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Remembering what brought me to this spot, I glance out the window. Mr. Hammond owns the pavement while taking long strides toward a large black sedan—the one I need to meet him at now. Time to make my fast escape.
“Sorry, Mr. Spears. I have to run.” I gather the bag containing the cherry tart and adjust my handbag. “Duty calls.”
“Wait,” he calls from behind.
I attempt to walk away without another word as my heels make staccato clicks on the tiled floor. I reach out to grab the door handle, but Mr. Spears beats me to it. I suck at quick getaways.
“Here, at least let me get the door for you.” He pulls the handle, and I exit the store.
Outside on the sidewalk, I stop dead in my tracks when my gaze meets Mr. Hammond standing tall next to the black car. His eyes go wide as Mr. Spears places his unwelcomed hand on my lower back.
Before I can react, someone calls out from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.
“Mrs. Hammond,” the man shouts over the busy street noise, “you forgot your credit card.”
Oh, shit.
10
Tessa
Mr. Spears gasps as I take the black credit card from the bakery guy. How the hell am I going to explain this one?
“Is that Barclay Hammond’s card?” I give him a quick nod and walk as fast as my legs will carry me on the sidewalk. From across the street, Mr. Hammond peers at me with narrowed eyes, then glances between Mr. Spears and me. His jaw tightens into a knot of disapproval.
“That guy called you Mrs. Hammond. What the hell is going on?” Mr. Spears grabs hold of my arm. We’re stopped at the crosswalk, and the light tells me I can’t cross, so I’m stuck.
“Nothing, okay.” He has some nerve touching me. I shake his hand off my arm and wait for the light to change. “I just ran an errand for him.”
“Wow. You went upstairs to his office, and now you’re fetching him food in a sexy coat. Are you already working for him as his special assistant?” He ends his question with a creepy laugh.
“No.” There’s no easy or sane way to explain how I’ve found myself standing in this very spot, mainly because I don’t understand it myself. “Will you do me a big favor?”
“Maybe.” Mr. Spears’ grin relays that any agreement from him will come at a price. “What are you hiding?”
“Don’t tell Mr. Hammond I dropped off my résumé,” I beg him. I don’t want to get a job at Hammond Press because the CEO told someone to hire me. I want to earn a job on my own merit.
“I’ll act like I’ve never met you before on one account.” Mr. Spears’ attempt to make his voice sound seductive has the opposite effect, but I need his cooperation. Plus, time’s running out to get him to agree with me.
“What do you want?” I roll my eyes as the crosswalk light changes and make my way across the street with Mr. Spears at my side. I purposefully keep my eyes turned away from Mr. Hammond’s glare.
“Meet me for drinks tomorrow night.” Mr. Spears doesn’t ask, he demands.
“Okay, but only drinks.” I’d rather have a tooth pulled, but I don’t see a way around it.
“Name the time and place.” I breakout in the heebie-jeebies after Mr. Spears once again touches me, placing his hand on my lower back. Thankfully, we’re approaching the waiting town car. Mr. Hammond stands beside it, his arms crossed over his chest. His pursed lips worry me.
“Eight thirty at the Hammond Hotel.” I finish just out of Mr. Hammond’s direct earshot. I hope.
Mr. Spears leans closer to me, if that’s even possible. “See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hammond,” he whispers into my ear. His hot breath blows against my skin. How could he smell like garlic before noon? Yuck.
I need to schedule a sudden migraine tomorrow night after our first drink—or earlier.
“Hello, Barclay,” Mr. Spears addresses Mr. Hammond with an odd wave type salute and heads toward the entrance of the building without waiting for a reply, leaving me standing by Mr. Hammond holding a bag and my breath.
I crane my neck to meet Mr. Hammond’s eyes. He towers over me in a wall of Armani. How can any man be this gorgeous? I had no idea it was humanly possible until meeting him. I bite my lip to keep from sighing.
Regarding me from head to toe, Mr. Hammond opens the sedan’s door. “Be a good girl, Miss Holly, and get in,” he says in a commanding tone. So much for a warm hello.
I wonder if his sour attitude has anything to do with Mr. Spears. There didn’t seem to be anything warm and fuzzy in their interaction. I hope that’s the reason for his ticked off attitude.
