She was just as cold as he was, typing something on her computer. I imagined it was a chat box, her text appearing on his monitor in real time, probably because he wasn’t a fan of talking. Then she nodded. “You can go in.”
There were two large solid doors that led to his office, and his assistant’s desk was just outside. There was another desk with a security officer, like his only job was to protect Deacon’s doors, although I didn’t see why he needed protection.
I moved to the double doors and opened one, which was just as heavy as it looked.
Deacon sat behind his desk, wearing a charcoal gray suit with a gray tie, his dark eyes formidable as always. He had a wall of windows behind him, but the other walls were solid, covered with bookshelves and textbooks. He also had his degrees mounted.
Harvard School of Medicine
Deacon Hamilton, MD. PhD.
He had other degrees too, his undergraduate degree completed at Stanford. There were other awards, old articles framed that had his name in the headline.
I tried not to stare, but I was interested in all of his accomplishments. I wasn’t usually intimidated by my clients, but I was definitely a bit intimidated by his brilliant mind. His personality made a little more sense now.
Because he was a genius. An analytical type who only cared about data, who was so cerebral he didn’t know how to socialize with other people.
He didn’t look up from his desk as I approached, continuing to work on his monitor.
I approached the desk and set his computer on the surface, along with the plastic bag. “I know it’s almost lunchtime, so I grabbed you something.”
He pulled his gaze away from the computer and stared at the bag, as if he didn’t know what to make of it. “I didn’t ask you to bring me lunch.”
I pulled out the contents so he could see it. “I know. I just thought it would be a nice surprise.” It was salmon, broccolini, and wild rice. Salmon was the most common protein on his weekly grocery list, so I assumed he would like it. I set the plastic fork on top.
He didn’t say thank you. He turned to his laptop as if nothing had happened.
I tried not to take it personally.
He opened the laptop, and once that happened, his eyes immediately narrowed.
Like he knew something was wrong.
His eyes flicked back to me as he rose to his feet, over six feet of pure man. His looks were deceiving, because he was so handsome, so good-looking, it didn’t seem like he could be the intellectual type. But he had it all, brains and good looks. Well…he didn’t have the social skills. “I told you to bring my computer, not open it.” He kept his voice low and dispassionate, but the anger was obvious in his tone. “What I do in my free time is none of your business. I watch porn like all other men, and I’m not ashamed of that.”
“I didn’t know if you were stepping into a meeting—”
“Don’t look at my computer again.”
I didn’t think less of him for watching porn. I watched porn too. And I actually liked him more for not being ashamed of it, for not being even slightly embarrassed about it. His confidence was in full force. “I apologize.”
He shut his laptop again, a distinctive snap because he closed the top so hard. He lowered himself back into the chair and pulled the lunch toward him, opening the plastic lid so he could get to the food underneath. “You can go.”
“Is there anything else you need—”
“If there were, I would ask for it.” He held his fork as he looked up at me, his dark eyes dismissing me.
“Have a good day, Deacon.” I turned around and left his office.
He didn’t say it back.
When I checked the mail that afternoon, there was a large manila envelope for Deacon Hamilton. There were other envelopes too, bills and a lot of junk. I tossed all the pizza ads and DirecTV coupons and took the elevator to his floor. The envelope looked important, might be related to his divorce, so I wanted to make sure he had it in case he was waiting for it.
I texted him in the elevator. I’m dropping off mail.
There was no message back.
I got to his front door and rang the doorbell.
No way in hell was I going in there unless I knew for sure he wasn’t home.
He texted me. It’s open.
I entered his residence, finding him at the dining table with his laptop open, stacks of papers around him along with a black notebook. When I’d first seen him like this when we met a month ago, I assumed it was all just numbers and dollar signs on those papers. But now I wondered if it was his research.