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But today, I actually do have something important. My meeting with the sexy brunette. The one with the mouth that says the most unexpected things, so at odds with her girl next door appearance.

I smirk, remembering how I’d caught her staring at me in the conference room. How she’d blushed prettily and averted her eyes, mortified to be busted, even as she acted mad about it. She deserved it, though, after all the grief she gave me. But that doesn’t matter. She’s only to look at, not touch. Not now that I’m engaged.

I snort to myself. What a bunch of bullshit.

We pull up in front of a florist shop, and I almost think Davis got the address wrong until I see a small sign off to the side labeledSweet Events.

She doesn’t have her own space?

I thank him and walk inside the shop, the perfume of flowers hitting me instantly. Whoa, head rush.

Her friend from the bar looks up from her spot behind the counter, a question in her eyes as she tries to place me. Mackenzie must not have told her what happened yesterday then.

“What can I help you with today?” she asks as I pause to sniff a bouquet of red roses, their petals velvety soft.

“I’m here to meet with Mackenzie.” I stroll around, taking in the different floral arrangements. She’s got an eye for creating unique combinations that work well together.

“Oh,” she brightens. “Her office is right this way.” She indicates toward a door on the west side of the shop withSweet Eventsemblazoned on the glass. Inside, Mackenzie is focused on something in front of her on her desk, chewing on the end of her pen. “Are you planning a party?”

“A wedding.”

“Well, you’re in good hands with her.” She continues smiling, but as she tilts her head slightly, it’s like I can see the beginnings of suspicion swirl behind her eyes. She recognizes me, she just doesn’t know how.

“I’ll take it from here, Diana,” Mackenzie says, standing in the doorway to her office now in a purple knee-length dress that highlights her luscious figure.

I mean, just a normal figure. There’s nothing in particular I’m noticing about her body. Not the way the material of her dress clings to her. Or how good that color looks on her. And definitely not that slightest peek of cleavage.

“Mr. Bishop,” she greets me professionally as I pass her to take a seat in the chair across from her desk. “I trust you were able to find the place okay?”

“My driver found it fine,” I grin, glancing around at how she has her private area decorated. A table and two chairs are crammed into the corner by the window looking out at the street, with just enough space in between that and her desk for her to maneuver her way behind it to take a seat. “Your office is quite… cozy.”

She gives me a fake smile reminiscent of the one I gave her yesterday. “Yes, I like to create an intimate atmosphere with my clients. Intimate as in close, not… sexual.” She closes her eyes briefly in chagrin before opening them to glare at me, daring me to say something about it.

“Dad hasn’t seen this place, has he?”

“He has not,” she says primly, shuffling a few papers on her desk.

“All right, just so we’re clear here, I’m not ratting you out or taking away your gig or anything like that. I’m on your side.”

Her shoulders drop, the tightness in her lips relaxing. “It’s homey. Because I give such personalized attention…” She trails off when she sees I’m not buying it, releasing a lengthy sigh. “I’m aware it’s too small, okay? But I can’t-” She cuts herself off, clamming up.

“You can’t what?”

“Nothing.” She grabs a binder from the edge of her desk, opening it to reveal fabric samples of what looks like tablecloths.

“You can’t…” I muse, trying to figure out what she was going to say. “You can’t get a bigger place because… you’re secretly in debt to a Mafia boss.” Her lips twitch. “Because you spend all your money on gadgets secretly fighting crime at night?” She rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair.

I snap my fingers. “Or maybe just because rent is so goddamn high in this city?”

She gives me a reluctant half-smirk. “I bet you don’t have to worry about that.” Immediately, she appears to bite her tongue. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.”

I shift in my seat, appreciating her apology just as much as I wish it wasn’t needed to begin with. “It’s the truth.”

“There’s something about you that makes my mouth go off script,” she mutters to herself, opening her planner and flipping to today’s date.

I resist the urge to tease her that I can get it working right again, instead opting to inform her, “Well, this wedding should have you rolling in it, huh? The paycheck you net should get you a bigger office for sure.”

She nods hesitantly. “That’s the plan.”