Perfect Chaos

“I feel like I missed out a little,” I say without thinking. That wasn’t very professional at all.

She laughs, a soft, throaty laugh, the sound sinking into my ears and lingering long after she stops. “I’ve heard you’re not the kind of man to miss out, Mr. Christianson.”

“You shouldn’t believe the rumors about me.” My voice is low and smooth. I didn’t tell it to be. I didn’t intend on sounding so suggestive.

She shrugs her dainty shoulders. “Don’t worry. I base my opinions on what I know from personal experience. Not rumors.”

“And what do you know from personal experience?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

She levels those gorgeous blues on me, her stare never wavering. “About you? Nothing,” she says, all husky. My balls swell on the spot, and I swallow down a large glug of my Scotch. “Yet,” she adds quietly.

I cough over my drink. Holy shit. Did she just say that?

“But I’m looking forward to finding out if Ty Christianson is the talented businessman everyone claims.” She smiles a small smile around the rim of her glass.

My eyes widen. Oh, she’s cute. Is she playing with me? Am I, the player, being played? I don’t know what the fuck to do. So I smile awkwardly. “What can I say? I have a gift.” More hidden meaning. But what I have a gift for needs to be forgotten quickly. I swallow down some strength and ignore my disappointment, getting up from my stool. And I do the right thing, offering her my hand. “Good talking to you, Lainey.” She accepts and shakes it mildly, her eyes getting wider the longer our palms remain locked. The sudden flash of something—I’m not sure what, or perhaps I won’t allow myself to fathom it—forces me to release her. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“You too.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will, just sitting here waiting for Mr. Perfect to crash into my life.”

I laugh a little. “And what warrants a man perfect, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She smiles down at her drink, breathing in. “The kind of man whose world revolves around me. The kind who is so utterly devoted, I’d forget who I am without him.” She looks up at me, and I stare at her, a little dazed. “And when he kisses me, nothing else exists. Not much to ask, is it? Just good, old-fashioned love. The pure, rare kind.”

Leave, Ty. Leave now. “Rare is the key word there, Lainey,” I say, and her soft smile fades. “I saw it in my parents’ relationship, though, so I hope you find it, too.” I’ve never met a woman who has worn her heart on her sleeve so unapologetically. Whether it’s appropriate or not is beside the point. And, frighteningly, I’ve never met a woman who has reeled off her desire for the one thing in this world I would possibly unlock my heart for; a love like my parents had.

I turn and walk away, ignoring the black-haired beauty who is off her stool and heading my way, my pace picking up. For the first time in . . . I can’t even remember, I’m not interested. Not in her, anyway.THE NEXT MORNING, I SWIM an extra ten lengths. And I polish my shoes extra shiny. And I fasten the knot of my tie with extra precision. And I trim my stubble extra carefully. And double-check my hair. Twice. And, of course, I do all of this because it’s what I do every morning. With this much care and effort.

Herb tips his hat like every other normal morning as I pass his desk in the foyer, glancing down at his watch. “Early this morning, Mr. Christianson.”

“I have a long day,” I call, arriving at the driveway. But Egor isn’t waiting with my car, like normal. I turn and see Herb on the phone.

“He’s on his way,” he says as I check the time. I can’t moan. I’m half an hour earlier than every other day of my working life.

In only a few minutes, Egor is pulling up to the curb. “Sorry, Mr. Christianson,” he says, holding the door open for me. “The key cabinet in the garages was playing games. And, well, you’re early.”

I don’t acknowledge his observation and jump in. “No problem, Egor. Did you get the tickets?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Very kind of you.”

“Good. Enjoy.” I pull the door shut and get on my way, and I make it to my office and park before my phone rings. “Mother,” I greet as I get into the elevator.

“Ty, darling, did you RSVP to your cousin’s wedding invitation?”

“I will.” I press the button for the thirteenth floor and have a quick check of my reflection, running a hand through my waves and slapping a cheek.

“Good. D—” She cuts off, and I glance at my phone to see the service has dropped.