Chapter 6
By the second week of February, my decorating project is complete.
I stand in Cumberland’s office and take one final assessment. He is due back any minute now. I arranged for the car service to pick him up at O’Hare after a trip to London and New York. And I want everything to be just perfect for the reveal.
I purchased some silver lamps and vintage office accessories to spruce up his office. I pick up the pair of antique binoculars that I have strategically placed on his desk. I added plants, hunter green and plum plaid pillows for the tweed guest couch, a plum rug for a pop of color.
I smile with satisfaction. Cumberland just told me to run with the décor and surprise him like one of the shows on the Beautiful Homes Network. And I cannot wait to see his reaction to his new office.
Suddenly I hear him. That deep British voice talking into his cell from down the hall. A shiver instantly shoots down my spine in response.
“Ms. Dalton, I sincerely hope after all this time you are able to render a decision like that on your own,” he says firmly. “. . . Yes . . . No. Absolutely not. Do not even discuss her with me—”
Cumberland stops speaking as soon as he sees me in his office.
I bite my lower lip, wishing he’d finish that sentence. Who was he talking about? What woman would he not want Arabella to talk about?
My heart leaps for a brief second.
Me? Could he be talking about me?
Oh my God! Am I on drugs? Why would he be talking about me? Cumberland could be talking about
anyone
.
“I need to terminate this call,” he says, his light blue eyes burning into mine with such intensity that my stomach does a flip. Cumberland punches his phone and stands in his doorway, staring at me.
I swallow hard. Good Lord. The man can wear a scarf and trench coat like nobody’s business.
“Good to see you, Ms. Grant,” he says, his voice in a completely different tone than it was a second ago.
“Welcome back to Chicago, Mr. Cumberland,” I say.
Cumberland steps into the office and stops.
I watch as his eyes widen and dart and I can tell he is assessing every detail, every change, every addition I have made.
“Ms. Grant,” he says, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto his desk in a smooth, fluid motion, “I have to say this is rather impressive. I think it is brilliant. Just brilliant.”
Okay, why do I feel like doing cartwheels across his office?
“Thank you. I’m glad to hear that,” I say honestly.
Cumberland takes off his scarf and trench and moves behind me to hang them up. As he goes past me I smell him, the scent of pine needles and soap on his pale skin. Sexy smelling. Very sexy indeed.
He moves around the office, picking up objects and inspecting them closely. Finally he picks up the binoculars and I can’t contain my excitement about them.
“Aren’t those cool?” I say excitedly. “I found them in a little antique shop out in Long Grove,” I say, referring to the suburban Chicago town. “They are my second most favorite thing for the room.”
Cumberland turns and raises a brow. “And the first?”
“Wait just a second,” I say, smiling. I go out to my desk and pick up the object. I hide it behind my back and walk over to him.
“It just wouldn’t be British without this,” I say. Then I show him a bright red ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ coffee mug.
Cumberland stares at it, then at me, and a huge grin passes over his face.
My heart jumps in response, as it is a genuine, beautiful smile that he is giving me right now.
“Bloody hell, Ms. Grant,” he says, laughing deeply.
I laugh with him, and he’s still smiling at me.
“You Americans and your love of this slogan,” he says. “I do not understand it. Nor do I get the fact that you put mince turkey into everything either.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“Ground turkey, as you Americans call it,” he says, putting the mug on his desk. He walks around and sinks into his chair. “The woman next to me on the flight this morning was raving about how she uses it instead of beef. You put it into everything and it is horrible. I don’t understand that.”
I put my hands on my hips. “This coming from the country that gave the world steak and kidney pie?”
Cumberland grins at me. “
Touché
, Ms. Grant.
Touché
.”
Suddenly his phone rings and we are jolted out of our conversation. I circle behind him and pick up his phone, answering it professionally. “William Cumberland’s office, this is MK speaking . . . yes . . . please hold and I shall see if he’s available.”
I put the caller on hold and turn to Cumberland. “It is Louis Steele,” I say, referring to a lead attorney with Connectivity. “He said he has a very urgent matter to discuss with you.”
“Right,” Cumberland says. He instantly shifts gears, seamlessly going into the man who runs an empire mode.
I go to leave but before I do he stops me.
“Ms. Grant?”
I pause in the doorway.
“Thank you for the mug,” he says, his eyes intense. “I shall find a way to repay you in kind for it.”
I laugh and walk back to my cubicle.
I am sure you will, William Cumberland
.
And I look forward to it.
