: Chapter 14

“Dammit! Shit.” Drake’s frustrated curses drift through the crack in his office door. He sounds even more exasperated than he does when the coffee machine acts up. I shrug my purse onto my shoulder and pop my head inside to see what the problem is. He’s leaning over his desk, a whirlwind of paperwork all over the room. There are stacks of it on the desk, on the floor, and on his chair.

“Is everything okay, Mr. James?”

He glances up at the sound of my voice, looking surprised to see me standing there. His usually styled hair is ruffled in a way that makes him look more human, and his plain navy tie is crooked. For a man who usually looks immaculate, this is the equivalent of walking naked through Central Park. It’s kind of cute, not that he’d appreciate that word being pointed in his direction. We’ve worked well together so far, dealing with tasks efficiently and calmly. Both of us have done a good job channeling our inner robot, and whatever feelings either of us might have about the other have been kept firmly buttoned up. Not that I assume for a minute that he has any feelings at all about me.

Now, though, seeing him like this—unkempt, frustrated, ever-so-slightly vulnerable—I experience a rush of affection along with the usual rush of desire. I shift from one foot to the other, rubbing the sides of my pumps together. I’m suddenly nervous, and I probably should have just headed home. “It sounded like something was wrong,” I mutter, unsettled by his silence. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before, and I quickly glance down at my outfit. It’s my wrap dress again, but this time glammed up with some pearls. All perfectly acceptable, surely?

Even from across the room, I see his Adam’s apple bob under the force of his swallow. He glances at the clock on the wall. “I thought you’d left for the day. Don’t you normally finish at five?”

Drake, I know, puts in insane hours. He’s always here when I arrive in the morning and still here when I leave. I suspect he’s even here on weekends, and even if he’s not in the office, he’s definitely working. But he’s also made it clear that he doesn’t expect me to match that or to be at his beck and call.

Clearing my throat, I step farther into the room. His jacket is slung on the floor, and his white shirt clings to the muscular shape of his broad shoulders. Why does business attire have to be so damn sexy? It doesn’t seem fair. I ignore my racing heart and cast my eyes over the chaos of the room.

“I worked late because I took an extra-long lunch. I had to pop over to check on my mom.”

“Is she all right? You know you can take time whenever you need. Some things are more important than work,” he says, looking genuinely concerned. Again, I’m reminded of how much we unwittingly shared with each other on the night of the wedding. He knows all about her health condition, and I know how much he misses his own mother, who died when he was only twenty-three. I suspect moms are a touchy subject for this man, and it moves me that he cares.

“She’s okay,” I assure him quickly. “I don’t know if you remember, but she has COPD, and sometimes her oxygen levels get a little low. She called me upset, and I …” I shake my head and stop myself from babbling. He doesn’t need to know the finer details. “But she’s okay now.”

“Of course I remember. If you need any recommendations for doctors, just ask. My sister-in-law makes sure we all donate staggering amounts of money to local hospitals.” Pausing, he tilts his head. “Uh-oh. Does that make me sound like Bruce Wayne?”

A smile creeps over my face as I recall that conversation. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you. But right now it looks like Batman is the one who could do with some help.”

He winces, his eyes dropping back to the pile of papers on his desk. He has a huge case starting tomorrow, and from the tight lines of his shoulders and the scowl on his face, I’d say he’s incredibly stressed. He stares at the mess, mumbling something unintelligible as he absentmindedly winds and unwinds a thick length of cord around his fist. It looks therapeutic and strangely erotic. Then again, I’d probably find it erotic if he was crushing a tomato.

“Please let me help, Mr. James.”

He looks up again, his eyes wide like he forgot I was here. He twists and turns the cord in his fingers, and his dark gaze holds mine for a few silent seconds. Heat blooms beneath my skin, and I wonder what is going through his mind. For a moment, I think he’s actually going to tell me, but then he abruptly shakes his head. “No, thank you. Goodnight, Miss Ryder.”

If this is a work thing, and it certainly looks like one, then he should let me help. It’s not like I haven’t signed a confidentiality agreement, and I have full access to his emails. I might not be a lawyer myself, but I know the intimate details of the case he’s working on. I’ve arranged several meetings about it and taken notes during them. Next to him, I’m probably the person who knows the most about it.

With a deep breath, I take another cautious step closer, like I’m approaching a dog that might bite. “This is the Callaghan case, yes?”

