by Aven Ellis
“Thank you,” I say in a whisper.
“You’re welcome,” he replies softly.
I begin to take off his coat, and he helps me slide out of it, draping it over his arm after I have it off.
We both stand there in the silent hallway. I really hope he doesn’t hear my heart pounding the way I do right now.
“Have a good weekend,” he says.
“You, too.” I pause. “And thank you. I had a really lovely time tonight.”
William nods. “You’re welcome.”
I open the door and am about to step inside when his voice stops me.
“And, Mary-Kate?”
I turn around and see that William has stopped right as he is about to go down the stairs.
“Yes?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day.”
And then he leaves, dashing down the stairs and disappearing out of sight before I can say anything in return.
Oh my God. I walk inside the apartment and shut the door behind me. I lock it and lean against the hard wood. Despite my somewhat tipsy state, I know one thing for sure. Tonight, I took that match out of the book and struck it. And I’m going to have to be very, very, careful to keep it in check before I get burned.
I wake up the next morning in a somewhat tired state. My brain just wouldn’t shut off last night. All I could think about was William and London and London and William and how last night was the best night I had ever had with a man, but it wasn’t a date. Because I don’t want to date anyone. And neither does he.
So how come my chest just tightened at that thought?
God, could this be any more confusing or complicated? I am beyond attracted to William, but I know he doesn’t get involved. Ever. And he wouldn’t date his assistant anyway, if he did date.
Which he doesn’t.
Not that I would want to date my boss, anyway.
My sexy, brilliant, sophisticated, British boss.
I mean, could I commit any bigger career suicide than by having a fling with William Cumberland?
I don’t want that.
And neither does William.
But if I don’t want that, then why can’t I stop thinking about him?
Coffee. I need coffee to clear my head.
I stumble out of bed and open my door. I walk into the living room, and Reese and Emily immediately quit talking. Which of course means they were talking about me.
I feel my face grow warm as both of them stare at me with wide eyes.
“Good morning,” I say, padding past them and entering our tiny kitchen. I open the cabinet door to grab my favorite coffee mug, one I got from Dean & Deluca on a trip to New York my freshman year of college.
“MK, what happened last night?” Emily asked.
I take my mug and select a coffee pod. “I had a drink with William. That’s all.”
“MK, you went out with your boss,” Reese says, walking into the kitchen. “This wasn’t like a company happy hour, MK. This was a date.”
I pause from making coffee. Anger begins bubbling up inside of me.
“No,” I say firmly, “it was not a date. It was two people having a drink. It’s what mature adults do, you know. They can have a drink and just have it be a drink.”
I go back to making coffee, but Reese isn’t finished yet.
“This is not like you,” Reese says, her voice full of concern. “Not like you at all. You haven’t had a date with a guy in years. And now you decide to have drinks with the biggest media mogul in the world? Who happens to be your boss?”
“Reese is right,” Emily chimes in. “You can’t do this, MK! Cumberland is not the guy to be flirting with and having drinks with. My God, what if this gets out? What will people in your office say about you?”
I whirl around. I know they are right. I know they are.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t care.
“You know what?” I snap, “I can have fun and keep this under control. I am sure of that. William and I are on the same page. We are career focused. We enjoy each other’s company. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Oh, come on, MK!” Reese cries. “You know this is a recipe for disaster!”
“And what if William does this to all his assistants?” Emily adds. “What if he flirts with them, or takes them out, sleeps with them? You don’t know what he is like in his office in London or with other assistants. You don’t know—”
“I do know him!” I yell angrily, interrupting Emily. “I know him, I get him, and if I want to have a little fun flirting with William, then I will!”
I grab my cup of coffee and storm off to my room, slamming the door shut behind me.
I eye my coffee cup. Shit, I forgot the creamer. But I am so livid right now I’ll be dammed if I go back out there and get some. I park the mug on my end table and grab my iPad. I am going to spend the morning working on my blog and that will help me do two things: decompress from the anger I have right now and hopefully distract me from thinking about William.
William. Suddenly I realize I haven’t checked my phone since last night. I get up and grab my purse and fish it out. I turn it back on and find a zillion text messages: ones from Reese and Emily after I left the bar last night, several from Arabella asking why I won’t answer my phone; some from Michelle about bridal party shoes and champagne-colored eye shadow, and . . . William.
My heart skips a beat as I immediately open his message.
I do hope you have managed to locate the keyhole this morning. WC
I sit down on my bed and tuck my legs up underneath me. I feel my cheeks grow warm from blushing, and I immediately text him back.
I have not yet attempted but feel I shall be successful when the time arises. MKG
I wait and he immediately responds.
I am comforted by that fact, Mary-Kate. WC
I laugh to myself. I love that he initials all of his texts. So I always add my initials back in return. But before I can reply another message drops in.
