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Devon hesitated, for a whole host of reasons. She was still feeling off balance from the sizzling kiss they’d shared. Monty’s warning about Blake’s trustworthiness—or lack thereof—was still ringing in her head. And she still wasn’t sure how much of Blake’s interest in her was real and how much of it was part of Edward Pierson’s grand plan.
“I don’t know,” she replied, ducking the invitation. “It’s been a pretty crazy week. I’m really dragging—”
“Too much sledding? Or too much, too soon?” he interrupted.
“Both.” She abandoned evasiveness and went straight for honesty. “I’ve got a demanding career. I’m not used to nonstop social engagements topping off my hectic workdays. I’m also not used to being on acute emotional overload from so many different sources at once.”
“And I’m one of those sources.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I know I got to you.”
Silence.
“If it makes you feel better, you got to me, too,” he added.
Yes, it made her feel better. She wished it didn’t.
“I have to go, Blake
. I’ve got patients waiting. And you’ve got a business to run.”
“Fair enough.” Clearly, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Here’s the deal. I’ll let you off the hook for tonight. But tomorrow’s Friday. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I’m working Saturday.”
“So am I. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s the weekend. We need some downtime.”
“Downtime,” Devon repeated, her tone amused. “Let me guess—a rematch of our snowball fight?”
“Nope. A quiet evening at home for two tired workaholics. I’ll cook. I make a mean poached salmon with dill sauce.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Uh-uh. I’m a man of many talents. So, do we have a date?”
“Yes.” She gave up and gave in. “We have a date.”
BLAKE WAS PLEASED with the way his morning had started.
The call to Devon had opened on an ambiguous note and closed on a positive one. With any luck, the rest of the day would go as well.
He left his car in the parking garage and headed up Fifty-fourth Street to the office. Entering the building through the revolving doors, he nodded at the security guards, then strode through the lobby to the elevators.
He stepped out on the twenty-seventh floor, the executive level of Pierson & Company. The place was dark. Not a surprise, given it was 7:20A.M. He made his way through the corridor. The light sensors picked up his presence, illuminating each section of hallway as he crossed it. He was the first one in. That wasn’t unusual. Not since Frederick’s death.
Instinctively, he shot a passing glance at his uncle’s office. It was dark. Barren. Seeing it that way still felt surreal. Somehow Blake half expected Frederick to be hunkered down at his desk, making phone calls or reviewing sales projections.
Shoving aside the thought, Blake continued on to his own office, where he dropped off his briefcase and scanned the contents of his desk. His “Priority To Do” pile was sky-high. Plus, after yesterday’s incident at Wellington, there’d be damage control to initiate.
He headed down the hall and around the bend, his destination the kitchenette, his goal a cup of strong, black coffee.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Philip Rhodes’s office and came to a surprised halt. The door was tightly closed. That was unusual. Rhodes worked long hours, but was never in before seven thirty. He was a creature of habit. Early mornings were spent at the gym.
The guy must really be sweating it, Blake thought grimly. He’d been a wreck ever since Frederick’s murder. Not that he blamed him. Keeping James on track had been hard enough before. Now it was brutal. And after yesterday’s fiasco at the Gold Coast Classic…
Drawing a sharp breath, Blake put his coffee quest on hold and headed toward Rhodes’s office. They had some details to iron out regarding Chomping at the Bit. Now was as good a time as any.
