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I check the time on my monitor: 8.17p.m.
Seems a little late for a business call.
“Who? And how many times have I told you not to stay late when I’m here after hours?”
She waves me off. “I was about to leave. Should I let him in?”
“Who?” I ask again.
She points her thumbs toward the door. “Gabriel Mercer. He just walked in and he’s asking to see you.” She sounds and looks flustered, not to mention the violent blush her cheeks still haven’t had time to recover from. I’m not sure if I should laugh or despair.
“He’s behind that door?” I mouth-whisper.
Tilly nods vigorously.
I sigh, shaking my head. I can’t pretend to be out of the office at this point. And the man is implacable anyway. He would probably just come back tomorrow. Maybe I should change his title to the Relentless Gabriel Mercer. But the truth is, I want to see him. He ignored me all day and it worked. I’m like an eager puppy wagging her tail.
I wave at the door. “Let him in.”
Tilly pushes the door wide open and remains at attention to the side. A few seconds later and Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor walks into my office. White shirt rolled up at the elbows, suit jacket casually tossed over his shoulder, a paper bag in his other hand. After a long day, he looks slightly less put-together. But even small imperfections work in his favor. The crinkle around his eyes, tingle-inducing. His wrinkled, rolled-up shirt, a window to uber-sexy forearms. The disheveled hair, an invitation to smooth it over.
“Good evening.” He unleashes a devastating smile on the room that I’m not sure Tilly can withstand. My secretary is leaning on the door for support, her cheeks back to a flaming red.
“Gabriel, what a surprise. Are you here for a late evening class? Got rid of the lactic acid already?”
He frown-winces in a way that’s too cute for anyone’s good. “Actually, no. It’s still very painful to move.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure, then?”
He dangles the paper bag in his hands. “You wouldn’t say yes to dinner out, so I brought dinner in.”
He’s pulling no punches, and I’m not sure how long I can resist the assault.
In her corner, Tilly lets out a low mumble that suspiciously sounds like an aww.
I incinerate her with a stare. “It’s okay, Tilly, I can take it from here. And please go home.”
She nods, apparently struck mute by the excessive testosterone, and flees the room, leaving me alone with MGM.
Mr. Pretty Face waits for Tilly to close the door behind her before advancing toward my desk and rather arrogantly taking a seat I didn’t offer. “Getting rid of potential eye witnesses?” he asks. “Should I be worried?”
I eye his new position. “I take it you’re staying for dinner?”
“It’s for two.”
The paper bag has no logo so I have no idea what he’s brought me. “What’s in the bag?”
“I found this great tutorial online for homemade chicken skewers with tzatziki sauce.”
Coincidentally, tzatziki is the last recipe post I made on my socials.
“Should I believe you made me dinner?”
His smirk is infuriatingly sexy. “My chef did, but that’s strictly for edibility reasons.” MGM rummages in the paper bag and takes out two round paper containers with plastic lids.
He slides one over the desk toward me.
Inside, perfectly grilled chicken skewers are arranged over a bed of greens and prettily cut veggies with a small bowl of tzatziki sauce on the side. It looks like a box of takeout from a Michelin-star restaurant.
