The Singles (9 page)

I sat down and crossed my legs at the ankle. “Next Tuesday. And I’ve already updated your schedule.”

Although her attention was pointed down, her frown of disapproval was clear.

Oh God, here it comes,
I thought. Picking a piece of lint off the skirt of my navy fit-and-flare dress, I waited for Margaret’s next request, and sure enough, a few seconds later, she ordered, “Move it to Monday.”

The possibility of changing the appointment was slim, but I wasn’t about to let Margaret know that. If I was ever going to get anything accomplished, getting on her good side was imperative. “You got it,” I said smoothly. “I’ll have Natalie change the appointment.”

Her blue eyes lifted to meet mine. “Wonderful. Tuesday will be a full day. I’ll be in meetings with the board all day, and I’ll need you close by to help keep minutes.”

So much for what Dora had told me about the board meetings not involving me. Using the LCD writing tablet I’d picked up over the long weekend, I made myself a note to get in touch with Natalie so I could beg her to squeeze me in a day earlier. “Alright, I’ll shoot her an email as soon as I get back to my desk and then I’ll follow up with her in a couple hours.”

“Good enough.” Margaret sat up straight in her high back chair and tapped her manicured finger against her chin. “As you know, I’ll be flying to New York later today and won’t be back until Friday afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve scheduled a car to meet me at the airport?”

That had been one of the first things I’d done the day I started—after my infuriating back and forth with her son. Any thought of Oliver immediately pushed the flowers from last night into my mind, and I knew I couldn’t ignore them.

Clearing my throat, I squared my shoulders and began, “I emailed you the travel itinerary yesterday after—”

Margaret held up a hand. “I need you to print them out and bring them to me.”

“No problem, I’ll drop them off shortly.” When she realized I was waiting for her to finish today’s list, her eyes narrowed into a slow, burning glare.

“Now.”

Fisting my hands in my lap, I smiled and nodded, like a damn bobblehead. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” As I departed her office, my back uncomfortably straight and every muscle ticking in anger, I wondered if she found any pleasure in this.

She had to, right?

“Absolute bullshit,” I hissed as I sat down at my desk and began locating the documents I’d emailed her previously. As I sent everything to the personal printer in my office, I glanced at the email conversation I’d had with Oliver, reminding me that I’d have to thank him for the flowers sooner than later. A frown tugged the corners of my lips. He could have given up or moved on to another conquest—it wasn’t like the man was in short supply of willing women, I supposed.
Though that would have been too easy.

Releasing a frustrated noise, I gathered the printouts and put them in a file folder before returning to Margaret’s office. Her chair was empty, but when I heard her voice coming from the far end of the room, I tiptoed closer to see her lying on the white sofa.

“God
damn
it, Oliver, I’m not getting into this with you,” she growled, and I felt my breath catch. He was everywhere—in my home, on my computer, and now on the phone with my boss. “I’m leaving here in the next ten minutes as soon as that little—.”

Before she could call me who knows what, I cleared my throat. She lifted her head slightly, observing me standing close to her desk. “I’ll just leave these right here.” I flashed her the documents before dropping them close to the based of her desktop screen.

She waved her hand flippantly, but before I could completely leave her office, she stopped me. “Wait, Lizzie.” When I turned, she was in an upright position, sliding her feet into her snake-print Louboutin pumps. “I’m leaving shortly. I’m going to email you a list of things I need you to take care of while I’m away.”

“I’ll look out for it.”

“Also, call the cleaning service in New York and make sure they’ll have my apartment clean by this afternoon?”

“I’ll do it right now. Have a safe trip, Margaret.”

Ignoring me, she resumed her call with her son. “It’s too late to cancel, so you’re just going to have to deal with it,” she snapped at him, and I couldn’t help but wonder what they were arguing about as I returned to my desk to at least attempt to get some work done.

When I heard the door to her office slam shut, I was on hold waiting to speak to someone with the cleaning service she employed for her Upper East Side apartment—my father’s old apartment. I scooted my chair back and glanced out just in time to see her stalk on the elevator in an angry huff.

Finally
, I thought, feeling a burst of giddiness.

