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“She—uh—she stepped out. What can I do for you?”
“Hunh. Really? She texted me like ten minutes ago, and I have to talk to her about Leo Stanley’s travel plans. I’m Leo’s PA.”
“Wait…” I search my brain. Please, work. Even though I’m running on a mere four hours of sleep, the name surfaces. “Are you Tate?”
“That’s me.” He sounds relieved. “You said you’re…?”
“Gwen. Gwen Temple. I’m in Shipping and Customer Care here, covering for Mandy for a sec. This is about the March trip to Florida, correct?”
“That’s right. I’m checking out that flight for Leo, but first class is booked. I wish Mandy had gotten me the itinerary earlier. The best I can think of right now is to get them both on the one p.m. departure. It’d put them down in Florida two hours later, but at least they’d travel together.”
“The one o’clock? Okay, I think—er…”
Why me? Why is this happening to me?
I swallow down fear as Brock’s eyes drill into me.
“I think I could… um…” My cheeks burn. My palms feel sweaty. I am not flying under any radars at this moment.
I am front and center, and I hate it.
Luckily, I remember what Mandy said about how Brock dislikes being asked about his schedule. I gulp down a lump of anxiety and bite my lip. “Hang on, Tate, let me check his schedule and see if that might work. Then I can call the airline and have his flight changed.”
My fingertips tremble as I swipe through the tablet’s clutter of apps, looking for Brock’s schedule. When I find it, I scroll down to March to make sure the later departure would work, and then I talk with Tate for another moment. The airline is one I’m familiar with, and I feel pretty sure they’ll be okay with the change.
When I hang up, I jot down the new flight number on a Post-it, along with a reminder to call the airline.
I’m stalling.
I don’t want to look at Brock.
I have to, though. I have to explain the situation.
Please, don’t fire me for calling you a monster, I pray. “Um… Mr. Benson?” I offer. My eyes are still glued to the pink Post-it note that I’m smooshing to the side of my computer.
These are the first words I’ve ever spoken to Brock.
And now I’m about to hear his first words to me.
After six whole years.
He parts his lips. The words come out in a low, simmering, frustrated rumble from deep in his core. “Who are you, and where is Amanda Lackey?”
Chapter 3
Brock
The timid woman holding my executive assistant’s cell phone stares at me blankly.
Is she awake?
She appears to have just rolled out of bed. Her auburn hair falls in messy waves around her face.
Her wide, blue-green eyes peer up at me as if I’m an ogre, with a third eye on my forehead.
Or, worse, a demon with actual horns.
I’m not a demon.
