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But this feels like a fun secret.
My fingers move to the top button of my shirt. “I should make it show more, right? So people will see? That’s the point.”
He stops my fumbling fingers by gently but firmly grabbing my wrists and lowering them to my sides.
I feel captured and restrained, in the most delicious way.
How the hell can he make me feel like this with just a touch?
“It’s not about showing off the gifts themselves,” Gage says, his voice low and smooth. “It’s about how the gifts make you feel.That’swhat we need to show people.”
My heart picks up.
And then he releases my wrists and steps back. He grabs his coffee and winks, pure mischief lurking at the edge of his mouth.
Then Gage is gone.
I grip the counter for support, feeling a little light-headed. I’ve got the discomforting impression that I’m about to see an entirely new side of Gage.
And I don’t think I’m ready.
* * *
The next giftarrives halfway through the morning, dropped off by a delivery man who’s better dressed than me. When I open the flat, black glossy box, I gasp.
It’s a set of paintbrushes. From my favorite brand.
I take a brush out and carefully run my finger back and forth over the soft, soft bristles. I’ve never had a full set before. I just buy the ones I’ll use most in my work and wait as long as humanly possible before replacing them.
Is this what swooning feels like? I think I might be swooning.
Peggy wanders by. “Hey, do you want to do lunch again today?” Then she spots the open box on my desk and lowers her voice. “Are those from the secret boyfriend?”
Without meaning to, my eyes flick toward Gage’s office.
How did he know this was my brand? Did he check my art supplies when I wasn’t looking?
Peggy’s still waiting for an answer.
I nod, unable to stop my blush.
The gifts don’t stop there.
There are two tickets to my favorite band, which is playing in town next week. Their show has been sold out formonths.I’m shocked and excited but confused by how Gage could possibly know they’re my favorite—until I remember a moment from my brother’s wedding five years ago. I’d interrupted Tom and Gage’s conversation to demand Tom come out and dance because my favorite song was playing.
That was so long ago, And Gageremembered?
My desk phone rings. It’s Gage’s line.
My heart skips a beat as I answer. “Yes?”
“The notes you took yesterday at the meeting were horrific. A drunk chicken would have taken more useful notes. Wilson’s assistant was there, yes? Get her notes. And then have her teach you how to take downrelevantinformation. I don’t pay you to keep a record of how ugly Wilson’s tie was.”
I purse my lips. “I acknowledge, I could edit better, but I think you’ll find all the relevant information is there—”
“It’s not. Fix it. Do better.”
I try not to huff. “Anything else?”
