I turned near the elevators.
Sandra from legal administration hurried down the hall with a folder pressed against her chest. She was pretty and always smelled faintly expensive, which I associated with people who could afford fancy perfume. I’d seen her around the office for years, but we’d never had a conversation longer than a minute.
“Sorry,” she said, smiling up at me. “Do you have a second?”
“Sure, no problem.”
She stepped closer and opened the folder, though not quite enough for me to see anything useful. “I just had a few questions about the vendor filings from last quarter. I know you’re probably the only person who can explain what Martin actually meant in his notes.”
“That sounds like Martin.”
She laughed, touching my forearm lightly. “Exactly.”
The touch would have been friendly, if it hadn’t lingered longer than was appropriate. I looked down at her fingers, and my brain, which had been functioning reasonably well all day, immediately betrayed me.
Winnie’s hands had been cool against my neck.
Winnie’s fingers had curled into my shirt when I kissed her.
Winnie had made this small, breathless sound when I touched her thigh, and I had thought about it so many times since then that I was beginning to worry I’d permanently damaged some section of my brain reserved for normal adult behavior.
Sandra was still talking. I had no idea what about.
“Right,” I said, because that seemed safe.
Her smile widened.
Apparently,rightwas not safe.
“I figured you’d know,” she said. “You always seem so in control.”
That was funny enough that I almost laughed.
In control.
If she only knew that, between stress over the break-in, I’d spent the past week thinking about kissing my nanny against the kitchen counter while my kids’ aunt brought them home from an amusement park with truly catastrophic timing.
I cleared my throat. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Oh, come on.” Sandra shifted closer, angling the folder between us like a prop. “Everyone says you’re the person to go to when things get complicated.”
Her hand brushed my sleeve again. This time, there was no mistaking it. She was flirting with me. Some part of me was flattered.
I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t made of stone. I had spent years being mostly invisible as a man in any romantic sense, reduced in my own mind to father, widower, executive, provider. Having an attractive woman look at me like I was still worth wanting should have felt amazing.
It did, a little. But mostly, it made me want to go home.
Sandra tilted her head. “You okay? You seem distracted.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. Too quickly.
Her smile turned knowing.
Oh no.
She thought I was flustered because ofher.
Technically, I was flusterednearher. The cause was fully absent from the building and probably explaining to my youngest child why moths were not night butterflies with secrets.
