Walk of Shame (Love Unexpectedly 4)

Andrew

THURSDAY, 5:06 A.M.

If anyone accused him of waiting for her, he’d deny it with his dying breath, but damn it, where was the infernal woman?

Had she gotten the fucking flowers or not? Had she liked them? Apparently not, or he wouldn’t be lingering in the lobby of his own building, pretending to have a conversation with Charles when really all of his attention was on whether or not Georgiana Watkins would join him.

Hell, he didn’t care which direction she came from. She could come from the elevators, or she could come from the front door, returning from a long night out.

Scratch that. He’d only be okay with her coming home from a night out so long as her night hadn’t involved another man….

Andrew blew out a breath and tried to get a hold of himself and focus on Charles’s polite small talk. What the hell was up with him? Since when did he care how Georgiana Watkins spent her time?

And since when did her morning appearances seem so vital to his very existence?

He lingered until five fucking twenty before accepting that she wasn’t going to show. She hadn’t liked the flowers. Hadn’t forgiven him.

Andrew swallowed as he pushed through the revolving doors into the autumn morning.

He was angry.

He told himself it was because he was now twenty minutes late sta

rting his day.

He was lying.

Georgie

FRIDAY, 5:01 A.M.

Today’s plan of action required getting up even earlier than Wednesday. Which I didn’t know was possible.

But…worth it.

I’m nibbling the corner of my donut and chatting up Ramon, who’s already on his second donut, when I feel the air change.

Popping another bite of donut into my mouth, I slowly turn toward the source of the heat.

“Morning, Andrew.”

His expression is the same as it always is. Which is to say: completely expressionless.

But because I’m watching for it—anticipating it—I swear I see a little something extra flare in his eyes when he sees me.

Satisfaction? Gladness? Hard to say, since irritation is the only one of his nuances I know really well. But I’m pretty sure it was something.

“Mr. Ramirez. Georgiana. Good morning,” he says.

“Mr. Mulroney, sir. Good morning.”

“Donut?” I ask sweetly, pushing the box toward Andrew. “They’re perfectly delicious.”

His eyes narrow slightly at my emphasis on perfectly before his eyes drift over me, narrowing even farther at my ensemble.

As with Wednesday morning, I’m wearing gym clothes.

Unlike Wednesday morning, I got up extra early to bust my ass getting to the donut shop and then back here, so I could get the jump on him.