He nods, not even looking up, lost in his world of paper.

“Right. Well, I think I’m going to stay and help you. What kind of a secretary would I be if I abandoned you to this?”

“There’s really no need for that, Miss Ryder. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with this myself.”

“I don’t doubt how capable you are, Mr. James,” I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth how flirtatious they sound. Or maybe I’m being paranoid. I decide to quickly move on, just in case. “But I’m capable too. You might be Batman, but my superpower is organization. I could at least help you get these papers into some kind of order.”

I try not to show it, but I’m pretty desperate for him to say yes. So far, our working relationship has been fine. Certainly a lot better than I expected it to be on that first day. He seems pleased with my performance, and there have been no issues. But I’ve also yet to feel … essential, I guess is the word for it. Like I, Amelia Ryder, am personally needed for the job. I know that’s pathetic and that employees really shouldn’t be so desperate, but I do like to feel useful. I like working here, like working for Drake. Not because he’s a demigod with supernatural skills in the sack, but because behind his cocksure charm and surface confidence, he’s actually sweet and a little vulnerable, and well, just a good person.

He works so damn hard and seems to take on so much responsibility. I remember him telling me he never quite felt good enough for his family—something I will never, ever remind him that he revealed—and I wonder if his workaholic tendencies are all tied in to that. Sometimes, like now, he looks like he has the weight of the world on those gorgeous shoulders and nobody to help him carry the load.

He glances up again, running his hand through his thick hair. His eyes narrow, and he sucks on his upper lip. “It’s late.”

I shrug, dropping my purse to the floor. “It’s not even seven, and I don’t like to brag, but all I have waiting for me at home is some leftover roast beef and Sex in the City reruns.”

The corners of his lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Which season?”

“I watched the end of season one last night. Carrie dumps Mr. Big for the first time. Are you a fan?”

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it? Well, as much as I hate to deprive you of your exciting night in, Miss Ryder, I have to admit that I actually could use your help.”

“Then I’m all yours for as long as you need me.” I drop into the empty chair opposite his desk, and before I can regret my poor choice of words, I move on. “So, what are we doing here? Was there some kind of explosion?”

Drake sighs. “Opposing counsel just delivered me a whole new box of evidence to go through. They left it until the very last minute, but I’m used to those tactics and expected to spend the night going through it. But then the damn ass fell out of the box when I picked it up, and now I have two thousand pages all out of order. I could ask for more time, but he knows this case has already dragged on for longer than it should have. Fucker.”

“Total fucker,” I agree. “Bet he weakened the cardboard with nail scissors before he sent it over.” I nod at the mass of scattered papers. “So, what are we looking for?”

Drake gives me a brief summary of the new evidence and hands me an index sheet that lists the contents. It’s mainly hundreds of call logs detailing numbers that were dialed to and from office and home phones, along with dates, times, and duration of the calls. “Most of it is probably irrelevant,” he explains, “but when you ask for information like this, they’re perfectly within their rights to provide too much detail. Sometimes it’s because there actually is pertinent information in there waiting to be found and they want to bury it in a pile of pointless dross in the hope that you miss it. Sometimes they do it just to be assholes.”

“What do you think it is this time?” I ask, picking up the first stack of sheets.

“I have no clue. But the first thing to do is get the logs back in time and date order. Only then will I be able to go through them and really check.”

James and James is one of the biggest law firms in the country, and Drake is one of its managing partners. He has a team of literally hundreds working for him and access to some of the best legal minds around. I’ve already learned, though, that he is a perfectionist or a control freak—possibly both. He goes through every scrap of paperwork on every case he works himself rather than passing it on to one of the many paralegals who are specifically employed to do exactly that kind of task.

It sounds crazy, but it seems to work for him. He never lost a single case when he was in Chicago, and he’s renowned for his well-researched ruthlessness in the court room. He’s a shark, but a shark who combines his killer instinct with hours of painstaking attention to detail. He wins because he puts the work in, and the fact that he is trusting me to help him gives me a little warm glow of pride. I have no doubt that the trust is partly borne of desperation, but it’s a big deal to me.

“Okay,” I say, standing up. “We need to relocate. At the moment, you have too many piles too close together, and I suspect you’re losing track of which one is which.”

“You’re not wrong,” he says, sounding annoyed with himself. “I messed them up just before you came in and had to start all over again.”

