Come As You Are

“Wait. Why can’t you just see her when the story is over in a couple weeks?”

I stop with my hand on the doorknob, considering.

That’s a good question.

I suppose we could do that.

But doing that, or rather, planning for it, sounds a little shady. A bit like hoodwinkery. Like we might as well be getting together.

And that’s what we’re trying to avoid.

Plus, a bigger reason looms.

A reason that I can’t avoid. I can’t let my desire to chat with Sabrina from the masquerade party make me forget that Sabrina the reporter might not have my best interests at heart.

She might only have hers front and center.

I shake my head. “I don’t even know if I trust her. There’s a part of me that wonders if she knew who I was all along.”

Olivia stares at me, her expression soft. “You really think she was deceiving you?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s the issue.”

* * *

I power through work, focused on the three o’clock meet-up time. I cruise through contracts, review more marketing plans, make calls, and even conduct some of the other phone interviews Jennica has set up for the rollout.

Later that day, Carson and I go over the early numbers in my office. He’s nervous, shaking his knee as we chat. “We can stave off ShopForAnything. It’s looking good so far, and I want everything to go well.”

“Yeah, me too.” I give him a curious look. “Hey, are you okay? You seem out of sorts today.”

He sighs heavily. “Yeah, sorry. My mom is starting radiation next week.”

My heart sinks. “Sorry, man. How is she doing? Do you need to take some time off to help her out?”

He shakes his head. “No, she’ll be okay. I just want to make sure everything here launches without a hitch. I can’t afford to let ShopForAnything chase us down right now, know what I mean?”

I nod. I do know. He’s worried about his job. He doesn’t want to lose it at a time like this in his personal life. He doesn’t want us to be stomped on by the competition.

“We are going to crush it,” I say with confidence. Complete and utter confidence.

When he leaves my office, I renew that promise.

“We’re going to crush it,” I say to myself.

That’s the reason I can’t dally around with what happens in two weeks scenarios, and I can’t keep firing off flirty texts to the woman from the masquerade party.

I need to zero in on the goal—leading my company through these rougher waters.

There will be time, eventually, to think about women, about trust, and about falling for someone.

But that time isn’t now.

The trouble is, when I see Sabrina that afternoon at the subway station, I wish she’d stop smiling at me like she was also wanting all the things we can’t have.

15

Sabrina

His green eyes gleam as he walks to me on the sidewalk by the Fifty-first Street subway station. He’s holding something in his hand. I can’t quite tell what it is, since his fist is closed. He stops inches away and for a brief moment, I imagine him kissing me on the cheek, or perhaps embracing me with a hello hug.

My heart beats a little faster. Stupid hopeful thing.

Instead, he simply smiles. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I have something for you.”

“What do you have?”

“I conducted a very daring halo-dismantling mission last night. The wire nearly nicked my hand, and the Monopoly money tried to give me paper cuts, but I soldiered on.” Flynn uncurls his fist and hands me the headband.

I tuck it into my purse. “Thank you. I appreciate you risking life and limb for a hair accessory.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

“A duke always tackles dangerous tasks for a lady’s lovely hair,” he says and tingles spread down my chest from that private little reminder.

I curtsy and nod in a demure thank you.

His eyes drift toward the subway entrance. “And look. We won’t even have to queue up for the train.” He winks.

I laugh at the reminder of our clandestine exchange last night, as I give him a furtive once-over. It’s hard not to, since I like looking at him so much now that I can see all of him. Of course, I liked looking at him on Sunday night too, even shrouded by the mask. With it removed, he’s so handsome it hurts, but it hurts so good.

He wears jeans, brown shoes, and a dark-blue button-down, untucked. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his forearms. Racquetball arms, I think. When I researched him, I read that he plays racquetball for a hobby, as well as softball, and I wonder if those sports have made him lean and ropey.

I raise my gaze quickly to his face, cataloging his features.

Flynn Parker has a boyish charm about him, with his clean-shaven jaw, twinkling eyes behind simple black frames, and flawless skin. But I doubt he shaved this morning. Stubble lines his square jaw and makes me wonder deliciously dirty things about how his face would feel against my thighs.

Things I should not entertain.

Especially since the prospect of his scruff near my lady parts is dangerously arousing.

I conduct a clean sweep and focus on the article, donning my imaginary super-reporter cape. “Thank you for making time for me. I’m curious about your favorite place.”

He gestures toward the stairwell that leads underground. “Let us go then, you and I.”

I grab his arm. “Did you just quote T.S. Eliot to me?”

“Hmm. Seems I did.”

I shake my head, amused and turned on. “I was an English major. That’s not fair.”

An impish grin appears. “What’s not fair about it?”

“You can’t quote the first line of a great love poem to an English major. Shame on you,” I admonish playfully, but I’m being honest too. He sounds too seductive reciting poetry.

“Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky,” he whispers, and my skin tingles.

“Bad boy.”

“Do you like bad boys?”

“Now I do.”

I’m flirting. I’m flirting times ten. I should stop. I really should.

“I’ll keep it up, then. She walks in beauty like the night.”

My pulse beats faster, and it’s too hard to stop when he quotes poetry. “You’re very bad, Lord Byron.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he begins, and the little hairs on my arms rise in excitement, anticipation.

“You. Must. Stop.”

He tilts his head, and screws up the corner of his lips, fixing on a comical expression. “Arr, I’ll talk like a pirate then, ahoy, matey.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re terrible.”

Laughing, he tips his forehead to my skirt as we head down the stairwell. “I’ll shift gears for you. Is today’s outfit homemade?”

I’m wearing a simple black skirt with a pale pink satin ribbon down one side. “Yes. I suppose I’m predictable.” I glance at my skirt, which hits mid-thigh. I like them short, always have. Flynn seems to, as well, since his gaze follows mine and lingers on my legs.

“You’re hardly predictable. It’s more like a fun discovery each time I see you.”

“You’re kind of weirdly fascinated with my clothes,” I say as our shoes smack against the concrete, but truth be told, I like his interest in my wardrobe. I care about what I wear. I love making my clothes, and the fact that he notices—well, it delights me.