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“You’re not going to be disappointed,” I tell him. “I promise you. You’re going to see the results you’re looking for. And you’re going to know they’re because of me. Because of this moment.”
The dark eyebrow that has been arched at me this whole time is suddenly joined by its partner.
“This moment?” he repeats. “This exact moment? The moment you followed your new boss into a men’s restroom?”
The flush I can feel in my cheeks creeps farther down my neck and chest. Now that I’ve secured my position at Dynasty, I’m not so sure I’ll be able to enjoy it. Not if I die of embarrassment in this bathroom.
“Gigi will send you the details,” he says, and it’s a clear escape hatch.
I try my best to gather my dignity. “Thank you for the opportunity. I look forward to getting started at Dynasty.”
Turning quickly, I flee before he can say anything else, escaping the skewer of that molten gaze. My hands shake a bit as I gather my things back at my table and leave the little cafe.
I did it. Against all odds, I actually got the job.
Now I just have to survive it.
Chapter 9
Declan
I get home late from work all the time. But tonight, it’s so late that the security guard even looks half asleep behind the desk, jumping to attention as soon as I enter the doors, like I caught him asleep on the job.
“Welcome home, Mr. Wright,” he says, and I give him a nod as I proceed to the elevators.
My penthouse is the only property on the top floor, which is exactly how I like it. The hours I keep are too late to have any kind of relationship with my neighbors, which is also fine. I’m too busy for casual friendships.
The lights blink on as soon as the elevator doors open directly to my floor—I’m the only one with a key to access this floor—and I stride across the large open foyer, loosening my tie and unbuttoning the top few buttons of my shirt.
It’s been a long day, and I have a single goal in mind: the decanter of excellent whiskey waiting for me at the wet bar.
The polished marble floors are spotless since the cleaning staff has been here today, and although the decor may be spare, it’s my home. I’m comfortable in it. Not having a lot of shit cramming every surface actually gives my brain room to think.
I’d usually pour my whiskey over a single large cube of ice, but it’s a chilly night. I’d rather enjoy the warmth of the drink by itself. The glass is heavy crystal, and I hold it up to the lights above just to enjoy the amber glow of the liquor for a moment.
My phone rings, vibrating my hip, and I grit my teeth as I pull it out of my pocket, taking a second to register the caller ID before I answer.
“Gran? What’s wrong?”
My grandmother’s chuckle is smoky and rich. It hasn’t changed for my entire life. “Why in the hell does there have to be an emergency for me to call my favorite grandson?”
“You can call your only grandson whenever you want,” I say with a smile, crossing the room to sit in the sleek leather chair I favor. I kick off my shoes. “It’s late, Gran.”
“I’m sure you weren’t asleep.” She scoffs. “And I’m a grown damn woman. I can stay up however late I please. Nobody tells me what to do.”
“Nobody’s telling you what to do,” I point out with a smirk. “They know better.”
“Damn right.” We both laugh. “Dinner’s on Sunday, you hear me? You’re running out of excuses, so don’t waste another one. Just show up. It’s easier.”
“Only if the menu’s good,” I joke, swirling the whiskey in my glass and turning to gaze at all the lights in the city around me. It’s a great view—although these days, I’m usually enjoying it after the sun goes down.
“The menu’s always good,” my grandmother protests. “I guarantee you that you don’t have better food at work than what my chef does here.”
“You make it sound like I feed my employees expired TV dinners,” I joke, taking a sip of whiskey and feeling the muscles in my neck and shoulders warm and start to relax.
“No, no. I know you take care of them,” she says affectionately. “But I’d love to have you, if you can pull yourself away from work for an evening. You’re the CEO, sweetheart. You have employees to take care of things for you. You can afford to have dinner for one night with your poor, old, sweet gran, can’t you?”
“You’re neither poor nor sweet,” I say just to hear her tinkling laugh again. “I’ll do my best to be there. You know I will.”
