He does. Which most any guy would—she’s got fabulous legs. But his gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary and then he swallows and clears his throat. It’s subtle. No way Sandra is catching this, but I am. I verify that he is ring free and then, satisfied, I tuck the information away until I can use it. This day is really turning around.
Twenty-Three
The elevator stops and we exit, Mr. Laurent doing that thing men do, holding the elevator door open for us as if it’s capable of squashing us to death if not for them holding back the doors. It’s nice, plus I’m sure it gives him the opportunity to check out Sandra’s ass. Win, win.
“Is Sawyer still in the Chesterfield meeting?” Mr. Laurent pauses outside the elevator, directing the question to Sandra.
“Yes, sir. They’re in the Langhorne conference room.”
The corner of his mouth arcs in the smallest smirk at her use of the word ‘sir.’ “You’ve worked here for two years, Sandra. I believe I’ve mentioned you can call me Gabe?”
Her eyes widen and she nods, but when she speaks it’s with fake confidence. “Of course!” And then with the smallest lift of her head, she says, “Gabe.”
He looks at her a second longer, then nods and heads in the opposite direction from us.
Sandra guides me to the right, down a wide hallway and past a glass-walled conference room before I can’t contain myself any longer.
“Two years?” We’re walking at a very efficient pace down the hall, Sandra’s ponytail swishing with each step.
Her steps don’t falter but her head turns in my direction and she asks, “Pardon?”
“That”—I point to her and then point in the direction that Gabe disappeared in—“has been going on for two years?” I’m incredulous. There is no way that has been simmering for two years, unfulfilled.
She blinks rapidly and opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. “I’m sorry?” she tries, clearly out of her element in how to respond to an Everly-style inquisition. The hallway ends at a corner, with another wide hallway leading across the building, but we stop here and step into a foyer of sorts. There’s a desk—I’m assuming it’s hers based on a quick glance around. A sweater hangs over the back of the chair and a pink notepad sits on the desk. Two chairs are placed across from the desk and a small couch stands along the wall near a set of open double doors that I assume lead to Sawyer’s office. Pretty fancy stuff.
“May I take your jacket?” she asks, and I slip it off and hand it to her and pull down the sleeves of my sweater to the tops of my fingers. Sandra hangs my coat in a closet near the door, and then offers me a seat.
“You can wait here,” she says, turning back to me. She offers to get me a drink, I insist I don’t need anything and then she’s off, promising to let Sawyer know I’m here but reiterating that he is in a meeting so please be patient.
The second she’s gone I stand and enter the attached office. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the entire office space. I step right up to the edge and place my forehead against the glass. Holy shit, the view from up here is insane. We must be on the top floor. Logan Square looks bigger than you’d think from up here. The fountain surrounded by grass is easy to make out. The cars rounding the circular drive are tiny though. Turning around, I survey the room. It’s probably four times the size of my dorm room, maybe more. There’s a large desk with two chairs in front of it and a separate seating area with a sofa and chairs by the wall with the refrigerator that is hidden behind decorative paneling.
There’s a kitchenette section lining the wall adjoining the outer office. I check out the contents of the fridge. Not because I want anything, just ’cause I’m nosey. But he has Diet Sun Drop and I love Diet Sun Drop. I love it almost as much as I love new shoes, so I grab a can and move on to the desk. I hesitate for a moment. This can’t be Sawyer’s office, can it? It’s really impressive. But Sandra’s desk is just outside. This must be his office. I chew on my lip for a moment then plop in the chair behind the desk. There’s a desktop computer, but it’s locked, obviously. Which is fine, because even though Sawyer hacked my Facebook, physical snooping is more my thing.
Twenty-Three
The elevator stops and we exit, Mr. Laurent doing that thing men do, holding the elevator door open for us as if it’s capable of squashing us to death if not for them holding back the doors. It’s nice, plus I’m sure it gives him the opportunity to check out Sandra’s ass. Win, win.
“Is Sawyer still in the Chesterfield meeting?” Mr. Laurent pauses outside the elevator, directing the question to Sandra.
“Yes, sir. They’re in the Langhorne conference room.”
The corner of his mouth arcs in the smallest smirk at her use of the word ‘sir.’ “You’ve worked here for two years, Sandra. I believe I’ve mentioned you can call me Gabe?”
Her eyes widen and she nods, but when she speaks it’s with fake confidence. “Of course!” And then with the smallest lift of her head, she says, “Gabe.”
He looks at her a second longer, then nods and heads in the opposite direction from us.
Sandra guides me to the right, down a wide hallway and past a glass-walled conference room before I can’t contain myself any longer.
“Two years?” We’re walking at a very efficient pace down the hall, Sandra’s ponytail swishing with each step.
Her steps don’t falter but her head turns in my direction and she asks, “Pardon?”
“That”—I point to her and then point in the direction that Gabe disappeared in—“has been going on for two years?” I’m incredulous. There is no way that has been simmering for two years, unfulfilled.
She blinks rapidly and opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. “I’m sorry?” she tries, clearly out of her element in how to respond to an Everly-style inquisition. The hallway ends at a corner, with another wide hallway leading across the building, but we stop here and step into a foyer of sorts. There’s a desk—I’m assuming it’s hers based on a quick glance around. A sweater hangs over the back of the chair and a pink notepad sits on the desk. Two chairs are placed across from the desk and a small couch stands along the wall near a set of open double doors that I assume lead to Sawyer’s office. Pretty fancy stuff.
“May I take your jacket?” she asks, and I slip it off and hand it to her and pull down the sleeves of my sweater to the tops of my fingers. Sandra hangs my coat in a closet near the door, and then offers me a seat.
“You can wait here,” she says, turning back to me. She offers to get me a drink, I insist I don’t need anything and then she’s off, promising to let Sawyer know I’m here but reiterating that he is in a meeting so please be patient.
The second she’s gone I stand and enter the attached office. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the entire office space. I step right up to the edge and place my forehead against the glass. Holy shit, the view from up here is insane. We must be on the top floor. Logan Square looks bigger than you’d think from up here. The fountain surrounded by grass is easy to make out. The cars rounding the circular drive are tiny though. Turning around, I survey the room. It’s probably four times the size of my dorm room, maybe more. There’s a large desk with two chairs in front of it and a separate seating area with a sofa and chairs by the wall with the refrigerator that is hidden behind decorative paneling.
There’s a kitchenette section lining the wall adjoining the outer office. I check out the contents of the fridge. Not because I want anything, just ’cause I’m nosey. But he has Diet Sun Drop and I love Diet Sun Drop. I love it almost as much as I love new shoes, so I grab a can and move on to the desk. I hesitate for a moment. This can’t be Sawyer’s office, can it? It’s really impressive. But Sandra’s desk is just outside. This must be his office. I chew on my lip for a moment then plop in the chair behind the desk. There’s a desktop computer, but it’s locked, obviously. Which is fine, because even though Sawyer hacked my Facebook, physical snooping is more my thing.
