It takes me five minutes before I force myself to hitsend.
After it’s launched into the ether, I set my phone aside, face-up on my desk where I can see it, and try to focus on my work. But I keep glancing over at it.
I want him to respond.
I…needhim to respond.
I’m tempted to send an official text to his work celldemanding he checks his personal cell, but that would defeat the whole purpose of using personal cells to keep this secret.
At four, Declan and another staffer, Ryanne, appear in my office doorway. My elation to see my boy is tempered by the presence of someone else who’s not Casey, and whom I absolutely have to remain completely professional in front of. With my office door open, they settlein to go over stuff with me from the budget meetings.
Then Declan stands, rounds my desk, and holds his large yellow-lined notepad propped up on my desk like he’s showing me something on it. Without missing a beat, he grabs my personal cell—which is concealed by his positioning of the notepad—and motions for me to unlock it.
I do, and he quickly installs something on it, even as we’re talkingand Ryanne is contributing to the conversation.
Somehow, I manage to ask budget-related questions of her and him both as we’re doing this to help cover his actions. Once the app is installed, something called Signal, he opens it, sets it up with my personal phone number, changes a couple of settings, then adds his number to it as a contact.
Once that’s done, he makes sure my phone is set tosilent mode. Only then does he return to his seat in front of my desk, next to Ryanne.
I sit back and while Ryanne continues talking, Declan casually pulls his phone out of his pocket and does something, like he’s checking messages.
On my desk, my phone vibrates a moment later.
Yes, Sir. 9pm. Leave the disappearing setting in place. Use this app to text or call me. Won’t leave a trail orshow up on phone bills.
I suck in a sharp, relieved breath and can’t help looking up, into his gaze.
He drops me the tiniest of winks, his smile barely concealed.
