‘Or someone just has more money than sense.’ I snatch a heart-shaped box of chocolates from Nico’s hands. ‘These too?’
Cole Hartmann certainly knows the way to my heart—or my pregnant stomach at least.
‘There are a hundred more boxes of these.’ Nico swipes the chocolates back and pops the lid. ‘I mean between the size of his hotel and his grand gestures, are you sure the man isn’t compensating for something?’
I pick a truffle from the centre of the box. ‘Trust me, that man has nothing to compensate for.’ I gesture with my twohands and watch as Nico’s eyes widen. ‘Now, let’s try and get some work done. We have a business to run.’
While my staff try to make some space in my building for the flowers, I make my way up to the second floor, to my private office, and pull my phone from my bag, pursing my lips together to prevent them from breaking out in a stupid grin.
The gesturewasgrand, but it’s not like he can’t afford it.
Yet still, the fact that he remembered which flowers I liked, has my lady parts wondering what else he remembers I like.
Chapter Thirty-Three
COLE
I’m analysing data from the Vegas casino when an email pings up on my screen that makes me almost choke on my coffee.
Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful. Though Nico is certain you’re compensating for something. ; )
I’m working late this evening, so if you still want to go for dinner, pick me up from Kew Gardens, AKA my office.
Zara.
P.S. Baby Beckett is enjoying the chocolate.
Baby Beckett. Fuck that. I type out a reply.
It only took five hundred orchids to getyou to reply to an email personally, instead of asking your PA to fob me off. If I’d known flowers would work, I’d have sent them a year ago.
Of course, I still want to go to dinner. We have much to discuss. Namely, when you’re going to move in with me and let me take care of you.
I’ll pick you up at 6.30.
Cole
P.S. It’s Baby Hartmann. Don’t forget it.
It’s impossible to concentrate. I have a meeting with the tourism minister and the finance minister in twenty minutes, a board Zoom immediately after, and a showdown with my construction foreman, who swore the exterior would be finished two weeks ago. And yet I’m here, refreshing my emails like a desperate fucking teenager.
I glance at my watch. Shit. I need to go. I stand, snatch my suit jacket from the back of the chair and slip it on. Just as I’m about to shut down my Mac, Zara’s reply pings in.
Move in with you?
I don’t even know you.
Other than that, your reappearance in my life is utterly unnerving—and my nerves are already shot to pieces right now.
I made my peace with parenting alone. Break me in gently.
See you at 6.30.