What are you doing today? WC
I hold my breath. Then I type:
Working on the blog that only you read. You? MKG
Once again, an instant response.
I need to select furniture for the new place. Would you like to assist me with this task? WC
That weird tingling sensation rips through me as I type back.
I would love to but need to see your space first to assess your decorating needs. MKG
I take a sip of the black coffee-blah—and in a moment William responds.
Meet me at my place at 1 p.m. WC.
And just like that, I have taken another match out of my book and struck it.
Chapter 9
I head over to William’s apartment building with a feeling of excitement bubbling inside of me. Being on the edge of Millennium Park, and near Lake Michigan, his place of residence is considered one of the hottest addresses in all of Chicago.
I get out of the cab and gaze up at the high rise. Of course William’s address is PH 57, as in penthouse on the 57th floor. My heart flutters a bit as I stare up at the modern building. I seriously cannot wait to see where he lives. I have only seen pictures of places like this in magazines and in features on the Beautiful Homes Network. Never in a million years did I ever expect to be invited into a penthouse.
A multi-million-dollar penthouse.
But the more I get to know William, I find myself in positions I never thought I’d be in. Like this one.
I enter the posh building. I check in with the concierge, who calls William, and then I am allowed access to the penthouse level. I feel the butterflies shift in my stomach as the elevator ascends. I still can’t believe I’m going to his home. That he wants me to pick
out furniture with him. That I am going to spend the day with my boss on a Saturday and no business is involved.
The butterflies shift again. But he doesn’t feel like my boss, my heart whispers. William is William to me.
The doors open to the 57th floor. I get off and nervously go to his door. I take a moment, draw a deep breath to fight the anxiousness, and ring the doorbell.
A few seconds later William answers and greets me with a fabulous smile. “Thank you for being agreeable to the in house-decorating call.” He gestures for me to step inside. “Please, come in.”
I can’t speak for a moment. Nor can I move.
Because, oh mother of God, he’s wearing a gorgeous black leather jacket and jeans. Jeans. He is wearing fucking jeans and I have never seen him in jeans. William Cumberland is known for his exquisite Prada suits. For the rich sweaters, the sophisticated cashmere trench coat.
But, William—William, who invited me over to his home this Saturday afternoon—is in jeans.
Oh my God, he’s beyond smoking hot in this outfit. I’m distracted by the charcoal gray sweater, the white T-shirt peeking out underneath, the gorgeous black leather jacket . . . My eyes flick over him and I swallow hard. I feel my cheeks burning and now I’m beyond mortified because I checked him out head to toe, and I more than like what I see standing in front of me.
“Mary-Kate?” William asks, a crease forming in his brow.
“Um . . .” I instinctively jerk at the scarf wound around my neck as I move past him. “Uh, I’m hot. I’m hot in these layers.”
So now I’m trying to undo my scarf and not stare at him, which is really hard because he’s so totally gorgeous. I am tugging and unwinding the scarf and still staring at him in his damn leather jacket when Bam!, I crash right into his hall entry table and bang the shit out of my hip. I hear the glass table rattle loudly, and a very expensive-looking vase with flowers wobbles violently. Oh God, not his vase!
“Fuck!” I yell, throwing myself forward, grabbing the vase before it topples over and shatters into a million pieces.
Whew! I saved it. Thank God. I exhale loudly.
“Mary-Kate?” William quickly asks. “Are you all right?”
Oh God. I want to die. Can I be a bigger idiot in front of him?
Never mind. I don’t want to tempt fate by asking for the answer to that one.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, forgetting the scarf for a moment and rubbing my hip, which is stinging like hell right now. “I didn’t mean to run over your table. I—”
But then I look up and stop dead in my tracks.
Oh. My. God.
I actually gasp as I take in his penthouse. I cross to the center of the living room in front of me and there is nothing but a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows providing a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan and the skyscrapers surrounding them.
I continue forward, utterly entranced. “William,” I gasp, my eyes not believing what I am seeing, “this . . . this . . . this is . . .”
“Rather quaint?” he quips behind me.
I turn around and find a smile playing at his full lips.
“‘Quaint’ isn’t the word I was looking for,” I say, moving across the hardwood floor to the amazing windows. “This is breathtaking. This view. I can’t get over this view!”
I finish taking off my scarf and gloves and put them down on his black leather couch. I go to take off my coat and within a second, William is behind me, helping me. This time he’s so close, I smell rich Italian leather and pine needles and, good God, he smells glorious.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
“You’re welcome,” he says, taking my coat and heading over to the hall closet.
I watch as he hangs up the coat. Holy shit, he hangs up his clothes. I have never been with a man who hangs up coats!
Wait, I’m not with William, I remind myself.
