“Oh, yes, editorial.Fourteenth floor.”She watches me cross the lobby.The elevator opens onto a glass bullpen and a hum of keys.Conversations thin as I walk through.Eyes track.A guy in a too-tight shirt leans back.
“Hey big man,” he calls.“Visitors aren’t supposed to be on this floor.”
I smile like he didn’t speak and keep moving.Melinda stands at her desk, pencil behind her ear, looking adorable.Relief hits her face, then the flush she tries to swallow.She takes a step and the grinner adds, louder, “Westbrook, HR’s gonna love this.Boyfriend pickups?”
Melinda’s shoulders hitch like she’s bracing for me to slice the man in half.After what she’s already seen, can’t say I blame her.I stop with a foot of air between us because this is her ground.Her fingers flick my lapel, a quick private touch.
“You kept the suit,” she murmurs.“I figured you’d change the second you got home.”
I tip my head so only she can hear.“I’d never embarrass you at work, darling,” I murmur.“Tell me what you want me to do.”
Her mouth curves.“Walk me out.”
I let my fingers brush her knuckles—one, two, three—then step back.
Melinda turns to the grinner.“Tell HR it’shusbandpickups.”
He blinks.Mouth opens, shuts.I try to keep my face straight, but fail a little.She’s so goddamn cute.I give him a wink and smile as pride climbs up my spine and offer my arm.She threads her hand through.The bullpen goes library-quiet.Her heels click across the floor.The elevator chimes.As the doors start to slide, Victoria pops up over her monitor and calls, “While you’re at it, nosy boy, tell HR to put her soon-to-be ruined lipstick on the expense report.”
Melinda laughs, and the doors cut the room in half.We ride down.My thumb grazes the ring on her hand.
“Why isn’t it changed?”I ask, quiet.“Your name.”
She exhales.“HR forms.Email.Bylines.”
“Adrian can fix all that for you,” I say.“He can email HR as you, set your email to your new name, fix all your bylines, even the old ones if they’re digital.I want our name on your mail, your door, your paycheck.”
Her breath catches.
“Say yes, Lindy.”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”I want to believe I’d let her keep Westbrook if she pushed back.I don’t.The need to put my name on her is feral.Thank fuck she said yes, so I don’t have to find out.
“Home first,” I say as the doors open.“Change, thenMirage.”
She nods.Logan swings her car to the curb; I tuck her in and drive.I park, dismiss Logan for the night, and go up with her.I do a sweep on muscle memory.Entry, hall, bath, closets.She toes off her shoes and laughs at me under her breath.
“I’m not leaving you alone,” I tell her, palm at the small of her back.
“Not even at home?Not even to change?”
“Especially not then,” I say, and lean in.“Tell me where you want me.”
“Here,” she says, catching my shirt and pulling me down for a kiss that’s soft first, then is a drag of teeth that puts heat in my bones.She breaks it with a smile that saysbehave.“And there.Doorway.Turn around.”
I turn.I still hear everything: her giggle at my playing along, the whisper of a zipper, the slide of silk.I lay my knife on the dresser and tilt the hilt so it’s off by a hair.
A garment bag rustles.“Blue or black?”she calls.
“Blue.”Her eyes are extraordinary when she wears blue.
A minute later she taps my shoulder.I face her.Navy dress.Bare throat.My ring on her finger.I fix the clasp at her nape and smooth the line down her spine with two fingers, slow.I steal another kiss, deeper this time, thumb under her jaw to tip her face to mine.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“At you?”I grab her coat, her bag, and place them on the bed.“Always.”I shrug out of my jacket, slip the red tie free, and reach for the midnight blazer.I trade the white shirt for an open-collar black one and ditch the tie.I slide a navy silk square into the pocket to match her dress.Dark, close-cut denim.Black belt.Chelsea boots.I pick up my knife and arrange the weight on my hip until it sits right, fasten the single button, and turn back to her.