That explains the cursing. “Well, don’t worry. We’ll sort it. I’m going to set up a workstation over here by the window, and I’m going to make a stack for each day. I’ll work left to right, earliest date first, and then beneath each, we’ll add them in time order. We’ll end up with a grid pattern, and that will make it easier to cross reference.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “Have at it. How about I go through the papers and shout out the details, and you can add them to the right pile?”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll stay down here on the ground.” I kick off my heels, and my dress rides up over my thighs as I fall to my knees. It can’t be helped, and it’s not like I’m flashing my stocking tops, but I feel the first hint of a blush as I catch him looking. It’s been three weeks since I started working here, and after the initial super-intense awkwardness, things have settled down. I’m starting to think everything has been made easier by the fact that we managed to find a way to work together without ever actually being together. At least not alone, and not for any longer than a few minutes at a time. This is different. More intimate.

“Okay, I’ve got February Fourth here” he says, holding up a handful of pages.

“Great. Pass it over, and let’s get started.” Following his lead, I concentrate on the job at hand.

This is the kind of work I enjoy most, and time passes quickly once we get going. Having two of us plus a new and, frankly, more logical system in place means that the task doesn’t feel anywhere near as daunting. Once all the call logs are in chronological order, Drake begins to check through his notes and look for the dates when his client claimed she was contacted by the man they’re suing, Franklin Callaghan. So far, either her dates have been off or he used a different phone, one that he didn’t disclose.

Drake rubs his eyes and continues flicking through the pages of his various notepads while I wait for him to call out dates and times. Again, it’s a labor-intensive way to work—he could have had those notes digitized into a searchable database—but it seems to be the way he prefers. Old school. Maybe writing stuff down longhand helps him process it all. I get that, but I also make a mental note to suggest digital backup as well. There are so many great software programs out there now that would really help with things like this.

After what feels like forever, we finally catch a break. He calls out a date and time and tells me the call lasted approximately five minutes. Sure enough, when I check in the relevant pile, I find the page. “It’s here!” I cry. “A call made from his office landline to hers, at exactly that time on exactly that date—call duration logged as five minutes, thirty seconds! Let me check his schedule …”

I crawl across the floor to the small heap of loose sheets that provide a record of Callaghan’s whereabouts during the relevant time period. “Bingo!” I cry, holding one in the air. “He was there that day—signed out twenty minutes later!”

Drake has pulled his tie completely loose, and his hair is still in those thick furrows. His face lights up when I pass him the sheet, though, and it’s like all the weight lifts from his shoulders. He transforms before my eyes, and I can’t help smiling. I don’t know exactly what any of this means for the case, but I do know I helped him. I know he’s pleased. And I know that it feels way too good. I climb to my stockinged feet.

He looks like a little kid on Christmas, waving the printout in the air. “This is great, Amelia. Perfect, in fact.”

These days, he sticks to Miss Ryder, and it feels good to hear my name on his lips again, even though he doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s lost in his work, grinning down at the call log.

“How does it help?” I ask, genuinely interested.

“Well, it doesn’t prove anything by itself because there’s no recording of the call—we only have our client’s word against his. But he has consistently denied ever speaking to her, and this proves he lied about that. And proving that he lied about one thing, no matter how small, makes it way easier to show he’s a liar about the big things too. Thank you—so much! I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He’s standing close to me, the elation of the moment seeming to override his usual reserve. He normally keeps his distance, physically and emotionally, making sure everything stays on a purely professional level. But now, as he looms over me, so close I swear I can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, I feel weak. My legs are unsteady beneath me, and my hands are desperate to reach out and touch him.

Our eyes lock, and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. Oh lord. His tongue. His magical, mystical tongue. The way it can make me beg for mercy, scream for more …

“Amelia,” he says simply, his voice a deep growl that echoes the way I feel inside. I gulp in air, knowing a blush is rising up over my chest. His eyes travel down to my breasts, and he reaches out, one big hand taking hold of the little cord that secures my wrap dress in place. All he has to do is tug it in the right way, and the whole thing will fall open. I will be standing before him in my bra, stockings, panties, and pearls, and I can’t think of anything I want more. He tilts his head, dark eyes intense, one eyebrow quirked in a question. It feels like the rest of the world has disappeared, the whole of New York has fallen away, and all that’s left is us two. This moment. What might come next.

