“You can do this, Phoebe.” I grab another cookie and sip on my coffee. “You’ll be okay.”
Andy
Back in the high-rise, wearing a tie and suit, I stifle a groan. At least this time, I’ve got Gabe with me, and we’ve been pre-approved to go upstairs.
“I’m here for my meeting with Miss Jenkins,” I inform the receptionist when we reach the fifteenth floor.
The pretty woman behind the desk smiles broadly at me with dark green eyes full of mischief, her dark blonde hair up in a frazzled knot barely held in place by a pencil.
“You must be Mr. Atkins,” she drawls out with a true southern accent and stretches out her hand. “I’m Leanne Beaumont, a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too, Mrs. Beaumont.” I shake her hand, wondering what a nice person like her is doing in a cold, heartless law firm like this.
“It’s Miss, and just Leanne is perfectly fine.” She turns to Gabe. “And you are…?”
Gabe just gapes at her, white as a sheet.
“Not so used to attention from the ladies, I gather?” She turns back to me with a bewildered smile.
“Quite the contrary,” I scoff at Gabe, but he just keeps staring at Leanne in what I can only describe as sheer panic. “I guess you’re something special, Miss Leanne.” I wink, and her bell of laughter fills the sterile space with a semblance of humanity.
“I’m Gabe. I need to use the bathroom,” Gabe suddenly blurts out, and Leanne barely suppresses a snort.
“They’re outside and to the left after the elevator.” She hands him a white card with a chip embedded in it. “This is a swipe card for guests. It’ll let you into the men’s room but not back into the offices, so you’re going to have to go through me again.” Leanne raises an amused eyebrow. “Can you handle that, sugar?”
Gabe nods and rushes out, still no blood in his face, and I swear I hear Leanne mutter something to the effect of “poor baby” before turning back to me.
“You’ll be in the green boardroom. It’s straight ahead, just a few doors down from Phoebe’s office.” Leanne’s tone seems almost suggestive.
“Uh, okay.” I tap my fingers on the reception desk. “Aren’t you supposed to take me there?”
“I need to be here to let your friend back in. Don’t want him to be late ‘cause he got stuck outside, now do we?” she states with a pat to my hand and turns to the copier. “A trained navy man like yourself can surely manage the task of navigating himself to a conference room, right darling?”
“Okay, then. Thank you, Leanne.”
“You’re welcome, Andy,” she answers with her sing-song of an accent, which makes me smile against my own will.
“Andrew,” I correct. “No one calls me Andy anymore.”
“Phoebe still does.” Leanne cocks an eyebrow.
“Phoebe’s an exception.”
“Is that so?” Leanne’s smile broadens, and I can’t help but chuckle and shake my head.
“I like you, Leanne.” I tap her desk one last time before heading toward the boardroom.
I try, I swear I do, but when I pass Phoebe’s door, I can’t stop myself, and I slip in, looking around the room. The clean design suits her, grays and whites with touches of wood. But her desk is empty save for a small black velvet chest holding two green Chinese balls, a small bottle of hand moisturizer and a couple of photos—one of her family and one of her with the girls, Zoe and Trista.
Looking at those photos stabs at the rawest part of me, reminding me of all the things in my ever-growing pile of regrets.
With a sigh, I put the photos back down and pick up the Chinese balls from their little chest, mindlessly playing with them as I keep walking around taking in Phoebe’s lingering scent, when one of the balls slips from my grip and pops to the floor, rolling away with a jingle.
“Shit!” I chase it into the small closet in Phoebe’s office, and just as I bend down to pick it up, the door flies open, and slams back shut.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!” The string of swearing flying out of Phoebe’s mouth causes me to freeze inside the closet.
I’ve been in battles less scary than Phoebe when she’s genuinely pissed off, and she is angry as hell from the sound of it. Her hurried footsteps approach the closet, and I brace myself to step out and have her rain fury on me for being in her office uninvited and touching her stuff.
I mean to show myself, I even take a step toward the door, but then a white blouse with a coffee stain goes flying into the closet, landing in a heap on the floor, closely followed by a gray pencil skirt.
Don’t do it, Andy.
But I do. Adjusting my position, I can see her reflection, standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a bright purple bra and matching panties. Holy crap, she wears sexy lingerie sets to work.
“Damn it,” Phoebe grumbles in annoyance as she furiously tries to remove a coffee stain from one of her cups with a wet wipe.
Creep, I think to myself when I realize I’m rock solid hard right now, peeping at her from her closet like this. I really should make myself known. But I can’t tear my gaze away from the smooth olive skin, the fact that she regularly trains evident in the tight muscles of her stomach, her strong thighs, and that impeccable perky ass made even sexier by her stilettos.
But she’s somehow become even more feminine than I remember. Her breasts seem to have filled out, and her curves are more accentuated. Despite her body being taut and tight, it seems soft and inviting. What gets me the most, though, is the tattoo adorning her left shoulder blade—a swirl of purple-tinted monarch butterflies tattooed on the left side of her back, over her heart, and the memories of the first time I saw it, right before I left for my first tour, rush to the front of my mind.
“This is how I feel every time I see you, Andy. Four years, and you still give me butterflies. Promise you’ll come back to me, so I can feel them again.”
And she is still the single most beautiful human being I have ever had the privilege of looking at. Even if this privilege is entirely illegal and downright invasive right now. Fuck.
I force myself to look away.
“Worst day to channel Trista.” She keeps her tirade going, and I have to stop myself from bursting into laughter. I recall Trista Edwards being one of the clumsiest people I have ever encountered. Apparently, that hasn’t changed in the past five years.
“You’ll be okay.” Phoebe takes a deep breath and reaches into the closet for the black tailored dress she has hanging there, her eyes never leaving her reflection. “You just have to keep your eye on the prize. Don’t let Andy distract you.”
My heart starts beating a little faster upon learning that I can still do that, and I start wondering if maybe I should step out, swoop her into my arms and kiss her senseless.
“You won’t let him see how your heart flutters every time he smiles or how much you missed it when he calls you Curls.”
My smile broadens, and I allow myself to look up after hearing the fabric of the dress slide over her skin. That’s when I notice the quiver of her lower lip. “Or how relieved you are that he’s home because you spent the last five years wondering if he’s even still alive.”