Page 29 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

T he walk to Preston’s office felt like a mile even though only feet separate his sidewalk from mine.

He probably owns it all, since his wealth climbs beyond the sculpted glass-and-steel structure that bears his name.

The building spans eleven floors, eight fewer than the high-rise behind me, which he also owns, a continuity of simple lines and geometric forms.

The sun boomerangs between the mirroring structures and the steady traffic along the tree-lined street. Businesses are open at the early hour, the scent of fresh pastries drifting through the crisp air. It’s a calm morning…except for my pounding heart stumbling to find its rhythm.

The revolving door might as well be a dark void ready to swallow me whole.

Seeing Preston shouldn’t make me this nervous. Our casual texts are now a daily stream of random memes and facts. They remind me of a time when friendship was the core of our intimacy, when talking about nothing felt like everything.

“Just go through the door,” I tell myself.

How foolish do I look staring up at a building?

I’ve seen Preston. I’m well acquainted with the rich musk of his cologne and the way his shoulder blades complement the hard shafts of his thighs.

His presence doesn’t scare me. I survived his dimpled assault and the slow, steady grin he wields with ease. It’s his intentions that give me pause.

“This is just a job,” I whisper, eyes closed in a silent prayer.

Security is manageable through a stream of tailored fabric shuffling in every direction. An athletic man in all black approaches. He’s handsome, with lean muscles, a high taper fro, and a dazzling display of white teeth.

“Ms. Monroe. I’m Dayo, Mr. Donnelley’s head of security,” he says in a deep baritone. “This way.”

We bypass the central bank of elevators for a door with biometric access. It leads to another door inside a sleek concrete corridor with high walls and the illusion of natural light.

“Access to the private car park below is through here.” He points to a door on the left and pulls out a key card from his pocket.

We stop in front of an elevator. Dayo swipes the card over a panel that turns green. “I’ll have one of these to you before you leave. This way.” He motions for me to enter when the doors open.

“How long have you worked for Preston?”

Dayo’s lips part, spreading the sharp lines of his profile into a smirk. “We’ve been in business together since he took over the company eight years ago. He went to boarding school with my half brother, who lives in the States. This is my security firm.”

“Nice.” I nod.

I catch my reflection in the door. Dressing like Cher Horowitz wasn’t intentional, but I went with it, feeling clueless.

Nerves crowd a sigh that slips out.

This is just another client. Nothing more, nothing less .

“You must be special.”

“Excuse me?” I muffle a gasp as Dayo smiles down at me like he knows a secret.

His dark brown gaze sweeps over my black turtleneck and plaid high-waist skirt. It stalls on my thigh-high vegan suede boots.

“You’re the first person to have a personal escort and access to the private lift.”

“We have history,” I say and face the doors, which are taking forever to open. How long until we reach the top?

The guttural chuckle at my side tempts a glare, but I roll my lips and keep my eyes ahead.

“Yeah, you special.” The doors open. “Through there. See you soon, Ms. Monroe.”

Polished stone the color of sand is my runway to what I’m assuming is Preston’s office.

The hallway is light with wood and marble wall panels.

Glass doors line the right side. There’s a gym, a sauna, and a full bathroom.

The echo of my heels fades when I reach a weathered oak door. Next to it is a high-tech keypad.

Do I knock?

The door opens on its own, revealing a large room fit for a hotelier.

The sun yawns through windows that are taller than the ones in my new bedroom and seeps over hardwood the same color as the door that magically opened.

On the back wall is a gold shelving unit that extends to a black lacquered ceiling.

In front of it is an oversized contemporary desk with enough space to seat eight.

The black executive chair that faces a laptop and two screens is empty.

“Hey.”

If Preston doesn’t incite a heart attack from scaring me, his seductive stare will tempt me to check out what’s behind the curtain.

Lord, the way this man wears a suit.

He’s in the ink-blue one I found buried behind all the gray slacks and blazers in his closet.

The merino wool outlines his shoulders, and a white dress shirt rests against the expanse of his chest. He’s tie-free, the top two buttons undone below the strong column of the neck I sucked in a previous life.