I sigh and am just about to murmur his name when my stomach decides to speak for me. It rumbles, so loud and insistent that it can’t be ignored by either of us. In fact, it probably can’t be ignored by passing satellites in outer space. I let out an embarrassed “Oh!” and my hand flies up to cover my mouth. He snatches his fingers away and takes a few very deliberate steps back, putting some distance between us. It’s certainly for the best, but part of me wants to cry from disappointment.

“Sorry.” I wince. “I didn’t manage to actually eat any lunch on my break today.”

Concern colors his expression. “How long has it been since you ate?”

“I had a bagel at about ten,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m good.”

“That was like what, eleven hours ago? You need to eat, Amelia.”

He’s still calling me Amelia, I notice, but now he sounds borderline annoyed with me. Or maybe with himself—who knows? I definitely wasn’t the only one feeling the intensity of that moment, and it isn’t outside the realm of possibility that he’s pissed at himself for his reaction.

“It’s really no big deal,” I reply. “It’s not like I’m wasting away. I could stand to miss a few meals.” It’s meant to be a lighthearted comment, but his expression darkens, and I wonder what the hell I’ve done wrong now. His moods are exhausting, and it’s been a long enough day. I’m about to make my excuses when he speaks, his tone firm.

“You could not stand to miss a few meals. You need to look after yourself if you’re going to look after your mom.”

“What?” I splutter. “I’ve looked after my mom for years, and we’re perfectly fine. I’m not a child, and you’re not my father. I can decide for myself when I eat and when I don’t, thank you very much.” Right on cue, my stomach pipes up again.

His lips quirk up in a lopsided grin, and I can’t help but see the humor of it all. I want to stay angry with him, but the twinkle in his eyes is such a joyous thing to witness that it’s impossible. “Okay!” I throw my hands up in surrender. “You’re right, Dad. I need to eat. I’ll go straight home and get started on that roast beef.”

“No, that won’t do. I’ll order some food in. There’s still work to be finished off here, and we both need to eat.”

I want to say no—sharing a meal feels too intimate somehow. Last time we shared a meal, it was breakfast, and that ended up with me getting fucked on the dining table. That desk of his is looking awfully inviting right about now.

“I don’t think so, Mr. James. I should really be going. I’m sure you can finish up here.”

“Are you scared?” he asks, watching as I slip my shoes back on.

Absolutely petrified, if I’m telling the truth. The way I react to this man is so unpredictable, I have whiplash from jerking myself around. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore. “Am I scared of food? No.”

“Are you scared of me?”

I narrow my eyes at him, angry that he’s nailed it but even more angry that I feel it. It might be true, but he has no right to make it real by speaking the actual words. “Why would I be scared of you, Mr. James? You’re just my boss, and I’ve had far scarier bosses than you.”

I put some sass into my voice, channeling a little inner Scarlet to help me out. Sometimes, I really don’t recognize myself when I’m with this man. He brings out sides of me that I never knew existed, and as much as it confuses me, I must admit that I kinda like it.

“Good. Well, you’re not scared of me, so you won’t mind staying a little longer, will you, Miss Ryder? Now, what do you like?”

I blink at him, my mind immediately spinning off in an entirely inappropriate direction. I mean, him eating me was pretty amazing. But feeling his giant dick pushing inside me, his fingers on my clit? Also amazing. An impossible choice, really. What do I like? An unanswerable question.

“For dinner,” he adds, the glint in his eyes suggesting he knows exactly where I disappeared off to.

“Right. I knew that. Uh, I like anything. I’m easy.” Shit. I’m off-balance now, and my brain doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Probably because my libido is sucking all my energy down to the space between my thighs instead.

He arches an eyebrow. “Thai?”

For a second, my mind turns cartwheels. Tie? His necktie? The one that’s dangling deliciously low on his shirt? Or the tie that holds my dress together, the one he was so close to tugging earlier?

“Do you like Thai food?” he clarifies. “And are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I nod quickly, my cheeks burning. “And yes, I love Thai!” I’m breathless and overenthusiastic, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he flicks his finger across the screen of his phone.

“Then you’re about to eat the best Thai food you’ve ever tasted.”

Sitting back against my chair a little while later, I stifle a groan. “You were right, that is the best Thai food I’ve ever tasted.” I rub a hand over my full stomach. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“I told you.” His eyes scan the array of leftover food on his desk. I think he ordered half the menu. “You know you’ll have to take some of this home with you though?”

