“What about you?”
“I ordered for myself and prepaid it on my credit card,” I tell him, omitting that I was a little shell-shocked at the prices and opted to order the cheapest thing on the menu. “I had them charge yours to your account like normal. Everything should be delivered shortly. I know they’re late, but you’ll have to take that up with them.”
“And with whom should I take up the fact that you paid for your lunch today?”
“What?”
“Mallory,” he sighs, “when I ask you to have lunch with me, please don’t disrespect me by buying your own.”
Biting my lip, I nod as quickly as I can. “That’s not what I meant by it.”
He just nods, his annoyance down a few notches but not gone altogether. “Go ahead and take a seat.”
We get situated across from one another. I study his face while he moves things around his desk. If I look closely enough, I can see the Graham I remember. The dimple in his left cheek is barely noticeable, but I’d venture to guess it’s still heavenly when he smiles a real smile, something I don’t think I’ve seen from him.
As he types furiously on his keyboard, I wonder what makes Graham Landry happy. What makes him loosen that tie around his neck. What it would take to lose this façade that has to be some sort of veneer because how can someone as beautiful, successful, and wealthy seem so . . . joyless?
As I start to consider what he might do after work, he folds his hands together on top of his desk and looks at me. “I just sent you an email about a new venture Landry Holdings is taking on. It’s called Landry Security and my brother Ford will be at the helm. He’ll be in soon for a strategy session that I’ll ask you to sit in on. We want to get this up and running as soon as possible, and since I’ve been short-handed in here for much longer than I care to admit, I’m behind. Also something I hate to admit.”
“Things happen,” I shrug. “You have to be able to roll with the punches.”
“I don’t roll with the punches,” he chuckles. “I like all my ducks in a row. On a chain, if possible.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
He falls back in his chair, seemingly surprised by my question. I do what he does to me—I wait him out. Just when I think he’s going to wait all day if it takes that for me to speak next, he shocks me and answers.
“It works for me. I know my style isn’t for everyone, Mallory. I like to have a plan for the back-up plan. It’s how I keep all the balls I juggle daily in the air.”
“What if one falls?”
“They don’t,” he replies, a brusqueness to his tone that ripples across the desk and chills me. “Failure is not an option, especially when it comes to anything for my family, and this business is a family business.”
The passion he feels for his family and work is palpable, something I’ve never seen in anyone firsthand. It’s another dimension to this man that I suspect has a lot of layers. “They’re lucky to have you running things for them.”
“That works both ways.” Before I can press him on this, he changes the subject. “What should I know about you?”
I inhale a deep breath. “I think my resume pretty much said it all. I just moved back to town. Nursing school wasn’t for me.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Have you ever had to inject something into someone?”
His face blanches. “No.”
“Yeah, not my thing. I also felt like I was going to get everything everyone had that came in. I just couldn’t imagine living every day with a box of bleach wipes in my purse, you know?”
“I’m one hundred percent sure I couldn’t work in the medical field. It’s too unpredictable.”
I wince. “Yeah, I can’t imagine you in a room full of people going every which way, coughing all over each other, liquids squirting everywhere.”
“That’s a disgusting image you present there, Ms. Sims,” he chuckles. He rests one ankle on the opposite knee and strokes his chin, watching me intently. “I’ll admit, I was surprised you were interested in the medical field to begin with. You always seemed so . . .”
“So what?”
He shrugs, weighing his words. “You were so studious before, so serious. Focused. Your Latin was impeccable. I remember you telling me you wanted to be an attorney and I couldn’t imagine you in front of a jury. Then we had a disagreement over our paper and I could exactly see you in front of a judge, winning your case,” he admits. “Law is a far cry from nursing. What made you change your mind?”
My spirits tumble as memories I haven’t thought about in a long time roll through my memory. When life was simple and hope seemed free. Before my senior year came and I was put in my place by my parents and made the best decision I could under the circumstances.
“I actually moved to Columbia with Eric Johnson.”
“Do I know him?”
“Probably not,” I say, not wanting to dwell on Eric.
Graham leans forward and narrows his eyes. “What does moving to Columbia have to do with you not going to law school?”
“It just didn’t work out. I was nineteen when we moved. I had to get adjusted there and I needed to work to save money to go. Part of that went to helping Eric get his degree and then, when it was my turn, I chose nursing. It seemed like a fast degree that would pay well.”
“Do you plan on going back now?”
My shoulders rise and fall. “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what I plan on doing. So many things have changed for me and I’m not really sure where I sit these days. I’ve worked as an Administrative Assistant for years now. Even when I was going to nursing school, I worked at Beenmeyer Company. It’s all I really know and can do well.”
I look away because I feel like he’s trying to read me again. I’m afraid that this time, he’ll realize what a mess I am. That’s not something Graham will appreciate in all his organizational bliss.
“Eric Johnson,” he says finally. “Is he still in the picture?”
“No. I told him I wanted to drop out of nursing school, we had a fight, and I ended up leaving him.”
