Page 72 of Auctioned To Be Mine

“That’s because you’re human.” She finished her croissant and I saw her eyeing the other pastry. I pushed the bag toward her. She grinned and picked it up. “You’re allowed to be distracted. You’re allowed to want something outside of work. That’s not failure. That’s just life.”

She took another bite, chewed and swallowed while I sat mulling over her words.

“Whatever this is between us,” she said. “We should both be careful not to let our personal lives bleed into our work. We’ve both got too much riding on the next few weeks.”

“Completely agree,” I said.

“Good.” She nodded once, like the conversation was over. Decision made. “On that note, I need to get back to this proposal.”

“Right. Can I hang out if I don’t talk to you? You won’t know I’m here.”

She grinned. “Absolutely.”

I stood and moved to the couch with my coffee.

She started typing and I was a good boy and completely quiet for all of two minutes.

“So the thing about the auction timeline,” I said.

She didn’t look up. “Callum.”

“I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Think quietly.”

Another minute of silence. I stretched my legs out and looked at the ceiling. She was typing steadily now. I should go home. My presence was not helping her meet her deadline. But I didn’t want to sit at home alone. Her place was small. Cozy. I tried to imagine her living a life of luxury. It just didn’t fit. Her apartment didn’t fit either.

I got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. On the way back I passed behind her chair and caught a glimpse of the screen. She had a solid paragraph going. Good. Progress. Maybe she’d be done soon and we could hang out.

I put my hand on her shoulder without thinking. And then I got an idea. I started to move my hands over her shoulders, gently pushing my thumb into the muscle at the base of her neck. She exhaled audibly. I rubbed outward, feeling the tension in her shoulders relax just a bit.

“That’s not fair,” she said.

“You’re tense.”

“I’m working.”

I pressed the knots I could feel even through the sweatshirt. “Keep typing. I’m not stopping you.”

She lasted about forty-five seconds before her head dropped forward.

“This is sabotage,” she said.

“Work. You’re supposed to be working. You’ve got a proposal to do. I’m just providing support.”

She made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. I worked my way up the back of her neck and she went very still.

“I’m going to finish this,” she said.

She tilted her head to one side and I followed the line of her neck with my thumbs. She reached up and put her hand over mine. I thought she was going to move it away, but she didn’t.

She turned her head and looked up at me. The highlighter fell out from behind her ear and landed on the keyboard.

“You’re a problem, Mr. Blackwell.”

I laughed. “Never.”

I leaned down, kissed her neck, and then walked back to the couch. The tapping on the keyboard picked up again. I pulled out my phone and did some scrolling. Chantilly’s face was all over my social media feed. We ran in similar circles and there was no getting away from it. I was so glad I’d dodged that bullet.