With her gone, tomorrow I would be free to look around her office without getting caught.

“Ms. Emerson?” a voice on the other line spoke up, and my heart automatically jumped into my throat even though I knew he was referring to Margaret.  

“No, I’m Mrs. Emerson’s assistant, Ms. Connelly,” I quickly corrected.

“Ah, sorry about that. I checked our records and it looks like your boss’ apartment was cleaned this morning.”

“Perfect.” That was one item I could scratch off my list. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Brandon.”

Grabbing an owl-print Post-It from the top of the stack, I scribbled a quick note in case there were problems and stuck it to the bottom of my computer monitor. “Thanks, Brandon. You have a good one, okay?”

“You do the same.”

Typing quickly, I sent Margaret a one-line message letting her know her apartment was clean and ready for her stay. No sooner than I hit send, a new email from her appeared in my inbox with the subject line
To-Do List Pt. 1.

Already? My head fell back against the headrest. It would be my luck her to-do list would be so long I’d barely have time to breathe, much less look around her office. Surprisingly, though, the email was short with only one task.

Hello Lizzie,

Can you please drop by Manning? There’s a package I need you to pick up from the receptionist. Thanks. 

Thanks? I wasn’t even aware that word was in her vocabulary, but I immediately responded that I would. Then, looking at her email one last time, I laughed. She was sending me to Oliver’s company. And I thought she wanted me to keep my distance from the man.

*

S
ince it was more than two weeks into October, the weather was perfect, a clear and sunny eighty degrees as I followed the directions on my phone to the Manning Hotel Group headquarters. I took my time, allowing the heat to warm my skin during the walk to Oliver’s building.

Twenty minutes after leaving work, I stood on the bottom step of a light brick office building that I would have passed right by if not for the GPS app on my phone. Even from the outside, this place was the polar opposite of Emerson & Taylor, with its nondescript sign and plain architecture.

I couldn’t help wondering if Oliver’s office followed the same design—or if he was here today.

Smoothing down the front of my dress, I walked up the steps and into the building. The lobby was nice, unsurprisingly reminding me of a hotel atrium with its ambient lighting and diamond-pattern carpet. Spotting the circular receptionist’s desk, I waited for the skinny guy behind it to finish the call he was taking before approaching.

“Welcome to Manning Hotel Group, do you have an appointment?”

“I’m actually picking up something for Margaret Emerson.”

He pulled his thick brows together. “What was your name?”

“Lizzie Connelly.”

As soon as I replied, his eyes widened in recognition, and he bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Ah, okay. I have you listed. Take the elevator.” He pointed to the two cars on the side of the lobby. “Go to the fifth floor, and when you get to the desk upstairs, just tell Danielle who you are.”

Patting his desk twice, I started toward the elevator as the phone began to ring. “Thanks.”

Smiling crookedly, he reached for the receiver. “Yeah, no problem.”

As I waited for the elevator, my own phone buzzed from inside my purse. I checked it as I rode the car to the fifth floor. I’d stupidly linked my work email to my device, and I cringed when I spotted the new message from Margaret with the subject line
Tasks 10/17 & 10/18.
Sighing, I dropped my phone back into my bag and waited for the doors to open.

I should’ve known the single task from the first email was too good to be true.

Stepping off the elevator, I came face-to-face with another receptionist’s desk. “Danielle?” I asked hesitantly, and, putting on an obligatory smile, the bespectacled brunette glanced up at me.

“Ms. Connelly?”

“Yes, that’s right. I was supposed to be picking up a—”

“It’s alright, Dani, she can come back with me.” My gaze lifted to a boyishly handsome man, whose head was poked around the corner. The receptionist gave me an encouraging nod, and I frowned as I walked behind the desk to join him in the next hallway. With a head of curly black hair that I was immediately envious of, he wasn’t incredibly tall, but I still had to tilt my chin back a little to look at him. “I’m Easton Campbell, head of IT.”

“So, I’m picking up a computer?”

His deep brown eyes crinkled as he laughed and shook his head. “Not exactly.” Walking ahead of me, he opened an office door on the right, and motioned me in. When I stepped through the doorway and into the large office, I froze.