I’m so mesmerized by the sensuous glide of his mouth that I miss whatever he asks.

“Sorry. What?”

His tongue dips between the seam of his lips. “You okay, Puff?”

Focus .

“Never better.” I let out a breath to keep from inhaling his cologne. “Nice office.” I peer over his shoulder to study a random photo and not his textured dark waves, which tempt my fingers to stroke the edges.

“Thank you. I wanted it to feel cozy since I spend most of my time here.” There’s no anchor to support the weight of his appraisal as it drags up the flare of my hips to the swell of my breasts. His exhale is a suppressed moan once he reaches my lips.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispers.

My “Thank you” is thick and unsteady. I haven’t been in his office for five minutes, and already I’m a pipe ready to burst.

Call him to come fix your plumbing.

Buying an adapter to accommodate English electrical outlets is at the top of my to-do list. The vibrators I packed are useless otherwise. If I’m not dating, I’ll need more than my hands to get through these next three months.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he smirks.

“I, um—Thanks. For the penthouse and the clothes. It was thoughtful of you.”

“You’re welcome.” He tips his head, a request for me to look at him and not the floor. His fingers squeeze around the door. They’re the same fingers that held me in place every time he—

“Ready?” I pant.

His brow lifts. “Do I make you nervous, Puff?”

Damn these dimples.

“You wish.” My silver hoops chime at the tilt of my chin. “Let’s go spend your money.”

I sashay out of his office to his laughter.

No jeans have ever tempted me to lick the seams before. But then there’s the pair in front of me.

Preston’s smile is bright and wide in the dressing room mirror. His phone has been ringing nonstop since we left his office through the secret entrance hours ago. He hasn’t looked at it, outside of a couple of calls from his assistant. He’s fully present, enjoying every outfit I curate for him.

Time sharpened the muscles of his cut frame. Every piece of clothing that touches his skin hangs like a masterpiece. His back is my favorite. I could spend the rest of the afternoon savoring the cotton that stretches and bends to his sculpted protruding lines.

He’s thicker, more defined, but still the same Preston.

“These are comfortable,” he says with a scratch to his goatee.

“You look good.” I motion to the dark hair lining his chin. “Glad you kept it.”

The light above the platform catches on his shadowed jaw as he examines it. “If you like it, I’ll keep it. But this”—he peels off the taupe cable-knit sweater—“needs to go.”

I avert my eyes from the muscles contracting in his lower abdomen. The happy trail that dips below his belt calls me out for being hot in the ass and unprofessional.

Preston hands me the discarded sweater. Our fingers graze, igniting a rush of heat that spreads to my toes. His breath fans over my cheek. “What else do you have for me, Puff?”

Clench and bear!

There’s no point in denying gravity exists. I let physics do its job by lowering my gaze, which happens to collide with hard pecs. It’s an Oscar-worthy performance of a woman unfazed by the sight of a muscled chest and the haunting gaze of its owner.

“One more thing.” I shift into his personal space, so close now he could kiss my forehead. His inhale is sharp when I lean into the scent of his musk and lift the cardigan in my hand. “This has your name all over it. Preston. Preston .”

My giggle morphs into a belly laugh at his disappointment.

“Funny,” he deadpans and grabs his shirt off the velvet chair. “Tell you what. I’ll take the last three jumpers you forced on me if you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow.”

How did shopping turn into a proposition for a date?

We’ve kept things friendly, outside of a few lingering glances and flirtatious quips.

Spending time together shopping for clothes was surprisingly easy once the initial shock of being in the same space wore off.

Time flew in three boutiques. Preston now has more uncollared shirts, jeans, and chinos to add to the sad cluster of casual clothes he exiled to the corner of his closet. Ironically, sneakers aren’t scarce.

“What do you say, Ms. Monroe?” His eyes flicker from his cuff links to me. “You have to eat. Let me feed you.”

“How do you know what I like?”

What the hell am I doing?

Preston shrugs into his blazer and leans forward to size me up. I’m in five-inch heels that are no match for the smile denting his cheeks above my hairline.

“I know what you like, Puff,” he whispers with a wink. Then he leaves me in the dressing room with more thoughts than sweaters.