On Valentine’s Day, I find myself in another dreaded Lincoln Park bar for the evening. You know, to cheer up Emily in the face of the worst holiday of the year for the brokenhearted. Or, if you asked my sister and mother, a tragic holiday for—
gasp
—single people like me.
Of course, being out with Reese and Emily gives my roommates ample opportunity to tell me my crush on Cumberland is a recipe for disaster.
“MK, seriously, there are like a million guys in the city of Chicago for you to pick from,” Reese yells from across the table. “There is no need to get hung up on your unobtainable boss.”
I look around the bar at all the complete fools surrounding me. Drunk, young, and upwardly mobile.
Yes, I have choices, all right. Many, many craptastic ones. Ugh.
My phone vibrates in my lap. The whole time I have been here with Reese and Emily I have been texting with Cumberland. I have told him I am miserable and stuck in this stupid bar for the sake of solidarity in the face of the Valentine’s Day holiday. I told him I am sending back drinks, I am giving out the ‘leave me alone’ vibe, etc. but nobody can read it.
Of course the texting didn’t start out that way. Cumberland was giving me feedback on the article I drafted about his office makeover and, as it always did, it became a conversation about everything but the article between us.
“Quit texting him, MK!” Emily begs, putting her hand on my arm. “This is so dangerous, what you are doing! He is your
boss
!”
“He could be texting about business!” I cry, knowing that is a complete lie. “So I have to check when he texts me, okay?”
But just to prove a point, I ignore my phone for the next hour.
Which gives me a really twitchy feeling inside. I wonder what Cumberland might be talking about or if he is wondering why I haven’t responded to his last witty text . . .
Thankfully, I manage to divert the conversation away from my quote unquote unobtainable boss. And after an hour of discussion of how men are jerks, of turning down drinks being sent over to the table, and other assorted drunken tomfoolery by guys in the bar, I am done. I am ready to go home. I want my yoga pants and hoodie, and I want to be reading witty text messages from Cumberland.
I am about to announce that I am leaving when a waitress comes over to our table and puts down a cocktail napkin and a glass of red wine in front of me.
“A gentleman at the bar would like for you to have this,” she says.
I shake my head firmly. “No, no, thank you. Please tell the person who sent this over I buy my own drinks.”
“He said you would say that,” she explains. “He asked that I tell you ‘To Keep Calm and Carry On.’”
My heart stops. “W-what?”
“The gentleman at the bar. British guy in a very nice coat,” she says before walking away.
Reese and Emily’s eyes widen. “Cumberland!” they gasp at the same time.
I begin to shake. I turn and peer through the crowd of people to the bar.
And there is William Cumberland, staring right at me.
Oh my God. He’s
here
! Cumberland is
here
.
“Excuse me,” I say, sliding out of the booth. I fight my way through the crowd and I can see Cumberland doing the same. We meet halfway in the middle.
“What are you doing here?” I scream over the noise.
Cumberland shakes his head as if he can’t hear me. Then, to my complete shock, he takes my hand. A shiver shoots down my spine as I feel the warmth of his hand wrapped around mine.
He leads me through the crowd and out of the bar. We walk out to the street, where he releases my hand. I wrap my arms around myself since it is snowing, and I have no coat since we took a cab. Of course, wearing a black wool sheath dress with tall black boots and no coat isn’t exactly smart, but since we were cabbing it I didn’t see the need for one.
“Good Lord, Ms. Grant,” William says, immediately taking off his trench coat and gently draping it over me. “Are you aware it is snowing outside?”
I shiver violently but it has nothing to do with the 32-degree temperature.
“William, why are you here?” I blurt out. Then I slap my hand over my mouth, realizing what I just called him. My face burns in horror and I try to apologize. “Mr. Cumberland, I am so sorry, I—”
“William,” he interrupts softly, “is fine,
Mary-Kate
.”
Oh dear God. The calm current of our relationship just changed in this very moment. Which is exciting and scary, and I have never felt more confused about anything in my entire life.
“But to answer your question, Mary-Kate, I am here because I could detect the SOS in your texts,” he says, the corners of his full lips hinting at a smile.
“That’s very MI5 of you, William,” I say, teasing him.
Or is it flirting? Good God, I am so confused . . .
“Yes, isn’t it?” he says, staring back at me.
He’s wearing a gray suit and has a beautiful light blue shirt on, one that is the exact shade of his intense eyes. Snowflakes whirl around us in the air. They are falling in his dark waves, which are illuminated by the streetlight, and, Jesus, he just looks so beautiful I can hardly function.
I swallow and try to refocus on what he is saying.
“But using the powers of deduction one would learn at MI5, I can see why you sent me the urgent SOS,” William says. “Those people in the bar are utterly annoying.”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing and snort, which makes him burst out laughing, too.