“Here, let me give you a tour,” William says, interrupting my thoughts. “Right now, I want to focus on the living room and study. Everything else can wait.”
I nod and take my cell out of my purse. We walk through his penthouse, and I snap pictures of the rooms from all angles, my creative brain kicking into gear as I visualize how this place could look.
Even the kitchen has fantastic views of the city. It’s just beyond words. And he has every appliance known to man, all stainless steel, all practically restaurant-quality. I’m drooling just looking at them.
“Let’s go back to the living room,” William says.
I follow behind him and I can’t help it. I check out the view in front of me and, damn it, his butt looks freaking hot in his jeans.
“I’m most interested in replacing the furniture in here,” he says, turning toward me and gesturing with his hand. “It came with the place and I loathe it.”
“Hmmmm,” I say. “I thought you only loathed the word ‘but,’” I say, smiling at him as I remind him of our conversation in the studio the day he hired me.
William stares at me for a second, and I see a lightness shining in his gorgeous blue eyes.
“I’m very flattered you remember that,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.
Oh dear God. I feel the match flickering between us as we banter. I am hot again, but this time, I have no layers to blame.
We walk down the hall then he gestures for me to enter his bedroom. Oh dear God, I have to act normal as I look at William’s bedroom? Can I be tested anymore right now? Jeans? Leather jacket? His bed?
But it would be really awkward and weird if I said no. What would be the reason? Gee, William, I am fighting this intense attraction to you and my mind gets all sexual at the idea of your bed, so can we just skip this part of the tour for my mental health please?
I clear my throat and follow him into the room. I avoid looking at his bed and I focus on the view, which is of the skyscrapers surrounding his building. At night, it must be beautiful in here. I can just picture the light streaming in from the buildings in the dark and how sensual that sight must be . . .
“Okay, let’s move on,” I say suddenly, turning back around. I need to get out before I pass out on the floor with a thud.
But one thing I noticed in my quick scan of his room, besides the view, is that he has no personal pictures in here. None were in the living room, either. No family pictures or pictures of friends . . . there are no personal pictures of . . . anything.
We are moving on to the study, thank God, and I decide to ask him about it.
“William,” I say, snapping a picture of his study, “do you have any personal pictures? Anything I can frame and display?”
To be honest, I am motivated by curiosity as much as décor when I ask him that.
“No,” William says, his eyes intense on mine. “None.”
I feel my brow crease. It was so ironic that the man who developed a social networking empire, one based heavily on people wanting to share details and pictures, had none in his home. If that isn’t the height of irony, I don’t know what is.
“Let’s go back for a moment,” William suddenly says, changing the subject. “You have to see the master bathroom. If I do say so myself, it is brilliant.”
We go back through his room and to the master bathroom. And as soon as I enter, I gasp out loud. The bathroom is magnificent. There are dual-head steam showers, raised sink basins, and the crowning jewel of it all—a raised bathtub that overlooks Lake Michigan.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “This . . . this . . . holy shit!” I finally spit out.
William laughs. “I take this receives your approval, Mary-Kate.”
I am about to answer when my phone rings. I glance down and then look up at William. “It’s Arabella.”
William’s brow instantly creases. “What? Why is she calling you o
n a Saturday?”
I shrug and answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Nice of you to answer, MK,” Arabella snaps at me in a clipped tone. “Do you happen to have any idea where Mr. Cumberland is? There is an urgent matter that needs his attention and I am unable to reach him by mobile.”
I glance at William for a moment, and his brow is still furrowed.
“I am sure I can locate him if absolutely needed,” I say.
She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, really? Like, do you have ESP and you can just figure out where he is? First of all, you should know his schedule at all times. If you do not know, you do not know. Don’t be a twit about it. Just say you do not know where he is.”
Okay, now I’m pissed.
“Arabella, there is no need to call me a twit!” I snap back at her.
William’s eyes instantly flash. He grabs the phone from my hand and puts it to his ear, and I can hear Arabella yelling at who she thinks is me on the other end of the line.
Oh my God. I want to laugh so hard, I bite my lip.
But then I notice William’s blue eyes are flickering with anger.
Big-time anger.
“Ms. Dalton,” he says in a cold, controlled voice, “you shall never speak to Ms. Grant that way again. Ever. Or I will sack you, do you understand?”
Wow! He is livid. And if I were Arabella, I’d be shaking in fear.
And a tingle of excitement whips down my spine as I realize that William is furious on my behalf.
“Now what is so urgent that you need to disrupt my Saturday afternoon?” William snaps. “Yes . . . no . . . fine . . . Tell him to call me Monday . . . All right. And just to be clear, you shall treat Ms. Grant with the utmost respect. Your job depends on it.”
Then William disconnects the call and hands me back my phone. “Does she always talk to you like that, Mary-Kate?”
