Page 97 of Whispered Promises

“I’ve another call,” Julia adds, hanging up before I can respond.

Glowering at my now silent phone, all the sharp remarks I’d wanted to make filter through my mind. The version of myself that lives in my imagination is witty, quick, and confident. She’s uncaring that Julia doesn’t believe our call is important. She knows her worth.

Waving to a nearby server, I pay for my chai and take a couple of sips of it before heading back to the office, heavy with fatigue.

I’ve barely made it back to my desk, only managing to drop my bag down, when someone enters through the main door. Before looking up, I take a second to mentally shove aside my pity party, pasting on a smile as I look to the…

“Max?” Brows pulling tight, the smile slips from my face. He’s dressed for work, both his trousers and boots dusty, with his hair unruly. “What are you doing here?”

He comes up to my desk, leaning on it to peer down at me. “Well, I heard you have the best pastries nearby. So I thought you could take me there for lunch?” He grins, and it has me responding with one too. He glances at the coat I’m still wearing. “Unless you already have plans?”

“Oh, no, I was at a meeting. Outside. Out of the office, I mean, not outside…outside. Well, it was cancelled, not that I knew it was. But I don’t have any plans, no.” I rise, breathless from my uncontrollable word vomit.

His smile turns even wider as his head tilts. Great, now my ears are turning heated under his appraisal.

“You didn’t have to come all this way for lunch with me. I could’ve brought the pastries back for you,” I mumble, as I collect my bag and slip my arm through the strap.

“But we’re friends, and friends do lunch together. I was hungry, and our site isn’t far from where you said you worked. So it works out perfectly.” Opening the door, he gestures for me to walk through. “No pressure, but I’ve had plenty of good pastries before, so I have high expectations.”

He bumps my shoulder as we walk toward the cafe.

Snorting, I quip back, “I call bullshit. As long as it’s edible, your expectations aren’t that high.”

As I turn towards the cafe door, he darts forward and pulls it open for me. “That cut deep. I could be an undercover Michelin star critic for all you know.”

“Mm, well, seeing as they’re called inspectors and are very much anonymous…I don’t think I have to be worried.” I chuckle, and considering the day I’m having, it feels good.

Selecting a table, he pulls out a chair for me, then proceeds to sit on the one beside me, rather than opposite. With his knee brushing against mine, and his arm so close I can feel its warmth, it’s distinctly intimate.

“Twice in one day, are you stalking me?” Tilly teases as she walks over to our table, pulling a notepad from her apron.

“You know I’m here for the carbs; you’re just the added eye candy.”

“I’d be offended, but I spend too much of my time eating the leftovers to disagree.” Tilly shrugs.

Glancing at Max, I find him watching me, brows lifted with an amused expression.

“You ready to order?” She looks between us, eyes lingering on Max before they return to me with a salacious grin and raised eyebrow.

“Can I have the wild mushroom pesto croissant, but with added spinach and feta instead of mozzarella, please?” I list, already salivating over how it’s going to taste.

“Wait, you do croissant sandwiches?” Max exclaims, suddenly leaning forward and grabbing a menu from the table to read through. “How am I supposed to decide what to have now you’ve thrown sandwiches into the mix?”

“Well, you’ll just have to come back again, or go rogue and order more than one option.” Tilly laughs at his panic, and I join in. “But if you need a minute, I can serve another table and come back?”

“No, no, I’ll have a…roasted pepper chilli chicken croissant and an apple turnover and a pecan Danish to go, please?”

“You got it. Any drinks?”

I shake my head, and she turns to Max.

“Flat white would be great, thank you.”

Tilly confirms our order, then strides back to the kitchen. And I’m left with Max, on our lunch not a date. His attention feels almost physical against my skin, and I clench my hands in my lap, a poor attempt to distract myself.

“So, how’s your day going?” I ask, hoping conversation will make this less awkward. When I glance over at him, he’s relaxed in his chair, his leg sliding out and nudging against mine.

“It’s manic as always. There’s always pressure to ensure we hit the deadline in time. Everyone wants homes built before you can blink, but thankfully, I’m not management, so that stress is not mine to deal with.” He shrugs with a roguish smile, as if the world's cares and worries just slide straight off him.