I wondered what she was cooking tonight for dinner.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear the office door open until a distinctly male voice said, “Sorry for the wait, please come in.”
I bolted to my feet in surprise. Did I have the wrong office? I checked the cubicles—the brown-haired workaholic intern cramming ARCs into envelopes to the left, the HR director sobbing into his salad on the right—no, this was definitely the right office.
The man cleared his throat, impatiently waiting.
I hugged the cactus so tight to my chest, I could feel the pot beginning to creak with the pressure, and stepped into his office.
And froze.
The man in question sat in the leather chair that for thirty-five years (longer than he’d been alive, I figured) Tabitha Margraves had inhabited. The desk, once cluttered with porcelain knickknacks and pictures of her dog, was clean and tidy, everything stacked in its proper place. The desk reflected the man behind it almost perfectly: too polished, in a crisp white button-down shirt that strained at his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal rather intimidatingly sexy forearms. His black hair was swept back out of his long face and somehow accentuated his equally long nose, black square glasses perched on it, and there were very faint freckles speckled across his face: one by his right nostril, two on his cheek, one just above his thick right eyebrow. A constellation of them. For a second, I wanted to take a Sharpie and connect them to see what myth they held. The next second, I quickly came to the realization that—
Oh.
He was hot. And I’d seen him before. At publishing functions with Rose or my ex-boyfriend. I couldn’t place the name, but I’d definitely run into him more than once. I held my breath, wondering if he recognized me—didhe?
For a second, I thought so, because his eyes widened—just a fraction, just enough for me to suspect he knewsomething—before it vanished.
He cleared his throat.
“You must be Ann Nichols’s assistant,” he greeted without missing a beat. He stood and came around the desk to offer his hand. He was...enormous.So tall I felt like I’d suddenly been transported into a retelling of “Jack and the Beanstalk” where he was a very hunky beanstalk that I really,reallywanted to climb—
No. No, Florence. Bad girl, I scolded myself.You do not want to climb him like a tree, because he’s your new editor and therefore very, incredibly,stupendouslyunclimbable.
“Florence Day,” I said as I accepted his hand. His almost completely enveloped mine in a strong handshake.
“Benji Andor, but you can call me Ben,” he introduced.
“Florence,” I repeated, shocked that I could mutter anything above a squeak.
The edges of his mouth quirked up. “So you said.”
I quickly pulled my hand away, mortified. “Ohgod. Right—sorry.” I sat down a little too hard in the uncomfortable IKEA chair, cactus planted firmly on my knees. My cheeks were onfire, and if I could feel them, I knew that he could see I was blushing.
He sat down again and adjusted a pen on his desk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sorry for the wait, the subways were hell this morning. Erin keeps telling me not to take the B train and yet I am a fool who does every single time.”
“Or a masochist,” I added before I could stop myself.
He barked a laugh. “Maybe both.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to hide a smile. He had a great laugh—the kind that was deep and throaty, like a rumble.
Ohno, this was not going as planned at all.
He liked me, and he wasn’t going to like me in about five minutes. I didn’t even like myself for what I was here to do—why did I think acactusas a gift would make this easier?
He scooted his chair in and straightened a pen to be horizontalwith his keyboard. Everything was neat like that in this office, and I got the very distinct feeling that he was the kind of person who, if he found a book misplaced at a bookstore, would return it to the shelf where it belonged.
Everything had its place.
He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.
That might’ve been a good thing, actually. He seemed very no-nonsense, and no-nonsense people were rarely romantic, and so I wouldn’t get a pitying look when I, eventually, tell him that I no longer believed in romance novels and he would nod solemnly, knowingexactlywhat I meant. And I would rather havethatthan Tabitha Margraves looking at me with those sad, dark eyes and asking, “Why don’t you believe in love anymore, Florence?”
Because when you put your hand in the fire too many times, you learn that you only get burned.
My new editor shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry to hear that Mrs. Nichols couldn’t make it today. I would’ve loved to meet her,” he began, wrenching me from my thoughts.