I wore five-inch black heels with a matching black clutch, my hair curled and pinned down one side, showing off my bare shoulder. I knocked before I opened the door. “It’s me,” I called into the condo, knowing he was probably finishing up in his bedroom.
A few minutes later, his footsteps announced his approach, his dress shoes tapping against the hardwood floor as he emerged into the living room. His fingers worked his tie, giving it a slight adjustment. His stare was blank and his jaw was tight, like he dreaded the evening before it even began.
He turned his gaze to me. His fingers stilled, continuing to grab the tie but no longer adjusting it. He stared at me for several heartbeats, every inch of his body still as a statue. His eyes dropped subtly, studying the rest of my appearance before his fingers finished fidgeting with his tie. Then he broke eye contact altogether, adjusting his cuff links.
With his gaze averted, I looked over his appearance. His muscular arms adjusted the fabric of his suit and his broad shoulders fit the suit in a way only a mannequin could pull off. His chest was just as wide, and then it narrowed down to his tight waist and his slender hips. The slacks fit his lean and muscular legs just as well, ending at the perfect length to show his feet.
Who knew a man so brilliant could be so beautiful?
He finished his tweaks then walked the rest of the way to me. His eyes were focused on my face, dark like chocolate, and he didn’t say anything, as if his stare would suffice for a greeting.
“You look nice.” My eyes moved down to his chest. “That suit fits you perfectly.”
He stared at me.
I wasn’t accepting a compliment in return because he’d already given me one when he stopped to stare at me. And I knew he didn’t say anything now because he didn’t care for the attention. Or he just didn’t know what to say.
“Let’s go.” I stepped out first.
He locked the door behind him, and we got into the elevator together, standing several feet apart during the long ride down to the bottom. When the doors opened, we walked together to the black car waiting for us.
Deacon directed me to go first, let the driver open the door so I could get inside.
He walked around to the other side and took a seat.
Then we were off.
Deacon looked out the window, his hands resting on his thighs, his Omega watch reflecting the lights from the buildings and businesses we passed.
It was nice to get dressed up to go somewhere, but I couldn’t really enjoy myself because I was working. My job was to make his life as convenient as possible, so I’d have to do all the talking, deflect all the questions he didn’t want to answer, make him almost nonexistent so he could enjoy his solitude.
I pulled out my phone and took care of some emails.
He continued to look out the window, not asking the driver to turn on the radio and not interested in having a conversation with me. He could live in the middle of nowhere, with no company, and be perfectly fine.
He was a whole different kind of human.
We pulled up to the hotel and exited the car.
Deacon stood close to me but never touched me, never placed his arm around my waist, never made it seem like this was even remotely romantic. His hands were in his pockets most of the time.
When we entered the ballroom, his eyes scanned the room, and he kept his posture strong. If he had anxiety or trepidation, he didn’t show it. His dark gaze was just as serious as always.
Waiters handed us champagne, and he immediately took a drink, licking a drop that spilled free. Once people noticed he was there, the attention began. They started to move in.
And when he took a deep breath, betraying his unease, he showed how much he hated this.
My hand moved to his arm, feeling how concrete his bicep was. “Don’t worry, Deacon. I’ve got this.”
I handled most of the conversation for the night, making people laugh, deflecting them from the kind of attention Deacon hated, and getting people to focus on a conversation that included everyone—and keeping them from interrogating Deacon.
We sat together at the round table, finishing our dinners and champagne.
“So how long have you two been dating?” Doug Johnson was the president of the organization, so of course, he wanted to sit close to Deacon, the man he’d chosen to give the annual award to.
“Oh, we aren’t dating,” I said with a smile. “I’m—”
“We’re friends,” Deacon answered.
I wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed to admit he’d brought his assistant to this dinner, or if he just wanted to extend some kind of affection toward me, that he saw me as more than just the woman that delivered his dry cleaning. “Yes,” I said in agreement. “We’re good friends.”