He chuckled with wry amusement. “I’ll keep my judgment to myself.”
“Ten bucks says you can’t keep that promise,” I quipped as I left his office.
Three months of pretending. Three months of touching and lying and maintaining boundaries that already felt flimsy.
I looked down at the credit card in my hand and wondered which would be harder: finding a wardrobe that fit Callum's world, or surviving three months of pretending I didn't want him to touch me for real.
Oof, girl. You really know how to create your own problems. Go big or go home, I guess.
four
CALLUM
The Riverside elevations had been sitting on my desk for forty-five minutes. I'd reviewed exactly none of them.
Instead, my brain kept looping back to two days ago. To my office. To Willow's mouth against mine in what was supposed to be a quick, clinical practice kiss—the contact two adults could share without it meaning anything.
Except her lips had been soft. Warm. She'd tasted faintly of the vanilla syrup she dumped into her coffee, and when she'd leaned into me, I'd forgotten every rational thought I'd ever had.
I stared at the elevation drawing without seeing it.
A practice kiss. That's all it was. A necessary rehearsal to ensure we'd be convincing at Friday's gala. Nothing more.
So why had I replayed it approximately forty-seven times in the past forty-eight hours?
Real smooth, Hayes. You're forty years old. You've been married and divorced. You've closed deals worth millions. And here you are, mooning over a twenty-three-year-old barista who agreed to a business arrangement.
I forced my attention back to the plans. The roofline needed adjustment. The western exposure would create heating issues without proper shading. Richard Ashford would have questions about the sustainability features, and I needed to?—
Her fingers in my hair. The way she'd risen on her toes to reach me. How her body had fit against mine as if we'd done this a thousand times.
I shoved the drawings aside.
This was a problem.
A knock at my door preceded Graham's entrance. He carried two cups of coffee and wore that particular look that meant he was about to say things I didn't want to hear.
"Got a minute?"
“Only that. What’s up?”
"You've been staring at that same drawing since I walked past an hour ago." He set one coffee on my desk and dropped into the chair across from me. "Your pen hasn't moved. Your computer's in sleep mode. What’s going on? Everything okay?”
I picked up the coffee. Took a sip. Said nothing.
Graham waited. The man had the patience of a Buddhist monk when he wanted answers—one of the qualities that made him an excellent business partner and an annoying friend.
“I’m fine. Just reviewing the Riverside proposal," I said.
"Uh-huh. Sure, I buy that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let’s just cut to the chase. So. Willow Monroe. The coffee shop woman you've been not-so-subtly obsessed with for a year and now…suddenly you’re dating?”
“What are you talking about? I haven't been obsessed."
"You rearranged your entire morning schedule to hit that specific coffee shop at that specific time. You complain about her foam art while simultaneously refusing to go anywhere else. You once made us late to a client meeting so you could argue with her about espresso beans." Graham raised an eyebrow. "That's not obsession?"
“You’re exaggerating. We weren’t late. I would never be late to a client meeting.”
“To quote you, ‘On time is late.’ Usually, you forceus to arrive fifteen,twentyminutes early to every meeting,” Graham reminded me.
