“Not tonight,” he said before walking away.
4.
ELIZABETH
Maneuvering my car into my assigned parking space at work, I tried to rid my head of thoughts of Daniel when I should have been thinking about my nine a.m. meeting.
Apparently, he had flown back to San Francisco last night after our encounter. I wasn’t sure why exactly, but I’d half-expected to see him again or at least hear from him before he’d headed back to his part of the state. Maybe it was more of what I’d wanted than what I’d expected. Disappointment coursed through me, and that only proved to fuel both my intrigue and my annoyance.
Admitting to myself, if no one else, that Daniel Alexander happened to be growing on me was something I was reluctant to do, especially after last night. Granted, it could have been worse, I imagined. He could have come into my place, screwed me senseless, and then left without a word.
Which would be worse—rejection or being dismissed?
Ugh.
Eight years alone was a long enough time to get used to the idea of being single. All it had taken was one night at a stupid mixer I never wanted to attend in the first place to make me want to throw it all away.
Walking into my office, I flipped on the light switch and smiled at the roses on my desk. Shaking my head to rid it of all thoughts of him, I sat down and tried to focus on my upcoming meeting.
My cell phone pinged, and I looked down to see a text message from an unknown number.
Back in my sucky part of the state. It would be far less sucky if you were here with me. I’m sorry about last night.
Heat coursed through my body, and I felt my cheeks flush. I wondered how he’d gotten my cell phone number, but then I glared out my door at my assistant’s empty chair.
Who is this? Do I know you?
I giggled as I pressed the Send button. I was enjoying this flirtation, or whatever the hell it was, a little too much.
Can I call you? Or are you busy?
Gripping my phone, I stared at his words. I can do this, I thought, trying to convince myself. It would be okay.
You can call.
My cell phone vibrated almost immediately. “Hello?” I practically sang into the receiver.
“Miss Lyons.” His deep voice sounded even sexier through the phone.
“How did you get my number?” I cut to the chase.
He huffed out a quick laugh. “I’m not giving up my sources.”
“I think it’s a short list. I know who to blame.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not,” I admitted as I focused on a picture of the studio in 1942 hanging on my wall.
“I’m sorry I left like that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Deny.
Deny.
Deny.