Mm-hmm.
He was playing games.
“Yes,” I gritted.
“Then I won’t share I think that’s a rather fetching frock.”
Regardless I very much liked that he liked my dress, I glared at him.
He smirked at me.
Oh boy.
The man could smirk.
God.
He tipped his head to the portfolio. “The agreement?”
God!
It took me a second, I had to start over several times, but eventually I got into it.
Straightforward, no hidden agenda, no unnecessary legalese, no need to contact Natalie, my agent, to have a look at it.
Even so, I read it twice just to be ornery.
Finally, I requested, “Do you have a pen?”
He picked up a Mont Blanc from his desk and, in a belated effort at gallantry, rose from his chair so he could reach across the leather blotter so I wouldn’t have to before he offered it to me.
I took it, uncapped it, saw it was a fountain pen, which I refused to admit I thought was cool (though, it totally was cool, and I made a mental note to buy myself one on the hopeful day I got my next advance for another book), and I signed both copies.
I closed the portfolio, capped the pen and put both on his desk.
Taking his glasses off and dropping them to the blotter, he stood, stating, “I’ll ask Fitzgibbons to have your copy delivered to your room.”
I remained seated. “Thank you.”
He quirked his brows. “Shall we go?”
“I’ll meet you there later.”
Now he appeared suspicious. “You’re not coming?”
“I have one hundred and fifty pounds of dog on my feet.”
His head twitched and he moved around the desk to stare at the dog on my feet.
He opened his mouth, more than likely to call to the pooch, but I said quickly, “Don’t.”
He looked to me. “Don’t what?”
“Disturb him. He’s napping. I’m sure it took grave effort for him to walk around your desk. He needs his rest.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re joking, right?”
“Yes and no. The no part is that I have a bizarre personality trait where I find myself emotionally unable to disturb a sleeping animal.”