Something passes through his eyes. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that. I apologize for pressing you.”
“It’s fine,” I concede, finding my footing. “You didn’t press me. It’s still so raw for me to discuss.” Especially with you. “So, what happened in your life?”
“I went to the University of Georgia and got a Master’s in business. Pretty predictable, right?”
I grin. “Yes. But there has to be something more. No one gets through high school and college with no crazy tales.”
A knock comes to the door and Graham sags back in his chair. He holds up a finger to tell me to wait a second.
I sit quietly and listen to him converse with Raza, her giggle drifting through the room. I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Let’s eat over here,” he says over the rustle of a plastic bag.
I stand and follow him to a circular table near a window. As he places the containers at our seats, I take a moment to admire his office.
It’s a large corner office with bright white paint, dark wood, and a loveseat against the back wall. A glass table is in front of it with what appears to be a handful of magazines of some sort and a small figurine that I can’t make out. A tree stands in the corner in a beautiful terracotta pot. Everything is clean, organized, smart . . . and slightly uptight. Just like Graham.
“Ready?” he asks. When I look at him, he raises a brow. “Like what you see?”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“I’m glad you approve.” His lips twist and I know he knows I wasn’t just referring to the abstract painting on the far wall. “I had your credit card reimbursed for your lunch.”
“I—” My objection is silenced by a look from Graham. “Thank you,” I gulp.
“That pained you, didn’t it?”
“What?” I say, opening the container in front of me.
&nbs
p; “To just say thank you.”
“Kind of,” I laugh. “I’m just not used to someone doing something for me without expecting something in return. I’ve learned it’s easier just to do everything yourself.”
He cuts his sandwich in two pieces and lays half of his alongside my side salad. My mouth opens to object, but closes as his quirked brow silences me.
“First of all,” he says, “you’re right—it is easier to do things yourself. I understand that. It’s hard for me to trust anyone.”
“Is that why you went through so many assistants before me?”
He raises a brow.
“Sienna told me,” I say. “She also might’ve said you’re a little difficult to get along with, but if I give you time, I’d like you.”
“Did she?”
“She did,” I shrug. “Lincoln too, now that I think of it,” I admit. “I’m hoping they’re right.”
“So you don’t like me now?” The way he says it, a slight tease to his tone, is enough to send my hormones into a frenzy.
“I didn’t say that,” I blush.
He considers this as he takes a bite of his Rueben. I twirl my fork around in my salad, trying to focus on the colors of the tomato and lettuce and not on the way his eyes are beginning to turn a slight shade of blue.
“I’m not sure I like you either,” he says, not looking at me. “But I’m not sure I want to.”
“And why not?”
“Because . . .” He dabs a linen napkin on his lips. “I think that would give you an unfair advantage over me.”
My cheeks flush the color of the tomato on my plate. I’m not sure what that means, but his gaze tells me it’s a compliment. “I’ll be late,” I assure him. “That’ll help.”
He laughs, the realest laugh I’ve heard from him. It’s wonderful. “That would definitely help. I can’t handle being late.”
“Or disorganization,” I add.
“Or being unprepared.” He grins. “I guess I have a lot of issues, don’t I?”
“That’s what it sounds like,” I tease. “I just hate it when people don’t wave at me when I let them pull out in front of me. It’s so rude. I did you a favor and now you’re going to be snotty? It’s really hard for me not to ram them with my car.”
“So you have anger management issues then?” he teases. “That’s really, really good to know.”
“No. I have a hard time managing assholish behavior.”
“Remind me to keep you away from Barrett,” he winks.
“So you have no assholish behavior?” I ask, popping a chunk of lettuce in my mouth. “None at all?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Interesting . . .” I take a sip of my water. “Okay, then. Name me three words that describe you.”
He takes a bite of his sandwich. The wheels turn as his head cocks to the side. “Careful. Purposeful. Confident.”
“Those are boring,” I sigh dramatically.
“Maybe I’m boring,” he winks. “What about you? Three words.”
“Dependable,” I say, tilting my head to look at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Nice one,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Searching.”
“For what?”
I pop a tomato in my mouth. “A missing piece.”
“To what? A puzzle? A mystery?”
“Me. I’ve never felt like me. Is that odd?”
“Absolutely,” he grins.
“I look back on my life so far and wish I would’ve done something I wanted to do. There was always someone telling me I couldn’t or shouldn’t, and I believed them. It’s my fault,” I sigh. “But what if I’d tried? What if I’d tried business or law or had taken a cooking class? Who knows where I’d be now.”
He leans back in his chair. “I have the opposite problem. I’m afraid to stop moving because I might stall. The one time I tried it, I . . .” He clears his throat. “You have one more.”
I want to dig deeper on that, to see what he means, but I know it’s futile. He’s not going to talk anymore about it. “One more. Okay, I’m going with adventurous.”
He chokes on his food, excusing himself and disappearing through a door next to the sofa that I hadn’t seen. When he returns a few minutes later, his eyes have a twinkle to them.
