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“I can’t wear athleisure gear for speaking engagements,” he protested. “That’s a little too casual.”
“Hmm.” I glanced up at him from the online catalog of samples he’d shown me on the company intranet. “Do you still run? We could get some shots of you exercising before one of the events, especially if it’s somewhere iconic that will get good play with people who recognize landmarks in the background.”
Thatcher’s eyebrows lowered. “You know I run?”
Busted.
“I mean, I sort of vaguely remember you doing that up in Honeybridge.” I shrugged like I hadn’t made it my business to know how Thatcher spent every waking moment of his day last summer. “I think I saw you on the lake trail once.” I cleared my throat. “So, can we have the office overnight us some of this?”
“Of course. I’m not sure what the flu situation in the mailroom is, but certainly someone can get them to us.” He moved around to sit next to me in the booth so he could look over my shoulder at the selections, and holy fuck, the scent of him wrapped around me again, making me light-headed.
I wanted to lean back into his body heat. I wanted to turn my head and feel the rough scratch of his stubble against my cheek. I wanted?—
“That one looks good,” he said in a low murmur. I closed my eyes and let the sound move through me before I realized what I was doing.
“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Yup. On it. Copying the item number, pasting the item number on our wish list. Click. Done.”
Shut up.
“That one’s kind of nice also. It would go with the running tights I brought.”
Thatcher in running tights. Check. Check. Check.
“Got it.” I clicked again to make sure it was added to the list.
He reached a hand out to point to the screen, brushing against my shoulder with his chest. “What about that pullover? It’s going to be cold in Aspen.”
“Vail,” I corrected absently. “And, uh. Yeah. That’s… that one’s good.”
Thatcher turned to face me. His lips were only inches from my skin, and his eyes were close enough to differentiate his eyelashes. One of them was lighter than the rest and curved slightly in the wrong direction. “What do you want?”
“Me?” I blinked at him. Did he want the whole laundry list of what I wanted? Because I would prefer to start with a kiss, but?—
He nodded. I couldn’t help but notice his Adam’s apple in the center of his stubbled throat. “I think you should get a pullover, but it’s up to you, really. You should have something, though. You represent the company, too. We can include you in the photos, too, so they’re not all of me.” His eyes bobbed to my mouth before he blinked three times and then quickly shifted out of the booth. “Anyway, send that list to January, and she’ll see to it.”
As soon as he returned to his side of the table, he was all business again.
I followed his lead and got back to work, forcing myself to focus on the emails I wanted to draft to a small list of influencers I’d targeted for this response campaign.
By the time we stopped to pick up McGee’s replacement driver and eat a late dinner, things were back to being whatever the relationship equivalent was to business casual again.
Which was fine.
Incredibly, sufficiently, thoroughly fine.
I was being professional. I was being polite.
And if Thatcher’s voice saying, “I trust you, Reagan,” was the background to most of my dreams, that was no one’s business but mine.
* * *
“Ready for your interview?” I asked Thatcher the following day as we moved past the exhibits at the Century II in Wichita, headed for the private room we’d reserved specifically for that purpose. “You’ve got your talking points, right?”
Thatcher made a grunting noise that conveyed both agreement and disapproval and walked faster, forcing me to bob and weave through the noisy crowd so I could stay by his side. I’d never been to Wichita before that I could recall, but apparently, Kansans loved textiles. I hadn’t seen a mob like this since Gaga had played Dodger Stadium.
“Look, I know you don’t like small talk, but you do it well,” I insisted. “You had the whole table hanging on your every word at lunch, and the interview will go well, too. Chris Acton’s a good journalist—hardworking and fair.”
I didn’t mention my own past with Chris, such as it was. Admitting to sleeping with a high-profile business reporter at one of my father’s leadership conferences last summer didn’t exactly scream “trustworthy professional,” and I was still buzzing at the idea that Thatcher trusted me to begin with. Besides, it was hardly relevant to the situation.