I shake my head. “No way. I’m so full I’ll literally burst if I eat any more.”

He rubs a hand down his beard and tilts his head, still looking at the half-full containers. “Feels kind of criminal to let all this go to waste.”

The aroma of the incredible Thai green curry I just devoured tickles my nostrils. He’s right; there’s enough here to feed another two people. “Good point. Actually, I will take it. My neighbor, Kris with a K, would love this stuff.”

His brow furrows. “Kris? With a K?”

My heart rate spikes. Why is he frowning like that? Has he had a bad experience with a Kris in the past? Does he have beef with the letter K? Or could it be that he thinks Kris is a guy, and he’s a tiny bit jealous? No. I’m definitely imagining that. He probably wants me to stay and work a bit longer, even though I think we’ve gotten everything straightened out.

“Yeah. That’s how she introduced herself the first time we met, and it kinda stuck—Kris with a K. She has two teenage boys who both eat like they have hollow legs. This will be a welcome treat. If you really mean it about me taking some home, that is?”

His expression softens again. “Of course. I remember being one of those boys with the hollow legs.”

“Yeah? What were you like as a teenager?”

“Hairy, hungry, and huge. Often also horny. Usual teenage boy stuff.”

“And your house would have been fit to burst with all that, given there were five of you. Your poor mom.”

He smiles, and the flicker of sadness in his eyes is quickly replaced by genuine pleasure. “Yeah. We were miscreants. A day never went by without incident. A broken window, thrown punches, playing football in the house. She pretended to be exasperated, but we all knew she kind of loved the chaos, you know? Being a mom was so natural to her. She always used to say that it was her career. She was the CEO of her boys.”

“That’s so sweet. And true—it’s hard work being a mother. She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“Yeah. She was. I think I’m only just reaching the stage where I can speak about her, think about her, and remember the good times too, you know? I spent so long shutting her out.”

He’s helping me pack away the leftovers, and our hands accidentally touch on the desk. I quickly move my fingers and hope he doesn’t notice my reaction. “And I guess that meant you shut out the happy memories as well as the pain?”

“Exactly. So.” He steps back and clears his throat. “Thank you for a productive night, Miss Ryder.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. James. Thank you for the food. It really was fantastic. I love finding new places to eat.”

“The Rice House makes the best food in the entire Tri-State area. I mean, it’s no Waffle House, but I only ever got that once a year or so when I would drive back to visit from Chicago.” His hangdog expression looks so genuine, I almost feel bad for him. “I guess that’s a thing of the past now.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. James.” I smirk, feeling mischievous again. “I mean I haven’t sampled all the food on offer in the Tri-State area, and I have no idea what Waffle House is, but I don’t have to. I already know the best of the best—in the world—comes from Mario’s in Brooklyn.”

His dark brown eyes narrow. “Mario’s?”

“Mario’s,” I repeat firmly. “And his exploding donut balls.”

Drake coughs like he’s choking on fresh air. “His what now?” he finally manages to say.

His unguarded reaction makes me giggle. Between the banter about food and him opening up about his mom, I’m reminded of the first night we met, when we were Charlie and Scarlet and nothing was off-limits. “His exploding donut balls. Trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried them. They are delicious.” Closing my eyes, I kiss my fingertips as if I’m the chef of a Michelin-star restaurant declaring perfection. “Light and crispy on the outside, all sugary and hot, but when you pop them in your mouth and bite …” I lick my lips and moan. “It’s like an explosion of sweet, heavenly cream in your mouth.”

He stares at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. The heat of his gaze blisters my skin, and a flush creeps over my cheeks.

“What?” I whisper.

The air in the room seems to shift, suddenly full of crackling electricity that buzzes over my skin and makes my pulse spike. Drake’s eyes bore into mine for a few seconds longer before he looks away. “Nothing,” he says. “Carry on.”

Nothing? That wasn’t nothing. The man looked at me like he wanted to throw me out of his office, and all I was doing was talking about donuts. But he said to carry on, so I do. “They’re like heaven in pastry form. But you have to eat them straight away, while they’re hot and fresh, and I’m pretty sure you don’t travel to my neighborhood very often.” My nerves cause me to retreat into the safe haven of blabbering about nothing at all important. “Which is probably a good thing, really.”

“Oh? And why is that, Miss Ryder?” He’s finished loading the takeout containers into the bag and is staring at me intensely. Jeez. This man is really passionate about donuts.

