Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
By nine-thirty, I’ve wrangled four more phone calls, fielded a flower delivery intended for the last PA, and written a summary of his meetings that morning. I barely have time to hit the restroom or reapply lipstick before the city council liaison arrives, forty minutes early and radiating terror.
“I’m Natalie Hollister, Mr. McDaid’s personal assistant,” I say, my tone firm yet polite. “He’s currently engaged on a call, but you’re welcome to wait in the conference room. We have fresh coffee and a selection of pastries available.”
The councilman, a haggard figure whose pallor suggests he’s battling his third ulcer this year, opens his mouth to protest. However, I fix him with a pointed gaze that leaves no room for argument. It’s enough to send him retreating, his shoulders slumping slightly as he murmurs, “Thank you, Ms. Hollister,” before scurrying into the chilly conference room.
I’m entering data in the shared drive when I feel a presence behind me. I glance over to find Declan leaning over my shoulder to point at something on the monitor. His arm brushes my own, and for a split second, I’m hyper-aware of the way his chest practically blankets my back.
“Why is there a delay on the perimeter upgrade contract?” he asks, his warm breath brushing against my ear. I don’t let myself shiver but it’s a close call.
“Because the supplier’s customs paperwork isn’t done. I emailed their rep yesterday and copied Trey on the correspondence.”
He studies the screen too closely for comfort. “Trey’s lazy as fuck. CC me next time.”
I glance up, and our eyes meet. His irises are so dark they’re almost black, and they are close enough for me to see the gold flecks at the edge. He doesn’t move away. He isn’t hitting on me; he’s testing for weakness, and when he doesn’t find it, he lingers just long enough to make a point.
He straightens, the heat of his body gone, and says, “You’re good at this.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. He smirks, like he heard it and approves.
He walks off. I sit there for a moment, letting my pulse slow down.
When the next meeting begins, Declan is all business. His demeanor is sharp and focused while exuding an air of impatience that occasionally veers into abrasiveness. Each time I pass him a document, I feel the fleeting brush of his fingers against mine, a jolt of electricity sparking through the air between us. Once could easily be dismissed as an accident, but twice begins to form an intriguing pattern.
By the fourth time our hands collide, the heat of his touch lingers in my mind, and I find myself caught in a whirlwind of thoughts about what those strong fingers would feel like against my skin. The realization sends a flush of embarrassment through me, and I want to slap myself back to reality.
We’re reviewing a security proposal when he snatches a sheet from my stack, only to toss it back a second later. “You missed a line in the city’s bid,” he snaps, tapping the page.
I don’t even blink. “No, I crossed it out. That line’s from the old request for proposal. They updated it last night.” I grab the tablet, pull up the email, and hand it to him.
He reads, his eyes scanning the lines intently, then frowns deeply, creasing his brow before finally looking up at me. For the first time, he appears off-balance, as if the ground beneath him has shifted. "You're right," he admits, his voice carrying a note of grudging acceptance.
"I know," I respond, and even though I intend the words to be firm, they emerge softer, almost gentle.
Silence envelops us, not an uncomfortable hush, but one heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. His jaw clenches and unclenches as though he's wrestling with the urge to speak, yet unsure of the words. Ultimately, he opts for a simple nod, acknowledging the moment.
After the meeting, he follows me to the breakroom and stands there watching as I pour coffee. “Do you ever get flustered?” he asks, like it’s a genuine question.
“Not unless someone’s bleeding,” I say, dropping a sugar cube into my mug.
His lips twitch. “Good. We need that around here.”
When noon rolls around, I’m barely holding it together. He’s everywhere—on calls, in meetings, hovering near my desk, always with some new crisis to triage or paperwork to review. Each time we’re in the same room, my awareness of him sharpens. The way he sits with his legs sprawled and his hands steepled is seriously hot. The slight rasp to his laugh when someone actually surprises him sends a shiver up my spine. The scar on his right knuckle that catches the light when he taps the table for emphasis makes me curious as to where he got it.