Blue eyes that had haunted me for the past week and a half stared from behind a large, U-shaped mahogany desk. I let my gaze wander down slowly, feeling a pang in my chest when Oliver’s full lips stretched into a grin. My mouth was still hanging open when he looked past me and said, “Make sure you delete it from Margaret’s sent box.”

I heard a soft chuckle behind me. “Already taken care of,” Easton assured him. “Enjoy your lunch, boss.” Then a second later, the office door closed quietly behind him.

“What the hell is going on?” I finally managed, and Oliver stood from his desk. My eyes helplessly followed the motion, taking in his broad chest and powerful shoulders through his business suit. He walked in my direction, but just before he reached me, he stopped and gestured to the right of the room.

I twisted slightly to see a tiny, two-person dining set positioned between a mini fridge and a recliner. The tabletop was covered with takeout boxes. “I ordered us lunch.”

“The package for your mom...” But he shook his head, and I allowed myself to reevaluate the respectful way Margaret’s message was worded and what he’d said to his IT guy a couple minutes ago. “You sent me that email, didn’t you, Oliver?”

Walking across the room, he sat down at the dinette, his eyes burning into me. “Guilty. But the last thing I want to talk about is my mother. For the next hour, you’re all mine.” He motioned at the other chair and added, “Sit down.”

Pinching my lips together, I reached for the doorknob. “What if I turn around and leave?”

He dipped his head, drawing my attention to that ruffled light brown hair that was just begging to be touched, and a shiver coursed through my body. “Then I’ll consider you uninterested. The choice is yours.”

For what felt like the longest minute of my life, I stood completely still with my hand on the doorknob behind me. My heart pummeled my rib cage, my breathing sounded uneven and broken in my ears.

“Sit down, Lizzie,” he implored.

Before I knew what was happening, my legs moved me toward him. I settled into the chair and covered my knees with the hem of my dress. The moment I looked up from the tabletop and into his eyes, I instantly regretted it because his slow, conquering grin swallowed me whole.

––––––––

“H
ope you like Mexican food.” Oliver’s smooth voice flowed over me, adding a few more butterflies to the ones already flitting erratically around my stomach. He worked the lids off the takeout containers and began piling two disposable plates with food.

Despite my nervousness, I inhaled deeply; the aroma of chicken tacos and rice was tantalizing enough to draw a sigh from me. “It smells
incredible
.”

“So do you.”

His eyes locked with mine, and I couldn’t bring myself to look away—Oliver Manning was hypnotic. He’d probably been hearing that his entire life from women and gossip columnists, yet he completely owned what he was. What he could do to a woman with the slightest jerk of his mouth.

What he could do to
me
.

“You look terrified,” he drawled.

I carved my hand through my hair, noticing the way his eyes carefully traced my movements. “Why do you say that?”

Setting my plate in front of me, he angled his head to one side. “You haven’t moved an inch since you sat down.”

I reached forward and grabbed a fork from the center of the table and removed it from its plastic wrapping. “That was about nine inches,” I declared, and he let out a low chuckle of amusement.

When his full lips parted, I was almost certain he was going to follow up with something absolutely naughty, but then he asked, “Thirsty?”

I nodded, observing him from beneath my lashes—finding it impossible to tear my gaze from his toned body as he strode to the refrigerator. Even the most unassuming task, like getting a drink, seemed ridiculously sexy when Oliver was performing it, and my pulse felt like it was going to race right out of my skin. I pretended to be more interested in sifting my fork through the rice on my plate, but it was obvious he knew I was watching.

I could tell from his enormous grin when he faced me.

Satisfaction drenching his husky voice, he told me, “I’ve got water, Coke, Dos Equis, and Oktoberfest.”

I cleared my throat. “Water, please?”

He returned to the table with a bottle of San Pellegrino and an Oktoberfest, which he placed beside his plate. Standing next to my seat, he twisted the top off my water before leaning over me. His face was close to mine. So close our noses skimmed. So damn close his mouth would claim mine if I moved even the slightest bit. And, dammit, I wanted to move.