In a New York Minute(44)

“Why’d you move?” I asked, genuinely curious. You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming from living in an apartment on the water.

“My ex-wife got it in the divorce.”

Ex-wife. Well, this was interesting. Hayes Montgomery had a past. He’d been married. Imagining him twirling a bride on the dance floor, beaming in a tuxedo, settling into a home, shopping for plates and silverware—it twisted something in me that I couldn’t identify. Maybe jealousy, possibly sadness. Probably a little bit of both.

I turned to look at him, assuming he’d be facing away from me, but instead he met my gaze, intently, cheeks flushed. I just nodded. I didn’t judge anyone for relationships ending, and I wanted to make sure he knew it.

“And you owned that place?” I asked, turning back to admire the view.

“We did,” he said matter-of-factly. Another interesting tidbit. A past and money. I mean, I guess I knew that from the way he’d tossed a six-hundred-dollar jacket at me like it was a tissue, but still. It prickled, remembering that this guy was someone. He had a successful business, a cushy bank account; even having an ex-wife felt like an accomplishment. Like he had something to show for all the living he’d done.

It all made me feel uncomfortably small, with not much to show for myself.

He motioned for me to take a seat in one of the plastic folding chairs that had been set up around a larger table placed near the entrance, a makeshift reception area. I sat down gingerly and balanced myself on the edge of the chair just so, painfully aware of his eyes on me. Because they were beautiful eyes, and also because I needed to impress him and land this job. I pulled out my laptop, opening a document to take notes. I tried to discreetly wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans before turning my attention to him.

“Eleanor just texted me. Her doctor’s appointment ran late, but she’s on her way,” he said, glancing up from his phone.

“Do you want to wait for her to start?” I asked, my fingers perched on the keys, back straight. My grandmother had always made a point of correcting my posture, and now I did it to myself whenever I was nervous.

“I think we can just get into it.”

I nodded and sat up straighter.

“We loved your proposal,” he said, crossing his legs. They were so long I marveled that he could even sit comfortably in these wobbly chairs. “If it’s cool with you, we’d like to just get the ball rolling.”

I pressed my lips together to suppress the grin that was working its way onto my face.

“With me,” I confirmed.

“Yes, as long as you’re interested and have the time.” He was studying me, his gaze direct and clear, but it revealed nothing. I thought about how low his voice had been on the phone, when he’d told me, “I do eat sweet things.” Maybe I’d imagined the playfulness. Had he even been flirting, or was I just projecting, looking for things that weren’t really there?

I pushed the thoughts aside. I was better off not letting my brain wander into fantasy territory with him and his deep voice, his fancy suits, and his office full of perfect wood floors. What was important is that he’d just offered me a job, something I desperately needed.

“I can definitely make it work,” I said, trying not to freak out. I’d seen their budget on the proposal he’d sent me. This one job could sustain me for months.

“But first, I have a few questions I like to ask everyone I work with, to help me better understand their needs,” I continued in my best professional voice.

Hayes nodded.

“So,” I said, trying not to focus on how handsome he looked sitting there in the sunlight, or how his demeanor was so serious that it almost didn’t fit with how beautiful his face was. And then I reminded myself that he’d announced to the world that I wasn’t his type. “How do you want to feel when you walk into your office?”

Hayes was thoughtful for a moment. “You know when you get into a nicely made bed with superclean sheets that are also incredibly worn and soft?”

I nodded. This was one of my favorite things in the world, and it was surprisingly sweet, coming from someone who usually seemed so buttoned-up and closed-off.

“I want that,” he continued. “Someplace that’s easy. Where I can be myself. Where I can relax and focus on work.”

His posture was erect, a freshly sharpened pencil. He rarely looked at ease in his own body, and yet it was clear he was craving comfort from this new space. Something about the revelation started my heart fluttering.

“And how do you want other people to feel when they walk in here?”

His forehead wrinkled as he looked at me. “Other people?”

“Yeah. You know, colleagues, clients, friends, girlfriends.”

I said the word so quickly it barely had two syllables. If his cheeks had been pink before, they were now definitely red, a summer tomato ready to burst.

“Would you want to go on a date with me to my office? Help me file some documents?” he asked.

Oh god, was he flirting? Or was he annoyed? It was so hard to tell with this one. There was something about his words that always felt so deliberate, pointed, lobbed to land directly inside me.

Then he raised his brows and gave me my answer: Flirting. Definitely flirting. There was that flutter again.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry into your personal life,” I said, backtracking to avoid encouraging that springy feeling in my chest. Get it together, Franny. You need this job. Be professional! “But our spaces tell a story—not just to us, but to anyone who walks into them.”