“Yup, got it. You look freaking amazing. Seriously, good choice.” She pauses, and I hear the smile in her voice as she asks, “So. . . Have you thought about any baby names yet?”
“No, not yet. I haven’t really had the chance to talk to Lyle about it. I kind of promised his sister I’d give him some space so he could focus here.”
“You what?” She lets out a loud grunt, and I can hear her grind her teeth. “Why the hell would you tell her that?”
I can’t tell her the truth. I don’t want to get into it right now. “I don’t know, she said he’s been distracted, and I thought—”
“No, you don’t take orders from her. She might be your boss, but that doesn’t mean she can rule your entire life. You do what you want. He’s the father of that baby, you two have a lot to figure out.”
Kira says it with such conviction that I know she’s right. I know it, but I still feel like I don’t really have any control over this situation.
I can hear the music, the soft violin and deep cello swirl together, making its way down to the street. Looking up, there’s a figure in one of the windows.
Broad shoulders, striking jaw line, thick arms, and a powerful stance. I can’t see a clear face, but I don’t need to. There’s no doubt in my mind who it is.
His silhouette is unmistakable, just like his touch is unforgettable.
I can feel him as he watches me cross the street and walk to the front entrance. His eyes are on me the entire time, every step of the way.
“Kira, I got to go. I’ll text you later.” Hanging up the phone, I run my hands down the front of my dress and take a big breath.
It’s fine. We’ll be professional. This is work.
I’ve been doing my best to give Lyle space, to let him get control of the stuff here, and not overwhelm him with any baby talk. We’ll get there, he just needs a couple weeks, and then things will settle down.
At least that’s what Sandy promised. She said it’s busy season, and Lyle will be all mine very soon. But until then, his head needs to be on business, not on me.
And she threatened your career, so there’s that too. . .
Pushing away any nerves I feel, I walk into the room like I own it myself. The clients I’ve been working with are all happy, drinking and laughing. And I laugh with them, doing my best to not seem distracted by Lyle and this pregnancy.
I want them all to think that they’re on the top of my list, that their projects are all I think about. It’s how I make them feel special, something I don’t think this company is very good at.
I bet it’s been the issue all along. That’s the reason most of their clients are one and done.
I catch Lyle out of the corner of my eye, he’s still watching me. Nothing’s changed at all with him. His eyes fuck me where I stand, and my body ignites, getting wet when I don’t want it to.
My client James cracks a joke, so I pretend to find it funny, doing what I can to ignore Lyle completely.
But it’s hard to ignore a man that looks so good. Wearing a jet black suit that looks like it was made for his body. It captures every essence that makes him a man. The way it holds his muscles, trapping them like a rogue shark in a net. They bulge and throb, thickening with every movement, threatening to split the threads.
Lyle is power.
He is dominance.
He is perfection.
The skin on his face is smooth, there’s no hint of a five o’clock shadow. There’s a sheen of aftershave glistening as the lights hit his flesh. My thighs clench, ready and eager to feel just how smooth his face is.
His eyes are crisp, clear, and vivid. Staring directly into my soul as he smiles and taps his glass against another gentleman’s I’ve seen around the office. His smile isn’t directed at the man, it’s directed at me.
Stalking across the room, he starts to move in my direction. He walks with strength, his legs long and firm. The people in the room split as he moves through, giving him clear passage as if they don’t have the right to stand in front of him.
It’s intimidating and incredible to watch. You can actually feel the energy.
He stops in front of me, his eyes licking up and down my body. “You look amazing, Dalia,” he says, tilting his head as his eyes gleam.
“Thanks,” I say, bashfully looking away. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” He tips his glass in my direction and throws back the rest of his drink. Hissing as the scotch burns the back of his throat, he sets his glass down on a passing waiter’s tray and snatches up a flute of champagne. “It’s a night for celebrating.”