The heat from my cheeks races down my neck. I even feel like my internal organs are blushing. Nobody could withstand Drake James’s laser eyes, and I almost feel sorry for the people who have to face him in court.

“B-because once you’ve tasted one of Mario’s exploding donut balls, there’s no going back. You’ll have dreams about how good they are, they’re that addictive. Even though you know they’re bad for you, once you’ve tasted them, you can’t get them out of your mind.”

His jaw tics, his scowl murderous. The tension in the room is weird and supercharged, and I have no idea what’s happening here. Boy, I could really do with an exploding donut ball right about now.

Drake sucks on his top lip for a few seconds, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, abruptly, he hands me the white takeout bag. “I think it’s time I let you go home, Miss Ryder.” His tone is cold and detached, his expression closed down.

What the actual fuck? I thought we were good, that we made progress. There were a few lusty glitches, sure, but we got through them. We worked together, ate together, and had a conversation like two normal colleagues. Only now, he’s behaving like a total stranger, and there was a layer of frost in his voice with that last “Miss Ryder.”

“Did I say something wrong, Mr. James?”

“No,” he replies a little too quickly. “But it’s late, and if you want your neighbors to enjoy this food, you’d better get it to them soon.”

I accept the bag and turn to look for my coat. He’s right, I’m sure. Except … Except no. He’s being weird and rude, and I don’t like it.

“Are you mad that I think Mario’s exploding donut balls are better than your fancy expensive Thai food? Have I offended your male pride in some way?” I blurt out.

He glares at me, nostrils flaring like he’s trying to keep a lid on his temper. “You really think I’m that much of an asshole?”

“The jury’s still out on that, Mr. James. If you’d asked me that half an hour ago, the answer would have been no. But now? Not so sure. Why are you so annoyed with me?”

“I’m not.” His annoyed tone completely undermines his claim. He closes his eyes and rubs at his temples like he has a headache, then sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a second, and lets it out. “I’m not annoyed at you, Miss Ryder. I’m annoyed at myself.”

“Why? What have you done wrong?”

He steps around the desk and stands so close to me that I can feel the heat from his body. My eyes are on a level with his chest, and it’s almost impossible not to reach out and place my hand on it. I imagine myself undoing those buttons, one by one, revealing the gorgeous body I know lies underneath the civilized clothing. His cologne fills my nostrils and my head spins at the sparks flying between us.

“I think you should go,” he says softly, the words at odds with the tone. Time seems to stretch into an endless moment as we stare at each other, his liquid brown eyes growing darker as he scrutinizes my face.

“I will, don’t worry. But just so you know, you are being an asshole now. I’m going to go home and spend the rest of the night worrying about whatever the hell I did wrong and whether you’ll still be pissed at me in the morning.”

He shoves his hands through his hair and growls. “I’m not even pissed at you now, never mind in the morning. Look, you want to know if I’ve ever regretted tasting something so good that I can’t stop thinking about it? Something that I’m addicted to even though I know it’s bad for me?”

My knees tremble, and it feels like all the air is being sucked from the room. I manage to breathe out a single word. “Yes.”

He dips his head until his mouth is dangerously close to my ear. “I have, Amelia.” His warm breath dances over my skin, making me shiver even as my temperature skyrockets at having him so close. “You.”

Then, without another word, he strides out of his office, leaving me a quivering mess in his wake. I stare after him, open-mouthed, my heart hammering in my chest. Forcing myself to inhale deeply, I will my pulse to stop racing and look down at the bag of food dangling from my hand. I should get home. He has more work to do, and he’s clearly not going to get it done while I’m here.

Rolling my shoulders back, I walk out of Drake’s office and stride down the empty hallways until I reach the elevators. I’ve never been here so late before. I’m sure there are people still here working, shut away in their offices, but it’s silent and kind of eerie. A touch on the creepy side, especially for someone who already feels on the verge of a cardiac event.

Despite my anxiety, I feel a slow smile spreading across my face. I know Drake is my boss and that he’s a billionaire lawyer with the world at his feet. I know that he’s completely and totally off-limits and nothing can ever happen between us.

But in this moment, and only in this moment, none of that matters. Because he said it and he can’t take it back, and I will always have this one sweet victory.

I am Drake James’s exploding donut balls.

