. Black, I’m so sorry. I never meant to frighten anyone,” she declared, voice quivering.
Aven stepped forward. “It’s okay. Why don’t you sit down and tell us what this is about?”
I hung back, watching as Mrs. Patrice sank into one of the chairs in front of my desk. Her shoulders curled inward with shame. Relief flooded through me. This woman was clearly not a threat, but embarrassment followed close behind. All the security, all those precautions, and time spent preparing for a dangerous stalker, and it turned out to be the woman who remembered how everyone liked their coffee.
“I know you must think I’m crazy, but you reminded me so much of my Mekie… same smile, same way of talking with your hands, even your laugh. My daughter hasn’t spoken to me in eight years. Not since I… not since I couldn’t accept her life choices,” Mrs. Patrice explained, dabbing at fresh tears.
There was understanding on Aven’s face. “The origami cranes? You made those?” she asked.
Mrs. Patrice nodded. “Mekie and I used to fold them together. Her father was Japanese, and he taught us both when she was little. It was our special thing. When I saw you writing in your journal the first day, just like Mekie used to do, I thought maybe it was a sign. Especially when you left and I found the origami crane at your booth. One of my baristas told me you worked at Black Security, and I returned it, leaving it on your car. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I miss her so much. Then you moved to Mr. Black’s office, I thought maybe you’d found my little gifts creepy. It felt like I was close to Mekie when I left them for you.”
“Oh, wait. So when you found the one I had in my notebook for evidence, you returned it. No wonder I thought it was Leo’s work.” I commented.
The room fell silent as we absorbed this explanation. The threatening actions sent Aven into a panic, which had me installing security systems and conducting surveillance, were just the misguided attempts of a grieving mother to connect with someone who reminded her of her estranged daughter.
“Mrs. Patrice, I understand missing someone that much. I really do, but you scared me. The cranes matched what a man used to leave for me while he was following me in South America.” Aven clarified.
