A slow smile spread across his face, and this close, Fletcher could see the flush of a few drinks splashing over his cheeks. “And you aren’t here to have a good time?”
Fletcher’s soggy laugh surprised even her. “No, not me.”
“I take it you’re not a party crasher?”
“Executive assistant.”
Understanding washed over his expression as he took another sip. “Hell of a job, planning a party you don’t even get to enjoy.”
The right thing to say sat idly on her tongue, dissolving like a sugar cube.I’m grateful to get to work at Cartwright Media. OrIt’s a wonderful opportunity to work with Dyer Cartwright. OrI love my job, I love my job, I love my job—the same mantra she’d been reciting to herself the last ninety mornings, praying someday she’d actually believe it.
That was the thing: Shewantedto love it. Working at Cartwright Media was her dream job. Although, she’d always imagined her days flying between shooting locations, traveling the world with a cameraaround her neck, and seeing her name printed next to dazzling photographs of far-off places inJet-Settermagazine. Instead, she was micromanaging a billionaire CEO who had called her Francesca at least three times in as many weeks.
Which was probably why what she actually said was: “Hell of a job is right.”
The man laughed. The sound was intoxicating. If it could be bottled, Fletcher would drink it forever. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s not—”
His cheek twitched, holding back a knowing grin.
“Okay, it’s the worst!” Fletcher admitted with a punch-drunk giggle. Tipsy by osmosis. “I want to move to a new department so I can be a…Don’t laugh, okay, but I want to be a travel photographer. Except I’m stuck in this horrible assistant job. I try so hard to be perfect, but I’m hardly able to tread water. I can’t keep anyone straight. There are about six too many Brians on the team. My boss barely knows my name. I’m so busyIbarely even know my name.”
She hadn’t said it out loud to anyone before.
Not to Dyer, should he get it in his head that he’d be better off with a less ambitious assistant who was happy to spend her days schlepping paperwork and planning charity galas. Not Kent, who would love nothing more than to hear how miserable the city made her, how delightfully not cut out for the Big Apple she was, and use it as ammunition to reel her back to the farm. And she certainly didn’t make a habit of telling handsome strangers in coat closets her innermost thoughts.
He didn’t laugh or lower his eyes with pity. All he said was, “And what is your name?”
“Fletcher Spence.”
His gaze softened. “You could do it, Fletcher Spence.”
Fletcher’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “Do what?”
“Move to a new department. Become a photographer. Get everything you want.”
There was something so genuine in his words that she believed him. It warmed her up, head to toe, like she’d downed the last of his bourbon. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember the last time someone truly believed in her.
Some magnetic pull dragged Fletcher deeper into the man’s orbit. He smelled like liquor and leather, tobacco and pine. His hand rested on her hip. Not too low, but not too high. Steadying. For a fraction of a second, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
He read her thoughts like the morning paper. Leaning down, tilting his head, splitting his lips. A breath apart. Maybe less.
Before the first brush, Fletcher arched back and blurted, “Wait! I’m sorry. I—I have a boyfriend.”
The man’s head cocked, but he stepped away. Studying her. This time, when he laughed, it was a cold wind. Sheepishness instantly replaced by stinging nettles. “Right. Of course.”
What had she been thinking? Shehadn’tbeen thinking. That was the problem. This job had reduced her brain to a fine pulp. “I can’t do—whatever this is. I love him.”
Didn’t she?
“Kind of like how you love your job?”
“Excuse me?”
A challenge manifested in the square of the man’s shoulders, the set of his jaw. “You’re crying in a closet, working a job you hate, and where’s he?”
Nebraska, Fletcher thought with a grimace, hating the pinch of bitterness. Her skin prickled beneath her rental dress where the man’s touch had glanced. Her tone turned defensive as she said, “You don’t know him, and you don’t know me.”