“You sound like Peppa Pig!” he laughs.
“Who?”
“A British cartoon character,” William says, his eyes sparkling. “Peppa is a pig who
snorts
.”
“I do not sound like a pig!” I cry, laughing.
“I think I need to call you Peppa,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “So Peppa—”
“Stop that!” I giggle. Good God, I’m giggling now? Why am I acting like I am 16? What is this man
doing
to me?
“. . . I was thinking you needed an excuse to leave,” William continues. Then he pauses for a moment. “. . . and I was wondering if you would like to pop over to the Peninsula Hotel for a drink. Mary-Kate, will you have a drink with me?”
Chapter 7
I stare back at William, stunned by what he just asked. My pulse begins twitching. My heart is racing. He just asked me to go have a drink with him. A drink!
Is this dangerous?
This is my
boss
.
Is this inappropriate for me to accept, no matter how much I want to?
Or do I even
care
if it is inappropriate?
And what does this mean? Could William actually be interested in me?
I am so shocked by the invitation that I don’t answer.
William stares at me, his light blue eyes questioning mine, waiting for a response I don’t know how to give.
“Mary-Kate,” William says softly, “I don’t want you to interpret this than anything other than what it is—just a drink.”
I feel my cheeks burn. I’m an idiot. Of course it would be just a drink. He’s my
boss
. I’m his assistant. William is being nice and rescuing me, period.
So why does that thought—of him not seeing this as more than a drink with someone who works for him—sting my heart so much?
But as I gaze into those magnetic eyes, I know what my answer is going to be.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’ll have a drink with you.”
William nods and leads me over to his car, where his driver is waiting. We get in and I send a text to Reese and Emily, telling them I’m going with William, I’m fine, and I’ll talk to them later.
Then I shut off my phone and drop it into my purse before the texts of lectures and warnings come flooding right back to me.
While I am doing this, William is texting someone on his iPhone. I don’t interrupt him as I know he gets like 3,000 messages a day and is constantly texting people back.
We arrive at the hotel, one of the most expensive and sleekest in Chicago. William escorts me to the bar, which is gorgeous and sophisticated and just perfect for a glass of wine. We grab a spot near the open fireplace, and William helps me take off his coat. I sink down into a cozy chair and breathe an appreciative sigh.
“This is so much better,” I say gratefully. “Thank you for the rescue, William.”
He studies me for a moment as he sinks down into the chair across from me. “You’re an old soul, aren’t you?” he asks slowly.
I watch as the light from the fireplace flickers across William’s amazing cheekbones. “Just like you.”
William stares back at me, but I already know what he is thinking. That I get him like nobody else does. I can’t explain it, but it is a feeling I have, one that is so strong and so powerful I know I’m right.
And he understands me better than anyone ever has, too
.
“Welcome back, Mr. Cumberland,” the waitress says, dropping down two cocktail napkins on the coffee table in-between us and interrupting my thoughts. “The usual?”
“No.” William looks at me. “What would you like to drink, Mary-Kate?”
“A glass of pinot noir sounds really nice,” I say.
“Then I would like a bottle of your best pinot noir, please,” he says.
The waitress nods and then leaves.
“Hmmm. ‘Welcome Back?’” I say slowly. “Do you regularly bring the ladies to this bar, William?”
Jesus, did I just ask him that?
William studies me. “Would you like to know, Mary-Kate?”
“Only if you care to answer, William,” I say, matching him.
And my pulse jumps again as I wait for his reply. Here we go. We say we are employee/boss. But we don’t speak to each other like employee/boss. And now there is this damn undercurrent of attraction, of sexual tension that I like
way
too much, and I feel like my whole career, my dreams, and my future could go up in flames because I am playing with a match here.
But at this moment, in this bar, I don’t care.
“No,” he answers, his eyes never leaving mine. “I lived here when I first arrived in Chicago.”
Before I can say anything else, he continues.
“And for the record, as I know you have done your homework, Mary-Kate, I am not gay. Or asexual. I only have time for my career and that is all.”
I smile knowingly at him. “I already knew that.”
William’s brow creases.
I can tell he is not used to people responding to him this way.
“How so?” he asks, his voice curious.
“By using my internal resources,” I say smartly.
I watch as those light blue eyes light up. My pulse twitches again since I know he is enjoying this game as much as I am right now.
“‘Your internal resources’” William repeats, putting his fingertips into the steeple position again and resting them against his lips. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”
Damn. He’s really sexy when he is in ‘intellect mode’.