I say goodnight to the security guard at the front desk and step outside into the cool spring air, my bag of food clutched in one hand and my purse in the other. I recognize the sleek black SUV idling directly outside the lobby and Drake’s driver standing beside it.

“Miss Ryder,” Constantine calls. “Mr. James asked me to drive you home.”

“Hi, Constantine,” I say as he opens the car door for me. “How are you?”

I refuse to feel embarrassed about the last time we met, when I was bundled in the back of this very same car in the night-before’s underwear and a crumpled dress. I felt ashamed and dirty after Drake basically asked me to leave and only agreed to the ride because I couldn’t face the subway. And now, here I am again, confused by the way Drake blows hot and cold with no apparent concern for the way the rapid-fire climate change affects me. I have nothing to be embarrassed about, I tell myself.

“I’m doing quite well, Miss Ryder, thanks for asking.”

“And the baby?” I add. I learned during our last drive that his wife gave birth to a little girl just a few months earlier, and he even showed me the most adorable photo of her. I so appreciated that simple act of kindness at the time, the reassurance that I didn’t look like so much of a nasty tramp that he wouldn’t risk giving me a glimpse of his precious daughter.

“She’s fantastic. Now, how about you get in the car, and we can chat on the way back to your place?”

“I don’t think so, Constantine. Not this time.”

I glance through the open door, quashing the vague schoolgirl hope that Drake is actually sitting in there waiting for me.

“Please, miss. He didn’t want you taking the subway alone so late at night.”

It is late, and I am tired, but I always take the subway home. It’s perfectly safe, and I don’t need Drake’s car. As if sensing my indecision, Constantine smiles at me. “My life won’t be worth living if I don’t take you home, Miss Ryder. And if I don’t get home within the next hour, my wife will watch the next episode of Bridgerton without me. So cut me some slack here.”

The plush leather seats will be comfortable and warm, and getting back to my apartment will be much quicker and easier if I say yes. But this feels off—like Drake is trying to apologize for ending our evening the way he did but doesn’t have the decency to actually do it in person.

“How will Mr. James get home?”

“He expressed the desire to walk,” Constantine replies, gesturing at the open car door once more. “He really will be upset with me if you don’t get into this car, Miss Ryder.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you already told me that. Your life won’t be worth living, right?”

“He’ll make it absolute hell,” he replies, grinning. I don’t buy it for a second. I, of all people, know Drake can be a demanding boss, but Constantine doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would allow anyone to make his life hell.

He arches an eyebrow, his gray eyes twinkling. “So?”

“Fine. But only for you,” I say with a smile.

He places his hand over his heart. “Gracias, mademoiselle.”

“You’re such a charmer, and multilingual as well.” I climb into the car with Constantine’s low laugh in my ears. Sitting back against the supple leather seat, I rub my temples. It’s been a long day, and I have to admit, this is a lot nicer than spending an hour on the subway. I get my phone out of my purse and go to my messages. There’s one from my mom saying she’s fine and turning in for the night and one from Kimmy asking how I’m doing. I tap out quick replies to both of them, then chew my lip as I stare at the screen. It’s only polite to thank Drake for the use of his car.

I contemplate putting a kiss at the end like I do for most of my text message conversations, even my dentist, but for Drake, that would be too much. He is my boss, after all. A boss I have history with. I stare at the screen, contemplating whether to press send or delete.

Without any more overthinking, I press send. My pulse spikes immediately, and I’m flooded with nerves as my message wings off into cyberspace. I see the little icon appear that tells me he’s received the message and also read it. I hold my breath while I wait for a response with no idea what I’m hoping for, but I’m definitely hoping for something. No matter how hard I stare at the screen, willing him to reply, nothing lands. I don’t suppose it was really the kind of message that needed a response, but it would have been nice. It would have stopped my worries about whether I crossed a line or not. But then he crossed a line tonight too, and we both know it.

After dropping my phone back into my purse, I lean back against the seat and look out the window. New York flies by in a blur of light, the river twinkling in the distance. So what if he hasn’t replied? Maybe it’s for the best.

I will choose to focus on the good stuff, not the anxiety-inducing stuff. We worked well together. We made a good team, and I helped him with his case. All of that is solidly placed in the win column.

That’s not what I’ll really remember about tonight, though, I know. What I’ll really remember is the way his lips felt pressed against my ear and the words he whispered to me. Holy exploding donut balls, that man makes me melt.