Page 19 of Married to Lies

Just in case, I spritzed a little bit of my travel perfume on my neck and wrists.

Checking my phone again, I realized my five minutes were up.

I rushed to the door, but tried to appear casual as I walked out so Quentin wouldn’t see me squirm.

But when I stepped out and saw the table empty, squirm is exactly what I did.

I hurried toward the Caf, booties clacking over the hard marble floor. Quentin was already halfway to the elevators, so I called out, “Hey, stalker!”

Everyone’s heads turned, and then, finally, Quentin’s did too.

For the first time, I saw his lips twitch into what could be considered a real smile. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. Butterflies danced in my stomach like that was all the fuel they needed.

Instead of walking toward me, he strolled back to the table and sat down, hands clasped in front of him. His brow arched as if to say, I’m waiting.

My lips spread on their own accord, and I stuffed back my nerves and those no-longer-dormant butterflies as I walked toward him.

His gaze traveled over my body, stalling on the skirt for just a moment before tripping back up to my eyes. My skin warmed under his attention.

When I reached the table, he said, “You weren’t wearing that earlier.”

“No, ‘hello’?” I asked.

“I think we’re past that.” He stood and raised his hand to get Dom the barista’s attention. Poor guy was staring at us with the most confused look on his face.

“Dirty chai,” Quentin ordered.

I stared at him. “You know my drink order? You are a stalker.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. It shouldn’t have been so endearing.

“What else do you know about me?” I prompted.

“I’d like to know more,” he said eventually.

I watched him for a moment. It seemed like every word he said left me with more questions, and yet he wasn’t an open book, spilling words of explanation across blank pages. He was a diary kept carefully locked with a hidden key.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

“Thousands,” I admitted, sliding into the chair across from him. Up close, I picked up on more about him, like the curl of his eyelashes, the way his dark eyes mirrored every bit of light around us. The clean line of his facial hair, like it was carefully maintained instead of a messy afterthought.

He leaned in too, and I caught a hint of his cologne. God, he smelled good.

“Why don’t you start with one question?” he suggested.

“Why have you been writing to me?” I blurted.

“I didn’t have your email address.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking. So I pressed on to the next question. “Why me?”

It sounded insecure the second it passed my lips, and maybe it was. After all, I was just the cleaning staff to him. Always in a worn jumpsuit, head bent over a stain, reaching for a trash can to empty. Hidden behind a bulky cleaning cart. Objectively, there were more attractive women here dressed to the nines in designer clothes tailored to accentuate their best features. They had hair perfectly done, makeup painted across features enhanced by surgeries or Botox or both.

Quentin rolled his lips together, thinking for a long moment while I held my breath in anticipation of his answer. He leaned closer yet, shoulders hulking over the table, suit sleeves pulling back to reveal hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold adorning his wrists and fingers. “I wrote to you because it couldn’t be anyone else.”

“You talk in riddles,” I accused.

His lips twitched again as he flicked his gaze toward the table, then looked up at me with gorgeous dark-brown eyes. “I wrote to you because you’re the first person in this building to walk past my assistant and treat him like more than a barrier to get to me.