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Her head whipped in his direction. “Sweetheart?” Her brows jerked upward.
He grimaced. “Take a deep breath, Maxi,” he said, correcting his hellacious workplace faux pas. “It’ll take me less than two minutes to fix this machine. We’ll finish assembling your binders, and then I’ll have Avril work on my project. Reasonable enough?”
Since Maxi’s voice was nowhere to be found, she merely nodded.
What had rendered her speechless likely wasn’t the screeching alarm from the copier. Or the fact that more sand ran from their hourglass, much too fast, while she tried to prep for her next meeting.
Chances were damn good it was Ryan’s little term of endearment.
Sweetheart.
Oh. Fuck.
What was worse? The fact that he’d said it…
Or the fact that her stomach now did death-defying backflips on a tightrope over that one little word?
She didn’t know. And couldn’t allow herself to deliberate over any inevitable truths.
Chapter Six
Ryan found that this new work scenario was more difficult to juggle than when he’d worked complex consultation projects with NASA. Primarily because with the latter, his brain had been fully engaged, and his sole focus had been on producing projections and trajectories that kept the space program on track.
At Staci Kay Shoes, he wasn’t just evaluating the contingency plans for the manufacturing, warehousing, distributing, and shipping functions, he was completely, one hundred percent, shockingly wrapped up in Maxi.
But he tried to put it all into perspective, stick to the objectives they’d laid out. Even if he sensed that it wouldn’t be tough to get her to cave to his desires, despite the decision she’d made Monday night. Especially after their recent copy room encounter.
If she hadn’t been jerked back into reality when the machine had jammed—such unfortunate timing—he just might have been able to convince her to give work and play a go.
* * *
Taking a break from estimations and equations on Wednesday evening, Ryan met three friends for dinner and drinks at a sports bar in Baltimore Harbor. They’d also recently extricated themselves from the Dr. Elizabeth Sherman high-society circle, following Ryan’s engagement debacle, and had joined his proverbial corner.
Nathanial “Nate” Crispin was a professor in Physics at Georgetown. Theodore “Ted” Alsup was curator for one of the most prestigious museums on the East Coast and, in actuality, the entire country. And Liam Hallstead was a brilliant plastic surgeon who’d operated on two U.S. presidents, several foreign dignitaries, and a slew of celebrities.
Nate asked in a chipper tone, “How’s the shoe business, Ryan?”
Ryan chuckled. “I work with women who wear six-inch heels and short skirts. So…extremely stimulating.” Though it was only Maxi who got him worked up.
Ted gave a groan of disgruntlement. “Ship several pairs to the museum, won’t you? I’m surrounded by ankle-length skirts and blouses in drab colors of slate gray and mousy brown, along with flats…or, what do they call them now? Ballerina shoes, so I’ve heard.”
A grin touched Ryan’s lips. “You never used to complain about that. Not when you were dating Emily.” An extremely conservative sort with glasses and a tight bun.
“That does happen to be my type,” Ted admitted. “But she left me for a neurosurgeon.” He shot Liam a look. “He’s even more successful and renowned than you. What do you have to say about that?”
Liam bounced a glance back at Ryan. “Send the stilettos to my department as well. Clearly, your disposition has improved greatly since you’ve discovered women in high heels.”
“It’s not just the high heels,” Ryan said. “It’s the attitude, the confidence, the sexiness that comes with them.”
As Ryan took a long drink from his beer, he contemplated this. Then shook his head and amended, “Actually, that’s not entirely true.” A mental image of dainty Elizabeth in six-inch, siren-red stilettos popped into his mind. A mentally Photoshopped image, to be specific. Because she’d never worn a heel over two inches. So the vision in his head absolutely did not compute. “No, not every woman can pull off the style. Some just have that certain—”
“Je ne sais quoi?” Liam offered.
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“No,” Ryan said with conviction. “That certain hotness.”
“Huh,” Ted mused, apparently caught off guard by Ryan’s assessment—and his new terminology. This really wasn’t their normal topic of conversation.
