Page 104 of Desserts for Stressed People

* * *

I paythe cab driver and walk toward the office’s double glass doors. I’ve been here plenty before at night, and it always relaxes me. The building looks bigger, more aseptic as my heels click clack on the floors.

Entering the elevator, I press the button to the sixth floor while the blinking of cars and street lights shines through the night outside. I straighten my dress and fix the locks of hair tumbling down my shoulders, though both are fine, and when the doors finally open, I walk to Shane’s office.

He’s sitting at his desk in a black shirt and black tie, shouting addresses, and Marina is running from one side of the room to the other, with her heels still on and a pencil skirt that makes her move like a broken doll.

“Wynyard Avenue. Robert Garland.”

“Check,” Marina answers.

“John Kane Street. Kimberly Simmons.”

“Check.”

As he writes something every time Marina gives him a “check,” I eye the boxes all over the place. A few hours? I don’t know how much of this is done, but it looks like it’ll be an all-night job.

“Heaven,” he whispers once he notices me, his brows arching over his forehead as Marina halts.

She sends me a hateful look before strutting past me and into the corridor. “I’m getting a coffee.”

“What are you doing here?” Shane walks to me with impatience in his gaze, and my mind goes into countdown mode. Three...two...one...and he’s hugging me. I immediately relax against his chest—how it isthiscomfortable, I’ll never know. But I haven’t hugged him since this morning, and that’s way too long for a newborn clingy couple like us. “I came to help,” I mumble against his firm chest.

“It’s not your job,” he murmurs, the pecks he presses into my hair telling me he doesn’t care enough to stop.

“I know. But it sounded like you needed me.”

“I always do. Still, I couldn’t possibly ask you to come. You’re overworked as it is, and this isn’t even about the Devòn project.”

Resisting the impulse to rub the side of my face against his shirt because my makeup would be all over it, I inhale his addictive smell. “I know you wouldn’t ask. That’s why I came.”

He takes a step back while he holds my hands, his eyes tumbling down. “Look at you. You are all dressed up for our date.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You look...God, you’re so beautiful.”

“Are we done here?” Marina asks, joining the room with a scowl on her face while holding a cup of coffee.

Shane’s glare strikes at her. “As my assistant, you might want to ask if I’d like a coffee too.”

“I’m your assistant, not your barista.”

Shane’s gaze follows her movements around the room. Almost like he’s expecting her to explode, like he’s so clearly commanding with his eyes. When she doesn’t, he barks, “And maybe thank Heaven for coming down here to help us.”

“No one thanked me for being here.”Once Shane’s expression halts her from saying more, she widens her eyes dramatically. “Thank you, Fourth Floor. We’d all be lost without you.”

“You’re welcome,Sixth Floor.” I drop my bag on the chair and can’t help the chuckle that bursts out of my lips. “Where do we start?”

* * *

I drink a sip of bitter,reinvigorating coffee and put my hair up in a bun. My usual work-braid is there for a reason—I hate when my hair keeps moving in front of my face. “Daniel...Radcliffe?”

“Not the actor,” Shane answers with a shake of his head. “We have it. Is that all?”

“That’s all.” I drop the paper I’m holding and stretch my legs. Shane sent Marina home an hour ago—apparently, after three in the morning, she becomes nastier than usual, and he promised me I didn’t want to be around that.

“I can’t believe we’re done.” He looks at the hundreds of boxes scattered around the room, then at his tie and jacket, discarded on a taller pile by the far corner. By now, I know each of the boxes contains a few pamphlets about the company, a tote bag, some beauty products, and a bunch of office supplies, as well as a bottle of expensive wine and a jar of some fancy sundried tomatoes.

“At what time is the courier coming to pick this stuff up?”

“Tomorrow at eight.” He drops onto the chair in front of me, leans forward, and pulls my chair until it rolls against his. As I move my feet up so they’re resting on his thighs, he massages my soles. “I can’t believe you came to help us.”