Apologize for what?
I’m not even sure.
For asking too many questions. For letting the conversation drift into personal territory. For noticing things I shouldn’t have noticed.
For imagining kissing my way across her skin to …
My eyes fall closed as another memory surfaces. Her leaning across the table. The soft dip between her breasts. The way the lace curved around the swell.
Fuck.
My fingers flex involuntarily against the desk. For one reckless second, I imagined reaching across the table and dragging a fingertip along the line of that lace. Tracing the edge of the tattoo and running up the column of her throat.
I shove my chair back abruptly and stand.
“Enough,” I mutter.
I scrub both hands down my face.
I do not need to be thinking about her like this, and I don’t need to be sitting in my office all morning, avoiding her like a teenager with a crush.
We are adults.
Professional adults.
Two colleagues who shared a meal.
That’s all.
I straighten my tie and grab my jacket from the back of my chair. The only way to deal with this is to handle it like an adult. Which means finding her and clearing the air.
I step out of my office and head down to the first floor to her office. When I reach the door, it’s open. But the lights are off.
I frown.
Maybe she’s in a meeting.
I turn and head back toward the main lobby, where Mabree stands behind the front desk, typing something into the computer.
She glances up as I approach. “Good afternoon, Mr. Garrison.”
“Mabree.”
I rest a hand on the polished wood of the counter.
“Have you seen Miss Storm this afternoon?” I ask casually.
She looks up at me. “I believe she’s at lunch.”
I glance at my watch—12:32 p.m.
“Did she leave the hotel?”
Mabree shakes her head slowly. “I don’t think so, Mr. Garrison.” She hesitates. “I mean, I didn’t see her leave or anything,” she says nervously.
Odd.
But Mabree can be slightly aloof.