“Are you all right?” I ask, trying not to smile at the look on his face.
He shakes his head, this time refusing to look at me. “I’m fine.” He returns to his seat and takes a long drink of water. After the cap is slowly screwed back on, his eyes find mine. “I’ll admit something to you.”
“Shoot.”
“You confuse the hell out of me.”
A giggle topples from my lips. “Really? In what way?”
His eyes narrow as he chooses his words. “In every way. On one hand, you’re incredibly efficient, finding my mistakes yesterday in the file. You thought ahead to order lunch today. You’ve really impressed Gina, and Lincoln loved you—but don’t take that to mean anything. You’re a beautiful woman. That’s kind of a shoo-in with my little brother.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, trying to deflect from the fact that I’m just replaying “beautiful woman” over and over again.
He laughs again, the sound a melody better than I expected. It’s warm and soothing, but has a gruffness to it that reminds me of a five o’clock shadow—just scratchy enough to lend a little rogue that ups the sex appeal by a hundredfold. “It was a compliment,” he says, leaning forward. “On the other hand, I have no idea how you maintain your efficiency. You struggle to get here on time every day. Your desk is a mess. I have no idea how you keep track of anything.”
“Steel trap,” I say, patting my temple. “And I take slight offense to you calling me a mess.”
“I didn’t.”
“No, you did,” I laugh.
“I said your desk is a mess.”
“My desk is a creative climate,” I suggest. “It’s been proven that the smartest people in the world work in an atmosphere other people would call disorderly.”
“Or a mess,” he winks.
“I refuse to accept that term,” I shrug playfully.
“Can you accept to straighten it up? It’s driving me crazy. I want to stop there every night on my way home and just reorganize it for you.”
“Don’t you dare!” I giggle.
He reclines back, the sun illuminating his face. The lines around his eyes are smooth, his jaw slack and unclenched for maybe the first time since I started. He almost seems like a different person altogether.
“It is my office,” he suggests. “I would venture to say there’s not a lot you could do about it.”
“What if I got up and went to your desk and moved things around? How would you feel?”
His eyes hood, his bottom lip working back and forth in between his teeth. I sit across from him, my hands in my lap, held hostage by his gaze.
His lip pops free and I exhale sharply. “I’d feel a lot of ways,” he whispers. “None of which I really want to feel.”
“Why not?” I ask softly.
We both know we aren’t just talking about a moved stapler or a mishmash of files. As that really sets in, the air around us gets heavier. Hotter. Hazardous.
“Those things always lead to dangerous situations,” he says, his eyes trained on me.
I shift in my seat, the throb between my legs growing stronger by the second. “People do it every day and survive.”
“They may survive, but don’t things get messy?”
“Only if they do it right.”
His chair flies backwards and he’s to his feet and next to me before I know what’s happening. He doesn’t ask that I stand, but he doesn’t have to. It’s implied and my body reacts accordingly to his silent command.
We stand face-to-face, our breathing ragged. Our chests heave with the anticipation, the possibility, of what might come next.
“You are, quite possibly, the most dangerous of
them all,” he says, his voice rough.
“Why is that?” I breathe.
“There’s no plan for you.”
“But you’ve already penciled me in, haven’t you, Graham?” I ask, finding the courage to play this little game with him. Being strictly professional is incredibly hard, and this is way too easy.
I can flirt with the best of them in a bar or on a college campus. But here, with him, it’s a game all its own. A level I had no idea I’d ever be a contender in. Maybe I’m not, but I’m going to play the hell out of it while I’m here . . . even though if I keep it up, I might not be here for long.
“What do you want, Mallory?”
“I want to do all the things you ask of me and do them better than you ever expected they could be done.”
A rumble emits from his throat as his eyes darken. My knees go weak and I grab the table with my left hand to ensure I don’t fall.
He licks his lips and flips his gaze to my mouth. I think I whimper as I lift my chin, waiting to see what he does next. My entire body is on fire for this man, my heart thumping so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
He moves so my back is pressed against the table, our food long forgotten. His hands are on either side of me, caging me in. Our eyes locked together, he leans in, a slow smirk spreading across his gorgeous face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Landry. Ford is here to see you,” Raza chirps through the line.
We exhale simultaneously, a giggle escaping with mine. There’s nothing funny about this, but the energy has to come out in some way.
“Mr. Landry?” she asks again.
“I’ll be right out. Thank you, Raza.”
“Oh, you’re so welcome, sir.” The line clicks off and Graham marches across the room and punches a button. The light on top indicates he’s not to be disturbed.
I busy myself with cleaning up our lunch, and before he’s at my side again, I have everything bundled up.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say like nothing just happened.
“Mallory . . .” He runs his hand through his hair, leaving one lock sticking up. Knowing what that will look like if we walk out together, I reach up, hesitating for a split second, before smoothing it out.
His hair is silky against my fingers. He jumps when I touch him at first, but doesn’t back away. “What are you doing?”
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