Page 29

One corner of Kit’s mouth curves up for a second. A flicker I would have missed if I hadn’t been studying his expression so closely.
“Likewise.”
“We’ll let you get back to work, Mr. Kensington,” Laura says. “I’ll get Ms. Tate set up at her desk.”
Kit doesn’t look away from me as he replies, “Sounds good.”
I nod in agreement.
I’m sweating. I’msweating, and it’s probably fifty-five degrees in this building.
What the hell is wrong with me?This is Kit, I remind myself again. He’s young and immature and obnoxious and … hot.
Kit is hot. An attractiveness I’ve always been aware of but have—with one glaring exception—successfully ignored. Kit, in a perfectly tailored suit, with the Manhattan skyline outlined behind him?Hardto ignore.
We’re still shaking—holding—hands, I realize belatedly. My grip relaxes, and his does the same. My fingers fall, brushing against the stiff fabric of my dress, and I restrain the urge to wipe my palm again.
I give the office a cursory glance, breaking eye contact with Kit for the first time since I entered the room. It doesn’t have the generic feel I’m accustomed to, like it’s a duplicate of the entire floor. This office contains character.
The walls are paneled with dark wood that matches the door. Theeffect reminds me of a library, enhanced by a large bookcase. A pair of leather armchairs is angled toward his desk, and an oil painting of a sailboat hangs on the wall opposite it. A matching couch sits on the corner, forming a small seating area. Floor-to-ceiling windows enclose the corner of the building, boasting a staggering view of the city and flooding the space with light. There’s a photo frame sitting on the desk, but it’s facing away, so I can’t see its contents. The one item in the room not on obvious display.
“Ms. Tate?” Laura is smiling at me indulgently as she holds the door open.
Waiting for me to walk out first, I realize.
“Oh, right. Of course.” I step back hastily, wincing when the back of my calf collides with the coffee table situated in front of the leather couch.
The glass bowl on the coffee table wobbles, the rattle echoing ominously. I lose my equilibrium for a few seconds, arms windmilling and pulse pounding in my ears.
Kit reaches out and grabs my arm, steadying me. Sparks skitter along my nerve endings as his calluses scrape my skin.
He doesn’t spare a glance for the glass bowl, but I do. Thankfully, it’s righted itself. Same as I would have if Kit hadn’t intervened.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear so I have an excuse to pull my arm away. “I—I haven’t worn heels in a while.”
Kit arches one eyebrow, and I’m positive we’re thinking the same thing—I wore heelsthatnight.
“Towork,” I clarify. “I haven’t worn heels to work in a while.”
My former office in Chicago was more of aflats vibe than corporate runway chic. We were even allowed to wear jeans on Fridays.
“You don’t have to wear heels,” Kit tells me.
My nod is more of an awkward head bob. “Got it.”
I give the coffee table a wide berth as I follow Laura out of Kit’s office. I’d love to sink into the swivel chair and bury my face in my hands in silent mortification, but that’s going to have to wait until I’m back in Brooklyn.
I hoped my clumsiness in front of Kit was an unfortunate coincidence. Now, I’m concerned it’s simple cause and effect.
The next hour passes quickly. Laura already reviewed a bunch of paperwork with me and got me a permanent badge. After I “meet” Kit, she helps me set up voicemail, log in to the company system, and run through the regular tasks I’m supposed to perform.
I pay close attention to every detail, determined not to miss or mess up anything. Laura also shows me around the break room—lunch is catered daily, and there’s a fridge of drinks and snacks—and this floor’s copy room, which is fully stocked with every category of office supplies imaginable. I run a fingertip along the edge of a shelf stacked with brand-new binders, and there’s not a single speck of dust on it.
By the time Laura deposits me back at my new desk with a straightforward, “Let me know if you need anything!” I’m notpositiveshe truly means it.
It’s 11:02 a.m.
Thirteen minutes later, I catch a flash of pink out of the corner of my eye.