Beautiful Secret Page 8

  “How does your brother survive in a city with such meager offerings?” I teased.

  “No idea.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked, stopping him as he went to put some fancy vomit-colored mustard across the bun. It had seeds, for God’s sake.

  He blinked at me, bottle held aloft over his hot dog like we weren’t even speaking the same language.

  “You can’t put that on a street dog,” I told him. “There are rules about these things.”

  “You enjoy your generic, artificially colored mustard,” he said, and I could practically see the air quotes suspended above his head, “and I’ll use mine.” Our new marriage could already use some counseling.

  I moaned a lot while eating my dog, just to prove a point: it was way better than his.

  He closed his eyes in suppressed amusement, shaking his head at me.

  “You know,” I said after swallowing a giant bite, “if I didn’t occasionally catch you smiling in that little secret way you have, I might assume you were either the most disciplined emotional being on the planet, a Replicant, or Botoxed.”

  “It’s Botox.” He took an enormous bite of his hot dog.

  “I knew it,” I said. “You can barely hide your vanity.”

  He choked-laughed, and reached to steal the napkin I had in my hand. “Too right.”

  We returned to the office, but with the phone lines not working yet and the heat (I may at one point have complained that I was melting), nothing was really getting done. Meetings started the next day, we’d unpacked a few boxes of files, but we both seemed distracted—for different reasons, I’m sure—and by two that afternoon, he was already packing his things up to go.

  Niall had plans he needed to look at and phone calls to make, all of which he could take care of in the hotel.

  We walked back in silence, on the opposite side of the street from Radio City, but I could have sworn I saw his lips twitch the tiniest bit as we passed.

  The next morning, I woke before my alarm clock, anxious to start the day and—you know, because I’m pathetic—walk to work with a certain someone. But there on my phone, next to a text from my brother and three from Lola, was one from that Someone: Take a car and go on without me. I’ve a few things to do and will be there later.

  The hope inside my chest crumbled like a dry cracker. I replied that I’d see him there and then walked the few blocks instead of taking a car, choosing a different route and taking a few photos for my mom along the way. When I reached the office it was still sweltering, and I sent a silent prayer of thanks for the short sleeves I’d worn and that I’d been smart enough to ditch my Spanx. It wasn’t like there was anyone there I’d need to look marginally slimmer for, anyway.

  It was boring as hell being there by myself, but the phones were working and I was finally able to get some work done, assure Tony that we were here and everything should be up and going soon, and meet a few of the other people sharing the offices with us. Niall showed up around noon, his arms full as he walked into the office.

  He unloaded everything on his desk and chair, and I watched him with curious eyes.

  “Morning,” he said, hanging his coat on a hook near the door. “Or, afternoon, rather. Still hot as Hades in here, I see.”

  “I’ve called someone and they’ll be here to fix it tomorrow, but you’re lucky I kept my pants on.”

  “Debatable,” he mumbled.

  Or at least I thought he did.

  “Pardon?”

  He ignored this, putting a large shopping bag on his desk, and getting distracted by whatever he had inside. He wore his glasses, today. Good God. On anyone else, those particular frames—dark rims and a thin band of chrome slicing down the arms—would communicate a certain carefully crafted designer individuality. But I knew Niall Stella dressed impeccably because he bought the best and probably had a really picky, perfectionist tailor—not because he paid much attention to trends.

  “A woman picked out your frames,” I said, pointing to his face.

  He looked up from his bag, setting a folder down on his desk and looking confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “A saleswoman picked out those frames. You walked into the store, she descended in milliseconds because”—I glanced down his body in a gesture meant to communicate I mean, obviously—“and she insisted on finding just the right pair for you.”

  He studied me for several breaths and then lifted his gigantic, splendid Niall Stella hand to lower his glasses and asked, “What does this mean?” while repeating my gesture, his eyes on my body, his mouth suppressing a little smile.

  “It means, ‘a hot man in a suit walks into a store, and he doesn’t have a wedding ring? Like a starter pistol to a greyhound.’ ”

  “How do you know that when I bought these, I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring?”

  He was testing me. He was amused. Holy shit, Niall Stella was still being flirty today.

  “You’re suggesting my sleuth skills are subpar. That I don’t know your timeline? I thought we established early on that my creeper dial goes up to eleven.”

  His eyebrow twitched in a tiny Well?

  “You got those new glasses in November.” He waited for the last piece of information. The one that made me sound completely insane. “Fine,” I groaned. “You stopped wearing your ring in September.”

  He laughed, putting his glasses back on and returning to his digging in the bag.

  “Do you think I’m weird?” I asked, voice weaker than I’d attempted.

  He nudged his glasses down his nose again, letting his eyes move over my face before murmuring, “Yes, weird in the sense that you are unexpected and I am rarely surprised by people. I think you rather exquisite.”

  Exquisite? That was certainly an interesting adjective.

  Before I had a chance to respond to this—and let’s be fair, it probably would have taken me a decade—he stood up straighter, grinning. “I’ve brought you something. Reckoned it was almost lunch, so . . .” He pulled a white—albeit greasy—paper bag from his chair, and lifted a hot dog from inside. Covered in regular mustard.