“Well, I have a very finely tuned piece of equipment to make the determination about your personal life,” I say slowly.
“Intriguing,” William says, his eyes flickering.
“Isn’t it though?” I say, enjoying this game. “You registered zero on my gaydar.”
William stares at me. “What?”
I tilt my head to the side and pretend to study him. “My gaydar. I know within a minute if a man is gay. You didn’t even
flicker
on the scale, William Cumberland.”
He puts his hands down, revealing his beautiful mouth to me.
I raise an eyebrow at him in return. “See? I told you it is never wrong.”
And then I see it. His eyes light up and he begins to laugh, the laugh that gives me butterflies in my stomach, the laugh that reverberates in my head when he isn’t around.
“Well played, Mary-Kate,” William says, grinning. “Well played.”
“Indeed,” I say again, smiling back at him.
Just then the waitress arrives with what I can only assume is an outrageously priced bottle of wine. She goes through the whole procedure—presenting the bottle, doing the cork bit, pouring a taste, etc. Finally our glasses are poured and she retreats, leaving us alone again.
I take a sip and, oh my God, this is the best wine I have ever had. Rich and lush and tastes like pure velvet going down my throat. I am in absolute heaven right now.
“William, this is wonderful,” I say. “Thank you so much for treating me to this.”
“You’re welcome,” William says, taking a sip from his glass.
We fall silent for a moment, sipping wine and staring at the flames dance in the fireplace next to us. But it is a comfortable silence, and for once, I don’t feel like I need to fill the space with my words. I’m content to simply be here with William.
Suddenly his iPhone rings and breaks the moment. William reaches back and fishes for his phone in his suit jacket, which is draped across the back of his chair. I watch as he picks it up and shuts it right off.
“I think the empire can run without me for an hour,” William declares, dropping the phone back into the suit jacket pocket.
I can’t believe it. William just shut off his
phone
. I have never, ever, seen him without his phone, let alone his phone turned off.
And my heart jumps in response as I realize William is giving me his full attention. Something I think nothing, and I mean
nothing
, except his career ever gets.
“So what about you?” William asks, breaking the silence. “Is there a man in your life?”
I look him straight in the eyes. “No. I am like you, William. I am focused on my career. My sister is obsessed with planning her wedding, my friends are actively seeking boyfriends, but that’s not me. My last boyfriend was back in graduate school. He was nice, but . . .” My voice trails off, as I have never admitted this to anyone before. “. . . but I wasn’t in love with him.”
“That would pose a problem,” William says, his eyes burning into mine.
“Quite problematic,” I say smartly, and mentally high-five myself for that brilliant answer. I take another sip of my pinot. “So what about you? What about the women in your past?”
“You already know my history,” William says. “It is everywhere for you to read.”
“Not true. There’s no history in print. And I’m sorry, but your Connectivity account is written by your PR team. It doesn’t sound like you at all.”
William rubs his fingertips over his lips in that sexy thinking way he has about him. “Maybe I don’t have much to share.”
“Oh, you have things to share but you just don’t care to,” I blurt out.
“Is that so?” William asks. He pauses to take a sip of wine. “And what would you like for me to share with you, Mary-Kate?”
Oh fuck. William is testing me. I suddenly feel hot and flushed. And it is not from the fireplace I am sitting next to.
“Do you want to play 20 questions with me, William?”
Did I just say that to my boss?
“I’m game, Mary-Kate,” William says. “Let’s play.”
And the game is on. I know not to get too personal, not tonight, so I fire general questions at him, from his favorite color to his favorite book and vacation spot. And with each question he answers, I get more and more surprised by how much he reveals to me. And then, to my delight, he turns the tables on me and asks the very same questions.
As we drink our wine I learn that William loves gourmet food, wine, books, and poetry. I am floored by what I am learning, and with each question he answers, I find my heart fluttering in response. William is so breathtakingly smart and interesting and sophisticated, unlike any man I have ever encountered before in my life.
And he seems just as intrigued by my answers to his questions, too, as we banter back and forth and peel the layers off to see who the other person really is underneath.
It is by far the most perfect first date that I have ever had.
Except it’s not a date
, I remind myself.
Before I know it, we have drained the whole bottle of wine and I feel flushed, floaty, and happy.
And since it is late and the wine is gone, I know it will be time for the evening to end soon, which makes me sad, because I don’t want it to end.
“Do you have a current passport?” William suddenly asks, interrupting my thoughts.
Now my heart is pounding. “I do.”
“Good,” he says, draining the last of the wine in his glass. “Because I need to go back to London in two weeks. And I want you to go with me.”