Beside it, there’s a cupcake from Poppy’s Pantry. Chocolate with mint frosting. I glance up from my desk through the open door into Aidan’s office, where I find him watching me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as smile, but he holds my gaze long enough for me to know.
The cupcake is from him.
My pulse skitters. I glance down to hide my smile, and when I look at him again, he’s focused back on his computer. But a tiny smile of his own tilts his lips.
My heart feels lighter as I look at the Post-it note beside my screen: log onto my computer, check the online calendar, answer emails. We have another meeting with David Lancaster next week, where Aidan will present him with his plans. I wonder what he’s decided to do with the studios, then push the thought from my mind.
It’s not my job. I’m an assistant, and even though Aidan said he liked my design—even though he fixed my model, whichI look at now with a smile—he was only being nice because I disappeared yesterday.
I think about him showing up at my apartment last night to check on me. Of all places, I never expected to see himthere, and certainly didn’t expect him to sit on my old worn chair and drink my shitty instant coffee.
But he was so different last night. He wasn’t scowling Work Aidan, he was Marco’s Aidan. Kind and gentle and sweet, asking me about school, listening so intently.Caring. At least, that’s what it felt like. That’s what it felt like at Marco’s, too.
And the way he said,You’ve been trying your best, his voice so sincere, like he really believes it. I don’t think anyone has said that to me in my life.
And it makes me want him likecrazy.
It’s easy to forget about the man I met in the bar when he’s glaring at me across the office, but last night was a reminder that Work Aidan isn’t all there is to him. That underneath that professional exterior is a man who, just maybe, sees the real me. And while normally that would scare me, last night I wanted to share.Wantedhim to know the truth. I don’t make a habit of exposing my deepest shame to people, but in that moment, I felt safe to do so because of Aidan.
And that’s intoxicating. It’s one thing to want him because he’s fucking hot, but it’s another thing entirely to want him because he made me feel seen. Understood. Accepted.
Feelings that are so foreign to me, I don’t know what to do with them.
I let my gaze wander to his office again, watching him through the open door. He must have repaired the broken leg, because he’s back at his drafting table. A pang of regret hits me when I think of the $800 I spent, but it evaporates as I watch him work. His suit jacket is gone, the fitted cotton of his shirt revealing the contours of muscle in his shoulders and back. I’dgive anything to walk in there, close the door and slide my hands over him, to feel the heat of him through his shirt. To sweep everything off his desk and pull him onto it with me.
Aidan pauses, turning to find me watching him. Heat floods my face, and I look away, pulse rushing.
There’s something else I’m not letting myself remember from last night, because it stings too much. It’s the way he pulled away when I asked him if he ever thought about our stolen moment at Marco’s. The walls that went back up after I felt closer to him than ever. How clear he made it, even without words, that nothing will happen between us again.
Even if I desperately want it to.
“Iris?” he calls from his office, and I press my eyes closed. Just hearing him say my name is enough for my thighs to squeeze together. “Can you come in here, please?”
“Of course,” I reply, voice strangled. I swallow, resisting the urge to smack myself in the face tosnap out of it. I’m here to do a job. To repay my father for the money I owe, so I can get the hell away from him.
And if dealing with Dad wasn’t enough, Mom sent me a text last night. It said,Don’t give your dad too much trouble, honey. He’s only trying to help, and I nearly threw my phone at the wall.
So, yes. I need to get this loan repaid ASAP so I can get back to my real life.
Whatever that is.
I rise from my desk, determined to focus. To be professional and not make this any more awkward.
Pinning on a smile, I enter Aidan’s office. “What’s up?” I ask, forcing myself to keep my eyes on his face instead of letting them stray across his tall, muscular form. But that’s not much better. Not with those intense gunmetal-gray eyes, that sexy beard. Not with the way he’s looking at me right now.
He tears his gaze away, motioning at something on his drafting table. As I cross to him, I realize it’s one of my sketches. He must have rescued it from the trash.
“Walk me through this,” he says simply.
I falter. He’s asking about my design?
“Uh, what do you want to know?”
He gestures with the pencil in his left hand to the raised platform bed I drew. I watch the motion, mesmerized. Why is it socutethat he’s left-handed?
“Tell me about this raised platform,” he says, oblivious.
I take a deep breath, then explain about not blocking the light, adding storage, separating the bed enough to create a defined bedroom area without cutting the primary space in half. Things I’m certain he already knows, but seems to want to hear me say.
