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He did his best to be present for team birthdays, but would usually grab one slice of cake and then go. Yet he’d seen she was struggling, standing there as if not knowing quite what to do instead of blowing out the candles and slicing. So he’d moved things along. She’d sounded surprised by the direction in conversation.
It had quickly become evident that cutting cake wasn’t one of Beatrice’s talents; in fact her knife skills were so bad that Tobias had relieved her of cutting duties. But at least Julius had managed to scoop up one of Beatrice’s attempts—a big slice—and then watched as she’d deflected questions.
Beatrice, Julius had found out, revealed nothing about herself.
Ever.
He made small talk with strangers, was skilled in negotiations, but he’d got nowhere with Beatrice. She was impenetrable.
Beatrice had not brightened either the walls of her office or her desk with personal touches. Whether she worked upstairs in his main offices or down here, everything personal was returned to that vast bag at the end of the day and no traces were left.
She didn’t wear perfume; in fact, her choice of soap and shampoo was even a little carbolic in nature. Like...antiseptic.
Warding off germy men?he mused.
But then this morning he’d found out that she didn’t dance.
And that sometimes she cried.
He read women, adored women—that was the reason she was here, after all—and a lot of his time was spent deflecting advances—hopefully nicely.
Beatrice had made no advances.
And nor would he.
She was staff, so of course it was impossible. Though that would be remedied in three long weeks—and he would be away for one of those, thank God.
Also, he did not want to add to the poor opinion she clearly had of him, or be like those creeps she had worked for in the past.
Plus, soon his bride would be chosen.
Ah, that!
What had always been a necessary duty now felt like a weight—a weight he would like to discard, at least for a night.
Preferably with the woman hired to clean up his image.
He’d seen how she held herself back from all the team; she even ate lunch at the lake instead of in the staffroom with everyone else.
She’d revealed nothing.
Not a sign, nor a clue.
And then, out of the blue, she’d denied him cake...
‘I do.’
It hadn’t been the words—nor even the delivery.
And no one else had seemed to hear it quite as he had.
Oh, they had no doubt heard her teasing tone alongside her usual assertiveness, because they had laughed. And yet no one had seemed to catch what was bubbling beneath the surface.
The shell of his ear had felt as if she had just leaned in and whispered a promise.
Those two words had hit him where it should hurt, and yet they had felt at light and as potent as the stroke of an intimate finger—so much so that he had felt himself tighten in response.
He was rarely mistaken. She’d made no further advance, given no other clue, and yet healmostknew.
