“I should’ve worn the black dress,” I chastise myself, looking down at what I did choose. The eggshell blue shift took entirely too long to pick out and almost made me late. I accessorized it with a couple of gold bangles and nude heels and took extra care to curl my long locks into beachy curls. It’s cute and fine for a day at work. Because, as I keep reminding myself, this is not a date. It’s a lunch interview, a part of my work day. A routine thing that happens between two people that work together.
Only most people don’t work with a man that looks like a Greek god that sounds like a Southern gentleman.
He’s avoided me all morning. Or maybe this is just a normal day at work—I don’t know. I haven’t been here long enough to establish a true normal routine. I suspect, however, there’s nothing normal about Graham Landry.
He’s been polite, yet firm, when I’ve called back to transfer calls or alert him of a visitor. All of his communication with me has come via email. I haven’t seen him since I arrived and that has me more on edge.
Raza bounces through the door, her usual cheery self. “How are you, Mallory?”
“Good.” I stand shakily and put my purse in the locking drawer at the bottom of my desk. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. An hour and a half, maybe. Did Gina tell you?”
“She did. Do you have some sort of appointment?”
“Yeah.” I twist my lips. “I have a working lunch with Mr. Landry.”
Raza’s
eyes light up like a schoolgirl’s. “I’m jealous,” she whispers conspiratorially. “But I’m not sure I could be in a closed room with him for that long without a restraining order at the end.”
My attempt at a smile is broken and a little wobbly because I’m not sure how this is going to work either. With a slight wave, I grab a notebook and a pen and take the handful of steps to the large, heavy wooden doors and knock.
“Come in.” His response is immediate and bold, not at all like the tepid Graham I’ve dealt with all day.
The door swings open too easily, denying me that last sweet second to get my wits about me. Before I’m ready, he’s in sight.
His desk is wide and heavy-looking, made of dark wood with antiqued accents. In most offices, this piece of furniture would be the focal point. In this one, it’s the man behind it. There’s nothing that could possibly outshine him.
He’s wearing a black suit and tie and is leaning back in an oversized black leather chair. Light pours in his office from the glass walls that probably allow you a fantastic view of Savannah, if you were so inclined—meaning if you weren’t a female and Graham wasn’t present. Because when he’s here, nothing else matters.
“Close the door behind you,” he instructs.
Once the clasp latches, I turn to face him again. This time, I don’t let our eyes meet. I need just a second to compose myself.
Just a work appointment, Mal. Just like with Mr. Beenmeyer.
Glancing up at Graham just in time to witness him unfold himself out of his chair, I find myself laughing out loud.
Mr. Beenmeyer didn’t look like he was packing double-digits.
“Something funny?” Graham asks, smoothing down his tie.
“No. Not at all.”
He casts me a puzzled look. “Would you like to order lunch in?”
“Oh, um, I went ahead and ordered lunch for you at Hillary’s House. It was in the notes—that you order from there every day when you don’t have an appointment. And since this isn’t really an appointment . . .”
“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.”