“We have to be in a car together. I’m just trying to make you comfortable.”
“Oh, don’t worry, bossman. I have a better idea how to do that.” Swinging my finger over to the dashboard, I punch the button to raise the privacy screen.
I hear him snarl as what’s happening sinks in.
He tries to lower it, but I keep my finger on the button so he can’t. We engage in a little tug of war, with the divider going up and down, the whole way to the office.
Call it childish.
It’s a stupid, unexpected kind of fun toying with this man and his butchered apology.
Even if those roses are awfully lovely, every time my eyes flick to them. God, he must’ve dropped at least a hundred bucks on the arrangement at the overpriced rich-people florist.
I don’t let him win the screen war until I’ve pulled up in front of the building housing Brandt Ideas, and that’s just because he’s my boss and I need to know when he’ll need me again.
“Admirable determination,” he growls, waiting for my eyes to catch his in the mirror. “I’m going to the pier at noon to meet a client. I’ll need you to pick me up there at three.”
“I assume you mean Navy Pier?” I ask.
“Where else?” he snaps.
I don’t know whether to be annoyed or amused that our little tug of war clearly got under his skin. His usual tight, disarming smile has been wiped clean off his face, leaving a scowling lunk of wickedly good-looking bosshole in the back seat.
“You don’t need a ride there?” I venture.
“I’ve got it covered, Miss Halle. Be there at three o’clock sharp,” he says.
Fun times. Traffic there is always a beast.
“I’ll meet you out front,” I say.
He just nods and gets out of the car.
I spend the next few hours doing what I always do best—tooling around town, waiting for one of the Brandts to text me and tell me I’m needed.
They don’t, usually, during midday work hours unless there’s a conference or some other big event. So I go and get a coffee from Sweeter Grind and check out the news of the day on my phone.
The whole time, I keep looking over at the flowers.
As stunning as they are—picture-perfect red—I don’t know. It just feels weird.
If he thought I was a woman all this time, and I turned out to be a man, he wouldn’t be bending over backward like this to placate my feelings, would he?
And I know how he operates with women he wants in his bed. I’ve heard him blab about it at least a dozen times while I shuttled his player butt around.
There’s pathetic, and then there’s reality.
I need this job.
Even so, I don’t need to let some slick ego-beast with a warped sense of ’doing the right thing’ sweet-talk me into an HR nightmare.
I definitely don’t need those searing looks from him every time he thinks my back is turned. Those looks are too hungry, too heated, too magnetic. They pull the winter chill right out of my bones and braise me with a bubbling, unwanted heat I won’t acknowledge.
I won’t.
Yep, this sucks.
And as I glance at the flowers again, gently picking them up and twirling them in my hand, I wince.
Is it sad that I’m starting to miss him thinking I’m Mr. Halle?
* * *
It’s a sunny day with winter slowly giving up its hold, attracting a gaggle of people to fight through for parking.
When I pick him up at three, he climbs in the back of the car with a giant spool of cotton candy. He leans forward and passes it up to me.
Gag.
“What’s this?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“For my gorgeous—for my driver with the gorgeous, always on-point personality,” he says firmly.
Nice save. He only stumbled once.
“Thanks.” I toss it in the passenger seat next to the flowers.
I’ve never actually had cotton candy, but this heaping spool of neon-pink sugar looks like something that could put me in diabetic shock.
Unlike the flowers, at least I have a practical use for this gift. I’ll give some to Millie. She’s always up for a sugar rush like every kid her age.
“You seemed unimpressed by the flowers, so I thought I’d try again,” he explains, holding his hands out.
“You must be psychic. It’s just like I always say: when flowers don’t get the reaction you’re going for, a pink toothache is the next logical step.”
Yes, I know I sound like a fire-breathing bitch, but I don’t want a third not-sorry gift from this man.
“You can’t be serious. You hate cotton candy too?” he says with genuine disgust. “It’s like dessert and a show. Pretty fascinating, really, the way it’s made. Don’t you have fun, Miss Halle?”
“Not when I’m on the clock,” I say.
He frowns. “You could make this easy. Tell me how to make up for—”