Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(36)

That’s when I know for a fact that Ian is back.

Finally Ian is there in my peripheral vision. Wow, Los Angeles was good for him. He’s a little tanner, his glossy black hair is tousled, and his tie is loose in a casual, I’m-too-sexy-for-my-suit kind of way. Everyone is pretending to be extremely busy and productive as he strides toward his office. I’m watching him from the corner of my eye while I type nonsense into my document. Right when he’s about to pass my desk, he stops mid-step and tilts his head like he’s just remembered something.

Lavinia narrows her eyes on me.

Then Ian swivels on his foot, turns toward me, and strolls to my desk. I can feel every single person in the office watching while pretending not to watch.

“Ah Gemma, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Ian says.

I close my document, look up and give Ian a business-like smile. “Yes?”

He smirks at me. “Have you lined up the sponsors for the conference?”

I don’t know if anyone else can see it, but the level of heat he’s sending my way is off the charts. Or maybe that’s just my imagination. But I swear he’s peeling off my top with his eyes.

I nod and squirm in my seat. “Mhmm. Just finished,” I say, and then I clear my throat because my voice came out high and squeaky.

“Bring the document to my office, will you?”

“Will do.”

Then Ian seems to notice the rest of the people in the office. He gives the room a bright smile and says, “Hello, everyone. Every day is an opportunity to make it your best. Shall we?”

“Hi Ian,” a number of staff call and then, “Yes.” It’s no secret, basically everyone that works here worships the ground Ian walks on.

I stand at the office printer waiting for the document of all the confirmed sponsors to print. Behind me I hear the sharp click of Lavinia’s heels on the wood floor. She stops at the paper shredder next to the printer and jams a fistful of documents in it. The whir of the shredder fills the air.

She looks over at me, then says, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“What?” I ask, “I emptied the shredder yesterday. It’s fine.”

She purses her lips, “I mean Mr. Fortune. I wouldn’t get involved if I were you.”

I stare at her, a bit shocked to be honest. She’s never said anything remotely personal to me before.

“I’m not.”

She snorts. “I’ve lived in New York long enough to smell when a salami sandwich is being made.”

What? “Excuse me?”

She shoves the last of her paper into the shredder, then turns to me and frowns. The paper stops halfway down. “The shredder’s full. You shouldn’t use it so much.”

I shake my head and then grab my document out of the printer tray.

“I don’t use it. The shredder and I aren’t involved.”

I hurry across the open office space to Ian’s door. I knock on the glass and listen until I hear a muffled, “Come in.”

The glass is soundproof, and as soon as I close the door it’s like I’ve entered another world. This is Ian’s sanctuary. The office is about three times the size of my apartment and has sort of an eastern philosopher meets modern New Yorker vibe.

The sound of the indoor waterfall bubbles through the room and I look over to the koi pond to see a flash of orange and gold. Behind the pond is a wall of foliage with sweet-smelling flowers in bloom and a meditation rock garden.

Beyond that is Ian’s desk, a large custom sculpted piece made from driftwood and blue resin. He has a sleek computer and an aerodynamic chair. He isn’t at the water feature or his desk. I walk farther in. My thick heels let out a thump on the soft cork floors as I head toward the bar area. Finally I see Ian. He’s against the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looks out over Midtown. The afternoon sun lights a halo around him as he squares himself up to putt a golf ball across his putting green.

The ball makes a sound as he hits it, and I watch as it speeds across the green and clatters into the cup. Ian looks up at me and grins.

“Hello.” Ian sets his club against the window and then walks with loose-limbed grace to me. He stops next to the seating area by the bar.

“Hi. I brought your document.” I hold it out to him.

He takes it, looks at it, then tosses it onto the low velvet divan. “I missed you.”

I open my eyes wide. Okay. So that’s the direction this is going.

“Did you? Because I was just a text or a phone call away. You know, there’s this funny little thing called a telephone. Back in the 1800s there was this guy, Alexander Graham Bell, who invented it, it’s a nifty device, you might try it sometime.”

Ian smirks at me. “Is that so?”

I shrug. “Might be worth a shot.”

He steps forward and puts his fingers under my chin. “Some say Alexander Graham Bell stole his ideas from Elisha Gray.”

“Alright?” I say, my voice a little wobbly.

Ian’s eyes grow hooded.

“History is full of stolen credit. Edison stole from Tesla. Zworykin stole from Farnsworth.”

“Who? What?” I’m not really paying attention to what he’s saying, because he’s looking at my lips like he’s going to kiss me, right here, right now.