“I just… I don’t know… I thought maybe it’d be a good idea for me to know where you worked. You know, in case of an emergency.”
“Right.”
I narrow my eyes on his simple answer that lets him off the hook way too easily and up the ante. “Maybe we should have lunch one day. To keep up appearances. I could meet you at your office so I could see a little bit about what you do, and we can go from there.”
“Great,” Flynn agrees, shocking the hell out of me as he sets his coffee mug in the sink and winks. Winks. Flynn Winslow, the most stalwart man on the planet, winking…at me. “How about tomorrow? I would today, but I’ve already got a business lunch with my accountant.”
“T-tomorrow’s great,” I stutter, overwhelmed.
“Good,” he praises me then, stepping forward and placing an unexpected kiss on the apple of my cheek that gives me a full-body chill. “I’ll see you tonight, then. Maybe we’ll get tacos.”
“Tacos? On a Monday?”
“Live dangerously with me, Daisy.” He laughs and reaches out to tuck a few of my curls behind my ear. My skin doesn’t miss the cool sensation of his gold wedding band.
He’s wearing his wedding band? When did he start doing that?
I discreetly tap the ring on my left finger with my thumb, even twirling it around a little. Welp, he probably started wearing it around the same time you started wearing yours…
I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything, though. It’s just to keep up appearances.
All I can do is nod as Flynn steps out the door because I’m left wondering just how fucked I’m going to be emotionally if this is the Flynn that lives behind the taciturn curtain. I already knew the quiet Mr. Mysterious was great. But an emotionally available witty wizard who now wears his wedding band out in public? Well, that’s a horse of an entirely different color.
God, Daisy. Do not fall in love with your contractually bound, marriage-pact husband. Only a fool would do that.
My phone buzzes on the counter beside me, startling me from my cold, hard stare at the door.
Damien: How’s it going in New York, doll?
I sigh. Not great. Not only has my war with Tara escalated to epic proportions—think walking into a shocked office of people because she told them she’d heard I died—but I’m also getting dangerously close to becoming attached to my fake husband. Oh yeah, I’m having a grand ole time. Still, Damien gave me this opportunity despite the burden it put on his office, and I don’t want to make him feel like I’m not grateful.
Me: Well, it’s not exactly as fun as working directly with you every day, but the Greenwich Village penthouse looks incredible.
Tara and me working together is a joke of a concept, and she puts down literally everything I suggest, but thankfully, Thomas Grey showed up while we were there the other day and agreed with my proposed changes, so she’s had to go along with it.
Obviously, that did nothing for my working relationship with Tara other than sully it further, but at least Thomas isn’t walking around thinking I’m a complete moron.
Damien: Tara’s just jealous that Thomas liked your suggestions more than hers. Also, she’s territorial as hell, and sometimes I wonder if she and Thomas are having an affair.
My eyes damn near hit the screen of my phone. Not only did Damien suss out the reason for my ho-hum answer immediately, but the gossip around the villain in my story is juicy enough that Paris Hilton of the early 2000s would slap it across the ass of a pair of terry cloth pants if she could.
Me: You think Tara and Thomas are hooking up??? I thought Thomas was married???
Damien: Tara is too, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t spread her legs in a raunchy little dance at the Christmas party two years ago while eye-fucking my eastern counterpart to high heaven.
Me: Oh, holy hell.
Damien: Which brings me to your next work task. Keep an eye on those two and report anything suspicious to me immediately.
I almost want to laugh.
Me: Keeping you in the gossip loop is not a work task, Dame.
The last thing I am going to do is blow the lid off a secret affair of some sort. Hell to the no. That shit is none of my business.
Besides, nearly deported immigrants clinging to their last chance to work in the country shouldn’t throw stones from glass houses.
Tuesday, May 7th
Flynn
The intercom buzzer on my desk phone trills as soon as I place the receiver on the hook from my phone call with the CEO of Tuff Co., the leading vinyl flooring producer in the country, and I scribble my note about equipment setup in their new Texas plant on my notepad quickly so I don’t lose my train of thought.
Talk to Jim about thermodynamics repercussions for ventilation system
Tuff Co. has, for the last twenty years, operated their vinyl plants out of northern China, but because of some changes in logistics and politics, they’ve decided to bring everything stateside to the tax-friendly state of Texas. I’ve been brought on as a consultant to help work through all the kinks involved in an intercontinental move, including climatological considerations on their state-of-the-art machinery.
It’s almost painfully boring, if I’m honest, but it also allows me to keep a residence in Texas on their dime. Since that’s one of the next markets I’d like to expand into with my real estate investments, I took the job.
“Mr. Winslow, your…wife is here to see you.”
I nearly laugh as Valerie stumbles over the word “wife,” but I don’t think it’s in good taste to make fun of an elder, and my assistant was thirty when I was born. Lord only knows why she clings to working for a silent bastard like me when she could retire with her well-off husband and travel the globe, but for whatever reason—perhaps fifteen years of loyalty—she puts up with me every day.
I don’t bother telling Valerie to send Daisy in; after this many years together, she knows what to expect.
Several moments later, the door cracks timidly open, and Daisy peeks her head in, her curls leading the way into the room. “Hi! Am I interrupting?”
I shake my head and wave her in with a hand, so she backs her head out, opens the door farther, and steps inside. “Am I too early? Or are you ready to head to lunch?”
“No, I’m good,” I reply, standing to shut off the monitor on my computer and hitting the button to forward all my direct calls to Valerie’s desk for the time being.
I round the desk and lean in to kiss her on the cheek, and she bounces on her toes awkwardly, accidentally knocking her chin into my teeth.
“Ope! Whoops! Sorry.” She’s strangely nervous, and my dick reacts like he’s one of Pavlov’s dogs. It’s twisted as fuck, but Daisy’s anxiety has become a distinguishable precursor to a very satisfying orgasm.
If Valerie didn’t have the hearing of a bald eagle mid-hunt, I’d toss Daisy up on my desk and work whatever’s bothering her right out with an orgasm. As it is, the best I can do until tonight is to distract her with food—the second-best calming agent in my Daisy arsenal.
“Come on. Let’s go get some food.”
She nods at that, her vibrant green eyes dancing in the sunlight of my office. “You have somewhere in mind?”
I nod. “Head out and hit the button for the elevator. It takes forever sometimes. I’ll just grab my phone and keys and meet you out there.”