“True, but I keep picturing Mr. Hammond with his clothes off. Who does that?” My face falls, causing my hair to cascade around me.
“Finally. It’s happened,” Maggie yells with glee, piercing my ear. “Don’t worry. I do that all the time when I’m attracted to a hot guy. I’ve gotten so good at imagining what’s behind their zippers, I wonder if I don’t have X-ray vision or something.”
“But we’re talking about me. Virgin Tessa here.” I’ve never tried to picture what a man has in his pants until today.
When I feel a prickle of awareness against my skin, like someone’s watching me, I quickly lift my head and blink.
Mr. Hammond leans against the door, his arms over his chest. His impassive stare gives nothing away, but his steady position tells me one thing: he’s been standing there long enough to hear what I said to Maggie.
I want to die or spontaneously combust.
“Oh, shit. He’s here,” I whisper into the phone, then end the call without waiting for her response. She’s probably laughing her ass off at my expense while I consider jumping out a window.
Since Mr. Hammond takes up the entire doorway, and also the only exit for the library, there’s only thing I can do to save my dignity: pretend the conversation with Maggie never happened. Maybe he’ll be a gentleman and pretend right along with me.
“Ready to leave?” Mr. Hammond pushes off the doorframe and slips his hands into his pockets. I can’t tell whether he heard my naughty confession, along with my sexual status. He’s an ace at the poker face.
I rise to my feet and straighten my trench coat in hopes of making it cover more of my skin. I feel so exposed under his watchful eye, it unnerves me.
“Ready,” I answer. He assesses me from head to toes as I walk toward him. My feet are unsteady once I’m by his side.
“Who were you speaking with?” he asks, tilting his head.
“That conversation wasn’t meant for your ears.” My face flushes, and saving my dignity seems impossible at this point.
I can’t even look up at him now, so I walk past him into the hallway. I hear his shoes hitting the marble floor right behind me, and I continue to the foyer, looking for Don.
“Okay, it was rude of me to eavesdrop,” he admits. Shocked, I turn to gauge the look in his eyes. Is he truly sorry?
He looks at me with a touch of irritation, and his jaw remains tight. Definitely not the soothing expression one would hope to find from a contrite confessor.
“Do you realize how embarrassing this is to me? I thought you were a gentleman, Mr. Hammond,” I scold, my hands planted on my hips.
“A gentleman? Tessa, there’s no such thing in Manhattan.” He squints his eyes at me in warning, and I want to slap him across the face. I refrain, of course, mostly because I couldn’t reach his cheeks without a stepstool.
Why do I feel this anger toward him? Maybe I want to see him without his clothes on after all. And now that he knows I’ve never slept with anyone, a man of his experience will never want me.
I hear a chuckling behind me, and spin around to see Don. He shakes his head while looking between Mr. Hammond and me.
“Looks like I interrupted a lover’s quarrel from the expressions on your faces,” Don says with a knowing smile.
“Miss Holly—” Mr. Hammond starts to speak.
“You mean Tessa. After all, she does hate being so formal with friends,” Don corrects, smirking at me. I truly love this wonderful man’s sense of humor. Somehow, he gets me.
“Yes,” Mr. Hammond huffs while running his fingers through his thick black hair. “Tessa and I need to get back to Manhattan.”
“Don’t want to keep the big city waiting.” Don waves his hands toward the front door, practically shooing us out of his house. “It’ll just leave more of the cherry tart for me. I hate to share anyway.”
“I’ll see you Saturday night,” Mr. Hammond says as he opens the front door.
“Yes. I’ll be there. And, Tessa, I hope to see you again real soon,” he says with a crooked smile, while Mr. Hammond clenches his perfect jaw.
“Me too,” I reply.
The next thing I know, Mr. Hammond has his hand on the small of my back and ushers—pushes—me out of Don’s house. He leads me toward the black town car where his driver sits behind the wheel, or more like sleeps, guessing by the angle of his head.
“Be a good girl and get in the backseat,” Mr. Hammond demands after his driver opens the passenger door for me, but my feet stay planted on the paved driveway. I’ll be a bad girl until I clear up one thing.
“You heard what I said to my friend, didn’t you, Barclay?” Calling him by his first name feels right, especially since we’re discussing my sex life, or lack thereof.