The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(34)

The man has impeccable taste. Expensive-as-hell, but impeccable, nonetheless.

“Party pooper.”

I shake the frilly coffee drink again, and he sighs.

He curls his index finger toward me. “Hand over the macchiato, and no one gets hurt.”

I set the still-warm drink on his desk and take a seat in one of the chairs across from him. “You’re welcome, by the way,” I add as I watch him enjoy his first sip.

“Thank you.” He winks. “But if you’re not here to gossip, what has you bringing me my favorite drink and pacing outside my office for the last thirty minutes on this lovely Monday morning?”

“I wasn’t pacing.”

“Weren’t pacing? Dais, I’ll probably have to have someone come out and refinish the Brazilian hardwood in front of my door.”

I roll my eyes, and he laughs.

“Fine. Maybe I was pacing…a little.”

“Come on. It can’t be that bad. I mean, what? Are you here to tell me you want to quit?” He laughs at first, the presumed absurdity of his statement laying on his funny nerve. When I don’t say anything, though, his mouth drops open.

“Oh my God! Daisy Diaz, you’re not trying to quit your job, are you? Because I swear on everything, I will—”

“No, no, no,” I quickly respond. “I don’t want to leave. I… I just… I…” I pause, trying like hell to figure out a way to verbalize what I actually do need.

“Daisy girl, you’re making me nervous here. Stick your finger down your throat if you have to and ralph that shit up!”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” I say, but it comes off as more of a whine than anything else. “I just… I need to move to New York.” The words come off my tongue way more direct and harsher than I intend, and it doesn’t take long before I’m backtracking. “For a little while. Not, like, permanently. Just…three months or so. That’s it. That’s all I’m wanting to ask you.”

“Excuse me?” He furrows his brow. “You want to move to New York for three months?”

“Yes?” I respond, and when I realize how uncertain I sound, I swallow and reiterate with a firmer repeat, “Yes. That’s what I need.”

“And why exactly do you need this? Have you taken a position with the New York City Council? Applied to be an extra in the remake of Mary Kate and Ashley’s New York Minute? What’s going on with you?”

“They’re remaking New York Minute?” I ask, suddenly distracted.

“Daisy!”

I hold up both my hands in defense. Sorry. But to be fair, I am a child of the Mary Kate and Ashley generation.

“I have to go to New York because…” My whole career, my whole life, depends on it. “Well, you know I got married. And…I…want to…spend more time with my husband. We don’t know if we want to live on the East Coast or West Coast, and I figure this is a great way for us to figure that out. And, you know, we’re newlyweds, and we should be together and… Yeah, that’s pretty much why.”

“So, you want to move to New York to spend time with your mystery husband that you married in Vegas, whom I know absolutely nothing about? Am I getting this right?”

“Mm-hmm.” I suck my button lip into my mouth and then quickly add, “Obviously, I would be staging properties while I’m there. I want to work for you. That hasn’t changed.”

“Okayyy…” He pauses and runs confident fingers over his chin. “What’s this husband of yours’s name?”

“Flynn. Flynn Winslow.”

“And how long have you known Flynn?”

Like…a week?

“Uh…not that long.”

“He can’t move to LA?”

Well, no. He’s a resident of New York, and I sent in an application to Immigration stating that very fact. Obviously, though, I can’t exactly tell my boss that.

“It’s not a good time…” I pause and then quickly add, “For his job. Yes. His job needs him to stay for now. That’s why.”

“And what does he do exactly?”

Thank God, it’s something you actually do know about him!

I almost want to slap myself over how insane my life has become that I’m thrilled I know the answer to a simple question like this. About my freaking husband.

“He’s an electrical engineer.” And some kind of investment stuff that you haven’t gotten the full story on yet, so technically, you don’t even completely know this answer…

“Interesting.” Damien smirks. “And what made you decide to marry this mysterious electrical engineer in the first place?”

Obviously, he’s fishing for information. And I’m willing to bet ninety percent of that has nothing to do with work; it’s purely because Damien is a nosy little biotch.

Though, I can’t really blame him. I’d be asking him the same exact questions if the roles were reversed. I mean, our relationship’s foundation might revolve around boss-employee, but ever since he headhunted me to work for his company, we’ve grown to be fairly close friends.

“I don’t know. Because it just felt…right?” You know, how any good marriage proposal feels when it’s done to prevent you from getting deported.