  “You lowered yourself to my classless mustard standards,” I cooed, taking the dog happily.

  “How could I deny you? You moaned through every bite yesterday.”

  Only then did it occur to me how that must have sounded. “I—”

  “And until the repairman gets here . . .” He pulled a box from the bag to reveal a large desk fan.

  “You bought a fan?”

  “We wouldn’t want you melting, now would we?”

  And that was it. Finally bold enough, I stood and rounded the desk in front of him, and did what I’d wanted to do for six months: I straightened his tie. I took my time, using the opportunity to right the knot and smooth the silky material down his chest.

  He sucked in a breath and I waited, worried that maybe I’d crossed a line, that perhaps I’d taken this small progress we’d made and ruined it by being too forward. The silence seemed to balloon between us, stretching, growing heavier with each tick of the clock.

  “Thanks for lunch,” I whispered.

  “You’re quite welcome.” A tiny flicker of a smile, a flash of his dimple, and then his expression straightened and his eyes searched mine for a small eternity.

  Finally—and while my pulse jackhammered in my throat—Niall took my hands, moving them up his body. I could feel his torso, the defined planes of his stomach beneath his dress shirt, and then his hard pectorals.

  Now it was my turn to suck in a breath. The possibility of something happening between us had gone from an adorable little fantasy to a check mark in the Number of Times Niall Stella Ran My Hands Up His Chest column. What were we doing?

  The faint scent of his cologne hung in the air, a hint of coffee and fresh paint from an office somewhere on the same floor. I leaned in slowly, my body on autopilot, my brain not even in control of the equipment anymore.

  He leaned in, too: small, stuttering movemen
ts that made the space between us disappear. His nose brushed the edge of mine and I could see his eyelashes, feel his breath across my lips. I closed my eyes, not sure I could be this close to him and see these things and ever be the same again.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” I asked, surprising myself as the words tumbled from my mouth.

  His chest was pressed against mine, but he didn’t do what I thought he would. He pulled away just enough to meet my eyes.

  “I fear I wouldn’t be able to stop,” he whispered.

  Life Alert? This is not a drill.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t want you to.” His brows lifted but he didn’t speak; instead he waited for me to continue. I wasn’t sure I could, but eventually I managed, “I’ve thought about this exact moment, and what I would do or say.”

  He pulled back to better study my face. “You have?”

  Closing my eyes, I admitted, “For months now.”

  This time his brows disappeared into his hairline and I barreled on: “I thought it would always just be a crush. I never really expected us to interact for any significant amount of time. But we’re here and together a lot and this flirting is fun, but I’m about to completely lose my mind . . .” I looked up, meeting his wide eyes. My mouth had sprinted away from my brain, leaving it in the dust. I closed my eyes again, groaning. “And now I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  When I looked at him again, I found him studying my face, expression soft. “You haven’t. Not at all. I’m just . . . unaccustomed.”

  “Unaccustomed to girls admitting they have crushes on you?” I attempted a lighthearted laugh but it came out really awkward, more bark than chuckle. “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “Well,” he said, stepping back and shrugging a little apologetically, “it’s true. As I mentioned, Portia is the only woman I ever . . . that is to say, there’s been no one else.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Aside from the fact that this is a work meeting and we’ve only just met, there is that consideration. I feel a bit out of my depths here.”

  I gaped at him, at Niall Stella, the unexpected flirt with a body that screamed I’ve-Had-All-of-the-Good-Sex-in-the-World, who stood before me reminding me that he’d been with one woman his entire life. I knew he’d met Portia when he was young but it hadn’t really sunk in until now that he’d only ever been with her. No high school manwhoring. No college years full of wild shagging. No early twenties with a different woman every night. Zero oats sowed.

  I could practically feel my synapses reorganizing.

  “So, you see,” he said, smiling a little, “if you’ve any interest in me at all, you’ll need to come into it knowing I’m driving quite blind.”

  And right then, when I expected him to hold his gaze to mine, to take my hand and squeeze it, or do any other human thing to hold the moment, or at least acknowledge that a moment occurred, he blinked away, turned to his desk, and began reading a report until I mumbled something about needing to use the ladies’ room, and left.

  SIX

  Niall

  Come meet us for a pint.

  I’d only just returned to my room, my mind and gut in a twist, when the text from Max arrived. The only thing I wanted more than to fall face-first into my mattress was a pint.

  In fact, what I wanted most was to be with Ruby.

  How is it possible, I thought, to have become infatuated in a matter of days? In a space of time that could still be easily measured in hours?

  There was a tiny part of me that seemed to be expanding, doubling inside my rib cage every day. This secret space, an unexplored romantic nucleus, told me the reason Ruby had burrowed so easily in my mind and under my skin was meaningful. And not because she was a rebound, or a distraction, but because she fit me. I wanted to trust this tumbling sensation I had near her not because the feeling was familiar, but because it wasn’t.

  And yet, when given the chance to explore things, I’d immediately closed up.

  Best to bury my nose in a pint.

