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CHAPTER 9
GAVIN
I walk through the lobby of Margaret’s Upper East Side office building as if I own every inch of the place, from the wood-paneled walls to the exotic plants lining the walls. The security guard behind the reception desk nods to me. I’ve never seen the man before. Hell, I can’t recall the last time I visited Margaret’s office. My PR team always comes to me.
What’s my plan?
I stop in front of the elevator and press the up button. Five floors away from her lair, and I don’t have a strategy mapped out.
“Someone has a thing for cactuses,” Kayla murmurs.
I glance over at her. She’s examining the prickly lobby décor with an amused smile.
“I’m not worried about the damn cacti right now,” I say. The elevator door opens and I gesture for her to lead the way inside. “I hate not knowing what bombshell Margaret’s about to drop.”
Kayla slips her hand in mine. “I’ve got your back. What is your plan?”
“Follow my lead.”
“Said the man who announced our engagement to the police before informing me.” She brushes her long, black hair over her shoulder. With the dark lipstick and smoky eye makeup, Kayla is insanely beautiful. The black tailored skirt hugs her hips. And that pink blouse? The V-neck has played peek-a-boo with her breasts all night.
Those breasts are on the top of the do-not-touch list.
But we’re engaged. And I need to sell that fact to Margaret the minute we step out of the elevator.
I release her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. My hand travels up her shoulder, and I slip my finger under the fabric. If anyone catches us, it will look as if I’m seconds away from drawing her blouse away from her skin and peering down her shirt.
Kayla looks up at me, her lips forming a playful smile. “Do we need to add a necessary touching rule?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widen as if I’ve issued a challenge. For a second, I think she’s going to discuss the definition of “necessary touching” right here in the elevator.
“You do have a plan, don’t you?” She nods to the doors, her lips curved into a playful grin. “For when we face Margaret? Beyond slipping your hand under my shirt.”
There must have been something in those dumplings. She’s still smiling and joking despite being dragged away from her Korean feast and hauled into my publicist’s building.
Maybe she liked the kiss.
I quickly dismiss the idea. I can’t picture any woman enjoying a kiss like that.
The elevator door opens. My gaze snaps to the lobby, and I spot Margaret waiting for us. I remove my hand from Kayla’s shirt. Then I hold the elevator open and allow her to step out first.
“Margaret,” I say. “Let’s get this over with. Our dinner is waiting in the car.”
My publicist gives a curt nod and spins on her stilettos. “Follow me. We’ll talk in my office.”
Holding Kayla’s hand, I march through Margaret’s banana yellow reception area. The sleek black chair behind the wooden reception desk is unoccupied, but it is Sunday. The entry to the in-demand PR firm has a throwback décor with a mix of modern furniture. Wide, wooden floorboards offer a path away from the yellow room to the offices.
“You’re working late tonight,” I say.
Margaret stops at a glass door. In fact, the entire wall of her office is made of glass. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t like that the last time I dropped in. Also, I don’t recall the bright yellow in the office lobby.
“I like to be prepared for Monday mornings.” Margaret holds the door open and gestures for us to step inside. Windows line the far side of the rectangular space. A glass desk supported by a chrome frame stands at one end of the room. The workspace appears empty aside from a slim, silver laptop.
Margaret closes the door behind us and leads the way to a sitting area. There’s a gray couch with white cushions lining the back. On the other side of wooden coffee table stands a single gray chair.
I lead Kayla over to the couch. As I sink into the fabric, I note the blue file folder on the table.
