“Bloomingdale’s huh?” said a deep syrupy voice behind her, and her heart slammed against her white silky blouse.
She spun on her burgundy heels to find Devon Wilder leaning against the threshold, arms crossed and lips curled at the corner of his sinful mouth. Lifting her hand to her chest, she changed her mind midway and raised it to fiddle with her pearl necklace. “I’m sure it was just a similar skirt,” she said to Holly, but couldn’t tear her gaze from him. “You know how they say fashion recycles itself? My wardrobe is living proof.”
Silence stretched into the break room. Elena looked around. While Holly slid a hungry gaze over Devon, Elena almost laughed when she saw Janie’s face. Her pink-colored lips were parted, attention focused on Devon. If she continued that way, she was sure her friend would drool soon. Roy, my ass. Well, what else did she expect? That was the effect he had in women, especially when he was so damn close to them.
A crisp white shirt opened at the top and unconfined by a tie contrasted against his dark chocolate skin. The black jacket matched the designer slacks, and highlighted his large frame. Make it extra large. And extra hot. Why on Earth did he have the charisma of a campaigning politician, the body of a professional football player, and dimples that could bring women to their knees? So not fair.
She had to bring him down, just not the way she wanted to. Which was as damaging as self-mutilation. Dr. Hodge had promised her libido would come back some day, but seriously, did it have to happen like this? Latent desire for the one guy she couldn’t—wouldn’t—have? After three years of drought at her downstairs?
“Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Wilder?” Holly asked, her voice sultry like a burlesque routine.
“No, thanks,” he answered.
Janie chugged down the remainder of her coffee and set it inside the steel dishwasher. “Break’s over, Holly. Let’s go,” she said, and nudged Holly out of the break room.
Elena remained stiff as a brick, her ass pushing against the counter. When her gaze swung from the girls sauntering out to Devon, her heart skipped a beat. Maybe two. With eyes that gleamed like dark silver, he watched her. Crap, who was she kidding? Three beats.
“Nice skirt.”
She clenched the bottle of water so tight, it made a squeaky noise. “Thanks.” Relax, girl.
“I need you.”
He leaned forward. The distance between them was safe enough—it would be, if he were anyone else. I need you. His manly baritone rang deep in her ears, and her blood went on a low simmer. God. Why did he have to be so tall? Her five feet five nearly shrank if compared to his extra foot. She took a swig of the water.
“In my office.”
She blinked. “O-of course.”
“After you.” He gestured with his hand, and without questioning she managed to walk through the elegant but understated hallway until they reached the inside of his sleek modern office. On the way, she put her water down and grabbed her iPad.
As the President of Marketing, his office showcased his creative mind, with more paintings and objets d’art on the wall than in the whole building. Abstract paintings, all enhanced by strategic lighting. Most of Wilder & Co. was see through. Besides dark wood frames that would remind her of a lodge deep in the mountains, all doors and walls were made of glass. Clarity and transparency. She could laugh at the irony.
“Were you able to get a hold of Morrison?” He plopped down on the leather seat against the backdrop of a grey overcast Denver.
“Yes, he’s available for lunch on Monday if you are.”
The buzz of her iPhone inside her tight pocket made him raise his head from reading something on his Mac and look at her.
She simply jammed her hand inside the pocket and clicked it.
He frowned. “Do you need to take that, Elena?”
“What? No. Sorry, Mr. Wilder.”
“Devon. Remember? Call me Devon.”
“Of course.” She pulled her most informal voice and shot at him what she hoped was a genuine smile. Darn it. She sucked at this. If Matthew hadn’t scooped her up from the crappiest time in her life, she wouldn’t have agreed in a million years to spy on the man who gave Morris Chestnut a run for his money.
He rocked back in his chair and tossed his pen on the table. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” the word spilled from her mouth. He leaned back on his chair, interest sparking in his eyes. What did I just do? “Yes. I mean yes… Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Tell me about it.” He crossed his hands behind his shaven, smooth head.
“It was probably a text from my brother Emilio. He’s asked his girlfriend Tiffany to marry him and now they’re having an engagement party and they disagree on about everything other than they love each other, which I hope will still be the case by they time they marry.” Not a lie. Next week, she was expected to return to New York City, and face her family, and worst of all, the man who broke her in a million pieces. Her stomach churned just thinking about that craptastic reunion.
A grin teased his lips. “Interesting. I didn’t know there were more of you out there.”
