He’s wearing a black polo and dark gray dress pants. I’ve seen those before.
I could prolong this in the hope of not hurting his feelings, but Max and I aren’t skating on that thin of ice. We tell it like it is, so that’s what I do. “Nothing is different about you.”
He sighs through a wide smile. “Look down.”
I inch around my desk and take in the new shoes on his feet. Wingtip and expensive leather are both on Max’s must-haves in footwear.
“Those just came in today?” I point at his feet.
“Bright and early this morning.” He taps a toe on the polished concrete floor. “I’m giving them a test drive as we speak.”
“Those are keepers.” I tug on his hand. “They’re perfect for you.”
Lifting my hand to his lips he gives it a sweet kiss on the palm. “And that is perfect for you.”
“What’s perfect for me?”
“Your new internet obsession slash boss.” He squeezes my hand. “Get yourself some of that, Bella, and your vibrator problems will be a thing of the past.”
I tug my hand free, using it to slap him on his chest. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not? I know you haven’t had that kind of fun in a while, so why not mix business with pleasure?”
“I have over a hundred thousand reasons why I can’t mix business with pleasure,” I point out. “I want to make my dreams come true. Working here is the quickest way to fund those dreams.”
“True, true,” he says with resignation. “Get back on your laptop and order a new rabbit because you’re going to need it if you keep stalking your hot-as-hell boss.”
Giving my head a shake, I smile. “I don’t need any help in that department. Barrett Adler will not be making any appearances in my fantasies.”
I wait for him to call me out on that lie. Instead, he leans forward, kisses my forehead, and drops his gaze to the floor. “Let’s walk over to Palla’s to get a coffee and a sandwich. It’s time to make the men of Manhattan wish they had a pair of these shoes.”
Chapter 18
Barrett
“Two plus two is six.”
I stop in place as the elevator’s doors slide shut behind me. There’s no way in hell that I just heard a child’s voice, is there?
“You’re wrongo bongo. Two plus two is seven.”
Another child’s voice and another wrong answer to one of the most basic math equations in existence.
“It’s four,” I say as I approach Isabella’s desk and the two small brunette-haired people sitting in her office chair.
“I’m four,” one of them says with a lift of her hand in the air. “I turned four one hundred and twenty-two days ago.”
The brown-eyed little girl has some grasp on numbers.
The boy sitting next to her is shaking his head so hard I wonder if he’s going to fall off the side of the chair.
“I was three one million, twelve twenty-two hours ago,” he blurts out. “So there.”
I have no idea if he’s talking to me or not since his gaze is stuck on the ceiling.
I glance into my office, but my assistant is nowhere in sight. I look back at the two pint-sized math geniuses to find them staring at me.
“Who are you?” The little boy spits out. “Are you a stranger?”