Page 34 of Love You Wild
Claire strolls the rest of the way into my office and throws her bag to the floor, sinking onto my cognac leather couch. She crosses one leg over the other and pretends to be interested in her fingernails. I really don’t think she gives a shit about her nails. “’Kay. Let’s get on with this.”
“Places to be?”
“Yes, actually. Anywhere but he—” She stops when she looks up at me, finally. The tips of her ears redden and I think her bottom lip trembles a bit. “Uh, you have…glasses…on.”
I smile at her. “Glad to see your eyes work just fine. Yes, Claire, I do have glasses on. They keep me from getting headaches when I stare at the computer screen. Although I have to say, somehow I’ve managed to get one anyway in the last fifteen minutes.” Because you’re late.
She rips her gaze off me. “They look good,” she murmurs.
“Pardon?”
“I said they look good!” Fuck, the woman could yell at me all damn day, I wouldn’t care.
“A compliment from Miss Thompson? Such a rarity. I suppose I should count myself lucky. Or blessed. Maybe both.”
She ignores me, looking around my office. I follow everywhere her gaze goes, and I can tell by the way her mouth opens and closes a few times that she’s secretly impressed.
Jones & Beck Investments is located on the forty-first floor of a high-end high-rise, smack dab in the heart of downtown Toronto. The outer office is all white and gray marble floors, chandeliers and there’s even a fishpond, but my personal office is completely different, and much more similar to what she’s got going on at Cherry Lane.
Dark gray wooden plank flooring, a brick accent wall, a wall of windows into the hallway, though they’re covered, a dark walnut console that’s built into the wall behind my desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows on the final wall, looking out over the city skyline. The sun’s still up, but my space is lit up with the soft glow of floor lamps. It’s the way I like it, all warm and cozy, instead of blinding and sterile.
“You’re late,” I finally say.
Her gaze shifts to me. “Fashionably.”
“You could have texted.”
The corner of her mouth twitches and her eyes dance. “Are you upset with me, Mr. Beck?”
I shrug and lean back in my chair, twirling my pen in my fingers. “It’s just common courtesy to be on time, or to at least inform the other party if you’re going to be late.”
Her eyes narrow and her lips purse. She looks like she’s about to chew my head off. But then she lets out an exhale and relaxes, the tension she’s been holding in her shoulders slipping. She has the good sense to look remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t actually work today. I had to take my dad to an appointment. Traffic was brutal getting back to Toronto.”
I feel my face soften. I can, on occasion, be a bit of an ass. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t working? We didn’t have to do this today.”
She lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “Not a big deal.”
“You’re from Jordan Valley too, right?” I remember visiting Dex’s start-up brewery there once, way back when. “That’s a far drive to make there and back today. I’m sorry. I would have rescheduled had I known.”
Toronto traffic, or any traffic coming into or out of the city within a fifty-kilometer radius, is a shit show any day of the week. Jordan Valley is an hour-and-a-half drive on a good day. She probably spent nearly five hours stuck in traffic today.
Claire just stares at me, barely blinking.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Stop being nice.” She moves her hand around the general vicinity of my face. “It’s weirding me out.”
Chuckling, I tap my pen on my desk. “You make me smile, Claire Bear, I’ll give you that.”
She’s still staring, this sweet smile dancing on her full lips, but then her eyes widen and her cheeks blaze. She drops her gaze, clearing her throat and tucking a loose wave behind her ear. “Uh, I brought, um…” She pulls a binder out of her bag and shakes it at me. “I brought everything I’ve got so far. Proposed plans, spaces, ideas, some quotes from a few contractors.”
I stand, rolling my sleeves up. Her eyes track the movement. “Great. Are you hungry?”
“Uh…”
I pull out a bag of microwave popcorn from a drawer in my desk, ripping the plastic casing off. She’s got this amused half-grin her face.
“I love popcorn,” I tell her. “Gonna go pop it, ’kay?”
