Beautiful Secret
Page 28
“A woman picked out your frames,” I said, pointing to his face.
He looked up from his bag, setting a folder down on his desk and looking confused. “I’m sorry?”
“A saleswoman picked out those frames. You walked into the store, she descended in milliseconds because”—I glanced down his body in a gesture meant to communicate I mean, obviously—“and she insisted on finding just the right pair for you.”
He studied me for several breaths and then lifted his gigantic, splendid Niall Stella hand to lower his glasses and asked, “What does this mean?” while repeating my gesture, his eyes on my body, his mouth suppressing a little smile.
“It means, ‘a hot man in a suit walks into a store, and he doesn’t have a wedding ring? Like a starter pistol to a greyhound.’ ”
“How do you know that when I bought these, I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring?”
He was testing me. He was amused. Holy shit, Niall Stella was still being flirty today.
“You’re suggesting my sleuth skills are subpar. That I don’t know your timeline? I thought we established early on that my creeper dial goes up to eleven.”
His eyebrow twitched in a tiny Well?
“You got those new glasses in November.” He waited for the last piece of information. The one that made me sound completely insane. “Fine,” I groaned. “You stopped wearing your ring in September.”
He laughed, putting his glasses back on and returning to his digging in the bag.
“Do you think I’m weird?” I asked, voice weaker than I’d attempted.
He nudged his glasses down his nose again, letting his eyes move over my face before murmuring, “Yes, weird in the sense that you are unexpected and I am rarely surprised by people. I think you rather exquisite.”
Exquisite? That was certainly an interesting adjective.
Before I had a chance to respond to this—and let’s be fair, it probably would have taken me a decade—he stood up straighter, grinning. “I’ve brought you something. Reckoned it was almost lunch, so . . .” He pulled a white—albeit greasy—paper bag from his chair, and lifted a hot dog from inside. Covered in regular mustard.
“You lowered yourself to my classless mustard standards,” I cooed, taking the dog happily.
“How could I deny you? You moaned through every bite yesterday.”
Only then did it occur to me how that must have sounded. “I—”
“And until the repairman gets here . . .” He pulled a box from the bag to reveal a large desk fan.
“You bought a fan?”
“We wouldn’t want you melting, now would we?”
And that was it. Finally bold enough, I stood and rounded the desk in front of him, and did what I’d wanted to do for six months: I straightened his tie. I took my time, using the opportunity to right the knot and smooth the silky material down his chest.
He sucked in a breath and I waited, worried that maybe I’d crossed a line, that perhaps I’d taken this small progress we’d made and ruined it by being too forward. The silence seemed to balloon between us, stretching, growing heavier with each tick of the clock.
“Thanks for lunch,” I whispered.
“You’re quite welcome.” A tiny flicker of a smile, a flash of his dimple, and then his expression straightened and his eyes searched mine for a small eternity.
Finally—and while my pulse jackhammered in my throat—Niall took my hands, moving them up his body. I could feel his torso, the defined planes of his stomach beneath his dress shirt, and then his hard pectorals.
Now it was my turn to suck in a breath. The possibility of something happening between us had gone from an adorable little fantasy to a check mark in the Number of Times Niall Stella Ran My Hands Up His Chest column. What were we doing?
The faint scent of his cologne hung in the air, a hint of coffee and fresh paint from an office somewhere on the same floor. I leaned in slowly, my body on autopilot, my brain not even in control of the equipment anymore.
He leaned in, too: small, stuttering movements that made the space between us disappear. His nose brushed the edge of mine and I could see his eyelashes, feel his breath across my lips. I closed my eyes, not sure I could be this close to him and see these things and ever be the same again.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I asked, surprising myself as the words tumbled from my mouth.
His chest was pressed against mine, but he didn’t do what I thought he would. He pulled away just enough to meet my eyes.
“I fear I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he whispered.
He looked up from his bag, setting a folder down on his desk and looking confused. “I’m sorry?”
“A saleswoman picked out those frames. You walked into the store, she descended in milliseconds because”—I glanced down his body in a gesture meant to communicate I mean, obviously—“and she insisted on finding just the right pair for you.”
He studied me for several breaths and then lifted his gigantic, splendid Niall Stella hand to lower his glasses and asked, “What does this mean?” while repeating my gesture, his eyes on my body, his mouth suppressing a little smile.
“It means, ‘a hot man in a suit walks into a store, and he doesn’t have a wedding ring? Like a starter pistol to a greyhound.’ ”
“How do you know that when I bought these, I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring?”
He was testing me. He was amused. Holy shit, Niall Stella was still being flirty today.
“You’re suggesting my sleuth skills are subpar. That I don’t know your timeline? I thought we established early on that my creeper dial goes up to eleven.”
His eyebrow twitched in a tiny Well?
“You got those new glasses in November.” He waited for the last piece of information. The one that made me sound completely insane. “Fine,” I groaned. “You stopped wearing your ring in September.”
He laughed, putting his glasses back on and returning to his digging in the bag.
“Do you think I’m weird?” I asked, voice weaker than I’d attempted.
He nudged his glasses down his nose again, letting his eyes move over my face before murmuring, “Yes, weird in the sense that you are unexpected and I am rarely surprised by people. I think you rather exquisite.”
Exquisite? That was certainly an interesting adjective.
Before I had a chance to respond to this—and let’s be fair, it probably would have taken me a decade—he stood up straighter, grinning. “I’ve brought you something. Reckoned it was almost lunch, so . . .” He pulled a white—albeit greasy—paper bag from his chair, and lifted a hot dog from inside. Covered in regular mustard.
“You lowered yourself to my classless mustard standards,” I cooed, taking the dog happily.
“How could I deny you? You moaned through every bite yesterday.”
Only then did it occur to me how that must have sounded. “I—”
“And until the repairman gets here . . .” He pulled a box from the bag to reveal a large desk fan.
“You bought a fan?”
“We wouldn’t want you melting, now would we?”
And that was it. Finally bold enough, I stood and rounded the desk in front of him, and did what I’d wanted to do for six months: I straightened his tie. I took my time, using the opportunity to right the knot and smooth the silky material down his chest.
He sucked in a breath and I waited, worried that maybe I’d crossed a line, that perhaps I’d taken this small progress we’d made and ruined it by being too forward. The silence seemed to balloon between us, stretching, growing heavier with each tick of the clock.
“Thanks for lunch,” I whispered.
“You’re quite welcome.” A tiny flicker of a smile, a flash of his dimple, and then his expression straightened and his eyes searched mine for a small eternity.
Finally—and while my pulse jackhammered in my throat—Niall took my hands, moving them up his body. I could feel his torso, the defined planes of his stomach beneath his dress shirt, and then his hard pectorals.
Now it was my turn to suck in a breath. The possibility of something happening between us had gone from an adorable little fantasy to a check mark in the Number of Times Niall Stella Ran My Hands Up His Chest column. What were we doing?
The faint scent of his cologne hung in the air, a hint of coffee and fresh paint from an office somewhere on the same floor. I leaned in slowly, my body on autopilot, my brain not even in control of the equipment anymore.
He leaned in, too: small, stuttering movements that made the space between us disappear. His nose brushed the edge of mine and I could see his eyelashes, feel his breath across my lips. I closed my eyes, not sure I could be this close to him and see these things and ever be the same again.
“Are you going to kiss me?” I asked, surprising myself as the words tumbled from my mouth.
His chest was pressed against mine, but he didn’t do what I thought he would. He pulled away just enough to meet my eyes.
“I fear I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he whispered.
