Page 49 of Letters From A Stalker

“Now tell me what happened,” I say.

His mouth curves. “Opposing counsel sent revised exhibits about half an hour ago. Nothing substantially changed, but they renumbered enough of them that the deposition binders need to be reorganized before tomorrow morning. I’ve already sent Lauren home because her daughter has a recital tonight, which leaves four binders and an unfortunately short amount of time.”

“How unfortunately short?” I ask, thinking how thoughtful of him it was to let Lauren leave when she did. She was excited about that recital since she mentioned it two weeks ago.

“Nine tomorrow morning.”

I exhale and take another drink of coffee while mentally rearranging the evening I apparently no longer have. Not that I had anything exciting planned other than maybe waterboarding my plants.

“I can get them done.”

“I know you can. That’s never really in question with you.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes my eyes lift to his again. Michael rests one forearm against the arm of the chair.

“I can stay and help. I realize my previous attempt at organizing exhibits permanently damaged your faith in my abilities, but I’m willing to work under supervision.”

“You have a dinner tonight.” I smile.

I know this because managing his files sometimes also means managing his schedule as well.

“I do.” He nods almost unnoticeably.

“Then go to your dinner. I can handle this.”

“I’m sure you can, but I’m not offering because I think you need rescuing.” The word catches my attention.

Michael seems to notice, because he pauses before continuing. “I’m offering because I’d rather spend the next few hours here with you than spend them at the dinner I’m supposed to go to.”

There’s no joke attached to it, no smile inviting me to pretend he means something else.

I lean back slightly in my chair. “Michael.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.” His expression softens, but he doesn’t look away. “I also think I’ve spent several months being so careful not to make you uncomfortable that I’ve probably made my intentions unnecessarily ambiguous. I’m fairly certain that I’d rather not insult either of us by continuing to pretend I only stop at your desk because I have questions about my calendar.”

Despite everything, a small laugh slips out of me. “I don’t actually manage your calendar.”

“Exactly, you sometimes do. Which makes some of my visits particularly difficult to justify.”

Okay, I have to hand it to him, that was smooth.

I wrap both hands back around the coffee cup and study him. “And what exactly are these intentions you've decided to clarify?”

“I'd like to take you to dinner.”

The simplicity of it catches me slightly off guard.

Michael continues before I can answer, his voice just as calm as before. “Not tonight, obviously. You're exhausted, we have four binders that need to be rebuilt, and asking you out while simultaneously ruining your evening with work would demonstrate remarkably poor judgment for someone whose profession depends on possessing it.”

“You’re also a partner here.” I remind him.

“I am.”

“And I work here.” I remind him of that too.