Yet, while I still find him to be the most eligible man in the city, he’s not the man I want anymore.
His pen drops to the ground. He holds his tie close to his chest as he leans down to pick it up. He stays down there a few seconds too long. I glance over and see he’s staring at my feet, and I wonder why.
“Do your socks say, My puns are grate?” he asks, looking at my hideous cheese-grater socks I got from Hunter’s family Christmas party.
I giggle into the back of my hand. “It’s an inside joke.”
Branson dazzles me with his smile. “Care to make it an outside one?”
I smash my lips together and shake my head. “No,” I answer. Not to be rude. Just because I’m not ready to share my jokes with Hunter with the world. They’re personal and ours.
My feelings for Hunter are so strong and developed in such a short amount of time. He’s fun and romantic, spontaneous and intense.
They’re also new.
Too new.
I don’t know how to process them.
Branson’s thick brows are pushed together. His mouth is pursed as he looks at me, pensive.
“May I be forward with you?” he asks.
I sit up straight and give him my rapt attention. “Of course.”
He angles his body toward me, so we’re face-to-face. “Your relationship with Hunter,” he starts, “I know it might seem serious now, but it won’t last.”
My eyes widen at his comment.
He continues anyway, “I’ve been around him outside of the office enough to know that he is prone to falling into relationships rather easily. He enjoys the chase, if you know what I mean. It would benefit you to keep him at a distance until his intentions become clear.”
I’m not entirely sure what to do with this well-meaning advice, but I am certain Branson doesn’t know Hunter the way I do.
“Thank you for the advice, but Hunter isn’t that type of man,” I defend.
“Isn’t he?” Branson’s piercing blues narrow in on mine. “He is the man who dates among the building’s office pool and is water-cooler gossip more times than I care to have to deal with. When we play racquetball, there’s always a date to be had later. The relationships never last more than a few weeks. I believe he enjoys the art of falling in love but not the commitment.”
Hunter doesn’t fall in love, I want to tell him. He only believes in true love in its most selfless form.
That said, I can’t deny what Branson is saying. Hunter does date a lot. I can’t fault him for that, but—if I’m wise—I would keep that notion in the back of my head before I fall too deep and my heart breaks.
“You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m a strong woman with a good head on my shoulders,” I tell him as I put the empty lunch containers in the paper bag.
“You wear your heart on your sleeve, Katherine. It’s one of the things I adore most about you.”
I halt at his comment. He adores me.
His mouth tugs to the side as he leans forward, his face just inches from mine as he declares, “You deserve to be with a gentleman. Always remember that.”
The aroma of peppermint from a fine Englishman wafts off of him and makes me dizzy.
Branson stands up and walks to his desk. He straightens his tie and waits as I discard the trash and then gather the papers.
“Leave them. We can go over them some more before you go home for the day.”
I nod my head and step out of the office. At my desk, I run my hand over my head and wonder why I’m suddenly feeling off center.
“Katherine”—Branson is now standing in the threshold between his office and mine—“I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds.”
I shake my head. “No. You were just looking after your employee, so she doesn’t get hurt and want to leave her post.” I raise the inflection in my tone, so it sounds like a joke.
He’s not laughing. “I’m telling you as a man who doesn’t want a woman to have her heart broken. Besides, soon, you’ll be moving on, and you won’t be my employee any longer.”
He stands there for a beat, his words lingering in the air, like a heavy weight barreling down on my subconscious.
I won’t be his employee much longer. The rules will be lifted, and then we can … date.
And now, I know why my head is spinning.
Damn you, Branson Ford.
Chapter Fifteen
“Where are we going?” I ask Hunter as I sit in an Uber.
He whisked me away after work, adamant that we leave before sunset.
“You don’t like surprises, do you?”
“Of course I do. I just hate waiting for them. I get too excited.”
He takes my hand in his and kisses the knuckles. “Lower your expectations then. Nothing’s worse than going into something with high expectations. It will seem mediocre. Imagine it’s the worst surprise in the history of surprises.”
I nod my head. “I can do that.”
“What are you picturing?”
“We’re going to a sex club where people whip you in public.”
The way his eyes widen and his mouth parts shows how shocked he is by my statement. “Holiday harlot. You certainly have an active imagination. Though that doesn’t sound like a bad surprise to me.”
I hit him in the chest, and he pulls me into him and kisses my head.
The car turns onto the Seventy-Ninth Street Transverse that drives through Central Park. We stop halfway through the park, and Hunter gets out.
“Do you have your phone?” he asks, and I nod. “Take your picture.”
He motions behind me. When I turn around, I see we’re standing in front of Belvedere Castle.
The gray stone structure is something I’ve seen many times from the Great Lawn of the park, yet I have never been this close. I turn back to Hunter, curious as to why we’re here.
“I know it’s only a mini castle, but it wasn’t on your wall. I thought you’d like to add a new one to your collection. What do you think, kid?”
A huge smile bursts from my face. This is the most non-cliché romantic gesture a man could have made. “It’s perfect.”
I take out my phone and snap a picture, needing the flash, as the sun is quickly setting. The early sunset is the only thing I don’t like about this time of year.
I pull my coat tight against my body. “It’s a shame it’s closed. You brought me all this way for a picture. It’s very sweet.”
Hunter takes my hand and pulls me toward the entrance. “Don’t be so sure.”
We get to the entrance, and the door opens. A gentleman greets Hunter, and when they shake hands, I’m pretty sure I see at least two hundred-dollar bills in Hunter’s palm, which disappear when their hands separate.
“Thanks, Rodney,” Hunter says as he brings me inside.
“You have a half hour.” Rodney disappears, leaving Hunter and me alone.
I grab his lapel and pull him toward me. “You bribed to get us a private viewing?”
He raises a brow. “You’re not the only one who knows how to pull strings, Miss Reservation for Branson Ford at Tavern on the Green.”
With a soft kiss to my lips, he grips my hand and walks me around the space. It’s not very big, but it has that romantic, mysterious charm of all old structures. With its stone walls and slab floors, arched windows and wooden casings, it most definitely feels like the castles I visited in Europe.