  The blokes were down at Knave again, almost as if it was their regular haunt. I knew better; I knew my brother well enough to know he was going out of his way to keep an eye on me. That he could sense something was off in my mood.

  He and the lads were seated around the same low table we’d inhabited the other evening, each halfway into a cocktail and snacking on the smattering of appetizers on the table. It was nearly eleven, and I hadn’t eaten.

  “Be a good chap and look to the side while I polish off the lot,” I joked, sitting down next to Max and reaching for a small handful of mixed nuts.

  He laughed. “Figured you’d be famished.”

  “What,” Bennett asked, looking around as if searching, “no Ruby? I have to admit I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Ah . . .” I started, and then put an entire slice of bruschetta in my mouth to avoid answering.

  “Think she might want a bite to eat?” Will asked.

  Swallowing, I mumbled, “Frigging hell, you’re all subtle. I’m sure she ordered in. And since we’re on the subject of women: why are you lot constantly on me? I don’t see your women around anywhere.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” George said. “Chloe the Barbarian is meeting us here.”

  “Chloe the—I’m sorry, are you talking about Bennett’s wife?” I asked, positive I must have misunderstood.

  But Bennett waved me off. “Sara and Hanna are at some sort of party. Chloe should be here shortly. And don’t worry,” he said. “They call each other much, much worse.”

  George shrugged and then leaned forward. “Chloe and I have a special bond. Namely being so terrible nobody else would want us.” Bennett cleared his throat and George blinked over to him. “Except for him, and he’s pretty rotten himself.”

  And as if she were summoned, one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen walked into the bar. She wasn’t tall, but she certainly carried herself as if she stood head and shoulders above everyone around her. Dark hair spilled halfway down her back and she wore a tight black dress and heels so high I feared for her ankles.

  “Speak of the devil,” Bennett said, and stood, watching with a proud smile as his wife walked toward him.

  “Look away,” Will said, just as Chloe reached us.

  Confused, I glanced at each of the men before I blinked back up to Bennett and Chloe and had to quickly look away. To say that their embrace was passionate would be a gross understatement, and once again I felt the sting of my failed relationship, and the fact that I’d barely even pulled my head from the sand to join the world, let alone considered finding that for myself.

  Will groaned. “Get a room, would you?”

  Chloe kissed her husband once more before she turned her attention to us. “You’re just jealous because your fiancée is sitting with a bunch of women talking about books, instead of here, gazing adoringly at you.”

  “When you put it that way . . . yes, I am,” Will said. “Why aren’t you with them, again?”

  Chloe ordered a drink from a passing waitress and took a seat at our table. “Because this is my only free night this week, and I intend to spend it banging my husband. Speaking of”—she looked at Bennett commandingly—“finish your drink.”

  Bennett lifted his glass. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Gross,” George said.

  “George,” Chloe said, greeting him with a smile.

  “Dark Mistress,” he replied.

  “And you must be Niall?” she said, turning her attention to me.

  “Yes,” I said, and offered my hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Chloe returned my handshake with a firm grip. “You, too. Where’s the girl?”

  “Girl?” I asked, looking at each of them.

  Chloe smiled, and I had to admit the effect was quite stunning—if somewhat frightening. I could only imagine the terror this woman could inflict on a poor soul when she put her mind to it.

  “I assume she’s talking about your Ruby,” Max
said.

  “She is not my Ruby,” I corrected.

  “Sure she isn’t,” Chloe said. “That’s what they all say.”

  As I was busy choking on a bite of truffled Tater Tot, the realization settled in. I’d nearly kissed her at work. “Right, you all settled this the other night.”

  “Course we did,” George continued. “You’re the only one who was confused. You turn into a robot around her—”

  “To be fair, he’s always a bit of a robot,” Max cut in.

  “Cheers, mate,” I mumbled sarcastically. “Funny how I’m the only one here who seemed to be in the dark about it.”

  Chloe’s drink had arrived, and she lifted the stemmed glass. “That’s because men are idiots,” she said over the rim. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, women can be jackasses, too, and are every bit as capable of messing things up as men. But in my experience, when these things go wrong, it’s usually the one with the penis who’s fucked it up.” She looked at me with her amused certainty for a moment before adding, “No offense.”

  “Well said,” Max told her with a laugh.

  They studied me for a few seconds longer before turning back to each other, picking up where they’d apparently left off when I joined them. All except for Chloe, who continued to eye me.

  “You never said why you and the girls can’t come to the Catskills this weekend,” Bennett said to Max.

  “Sara’s remodeling the entire flat,” Max said, running his palm over the top of his head. “Her designer is coming. I think walls are coming down and . . . oi.”

  “Max, you’d better get a handle on that,” Bennett said in warning. “Do you remember when Chloe painted the apartment? A kid with a crayon would have done a better job.”

  “Watch it, Mills,” she warned.

  “Don’t you start with that, Ryan,” he said back. I was completely confused. “The green kitchen? Even you have to admit how terrible that was.”

  “I will not. It was process of elimination; maybe I needed to try out a few before I knew what I really wanted,” she said, smiling sweetly at him. It was pretty clear they weren’t talking about paint colors.