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“You don’t need my help at the dinner.” She couldn’t imagine him “needing” her for anything. The man was talent squared. “Everyone there knows you’re ten times the designer they are.” That was the truth, and so was the next thing she said. “And you’re twenty times the designer I am on my best day.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

He waited for the punch line, but none came.

Lily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She had cute ears.

“Like on the London account,” she continued. “I sketched the interior of that building at least eighteen times, and I never once thought to position the POS stations throughout the store.”

“Yeah, innovative.”

“It was.” She poked his knee.

She’d touched him a lot tonight. Interesting.

“I was being sarcastic.” Feeling uncharacteristically humble, he added, “Clive helped.”

“With the final layout. But he argued for the traditional placement of the registers lined up near the exit. You were the one who insisted customers would be more likely to make impulse purchases if they didn’t have to traipse to the front of the store to check out.”

He vaguely recalled the conversation she referenced. The discussion hadn’t been a heated one, and not one she should remember so vividly. Which meant she’d been paying attention to him. How about that?

“You sound like you agree with me.” The two of them on the same side of an argument was new.

“I do.” She looked at her hands like she was embarrassed. Or maybe she wasn’t sure how to handle them on even ground. He could relate.

“I praise you for your good taste, but I can’t take all the credit. The London account was won in the boardroom.” He could picture her standing there, her royal blue suit skimming her curves, her hair in a fancy twist. She’d addressed Reginald with confidence while including him in the presentation rather than talking at him. “You were amazing in there, Lil.”

“Um, thanks.” She blinked, her lashes hiding her blue eyes briefly. “That’s nice.”

“I’m not being nice. I’m telling the truth.”

Her eyes diverted to his mouth. Her chin tipped slightly. Her lips pursed.

Holy shit.

Lily McIntire wanted him to kiss her.

Since he’d wanted to kiss her from the day they’d met, he was surprised his initial reaction was panic. Instead of touching his mouth to hers, he behaved like he had when he was in the fifth grade with a crush on Shayna Baldwin.

“Get outta here,” he said, and play-punched her in the shoulder.

What. The. Fuck? Why had he done that?

“Hey.” He cleared his throat. “I have an idea.” I’ll abruptly change the subject so you don’t notice how awkward I feel. “You can, uh”—he scratched his neck and averted his eyes—“do my speech for me.” He tried to offer up a cocky smile. “You’ll be like a ghostwriter. Only you’ll be a ghostspeaker.”

What was he so nervous about, anyway?

How about because the girl of your dreams is coming on to you?

Yeah, that’d do it. He’d blown it that first time. He did not want a replay of being shot down in slow motion.

The longing ebbed from her expression so gradually, he actually watched it leave. Her heart wasn’t in the smile she offered next, and he was hit with a twinge of regret.

She twisted one corner of the blanket around her fingers, refusing to look at him. “You earned that award, Marcus. I’m sure everyone there will be⁠—”

A crash from the kitchen interrupted whatever compliment she’d been about to pay him. She scrambled across the mattress, practically landing in his lap. Her grip on his left forearm was viselike.

“What the hell was that?” she whispered.