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“You too,” I squeaked.
I couldn’t end the call fast enough. I dove onto my bed, found the still-buzzing device under the covers, shoved it firmly between my thighs, and rode out the rest of my frustration with Neil’s voice still ringing in my head.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Number of days since last awkward interaction with Neil: Twelve.
It was a new record as far as I was concerned. Ever since the, ahem, package incident, we had somehow managed to coexist in a state of relative normalcy. We’d had meetings, discussions, even the occasional shared lift ride, all without a single blush-inducing moment. It was a miracle!
But as I watched Neil emerge from his office, preparing to head to a one-on-one meeting with the mayor of Auckland, I knew my streak was about to come to a crashing halt.
There, right in the centre of his usually impeccable suit, was a gaping wardrobe malfunction.
Oh no.
He was just steps away from the door, exuding his aura of confident authority.
My internal alarm bells chimed. I couldn’t let Neil walk into his meeting like that. I had to say something. “Neil!”
He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and raised an eyebrow at me. “Yes?”
“Your...” I gestured towards his midsection, hoping he’d get the hint.
He frowned. “What?”
“It’s... um...” Heat rose in my face.
His eyebrow inched higher. “Spit it out, Amelia. I have a meeting to get to.”
I took a deep breath and blurted it out. “Your fly is undone!”
The words hung in the air between us. Neil’s eyes widened for a split second before his face settled into a stoic mask. He glanced down, confirming my observation, then turned away from me and zipped himself up.
“Thank you,” he said curtly. “I appreciate your... attentiveness.” He winced slightly.
With that, he turned and strode out of the office, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my face burning.
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled to the empty room.
Number of days since last awkward interaction with Neil: Zero.
By lunch time, the embarrassment of the fly incident still hadn’t worn off. I hoped getting outside might help to clear my mind, so I walked to Saint Patrick’s Square to eat my lunch in the pretty surroundings of the cathedral.
The weather was crisp and clear. A water fountain trickled down the levels of a tiered garden. I settled on a bench along the perimeter of the manicured lawn. I had just taken one bite of my sandwich when my phone began to ring. I scrambled to retrieve it from my bag, wondering who it could be. I nearly choked on my mouthful when I saw the caller ID. Barry Douglas—my landlord. The last person I wanted to speak to on my lunch break. It was never good news when he called.
I braced myself. “Hello, Amelia speaking.”
“Hi, it’s Barry here.” His gruff voice sounded even more brash than I remembered. “I’m calling about my property—the apartment in Newmarket.”
“Yes?”
“The thing is, I have a relative I’d like to move in there as soon as possible.”
My head spun. “Move in… to my apartment?”
“That’s right.”
Reality sank in and settled at the pit of my stomach. “Are you giving me my notice?”
