Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard #4) (10 page)

I tried to use this time to go over what might be waiting for us today: setting up meetings
with the local officials, getting the complete schedule of all the different speakers, and compiling a list of which stations were most in need of repairs.

But I couldn’t focus, and each time the sound of traffic dulled and my thoughts finally started to string together, Niall would walk around someone and brush my shoulder. Maybe notice a loose board in a construction walkway, and touch my forearm while pointing it out in warning. We’d walked five minutes and if someone had asked what I’d been thinking about, I would have stuttered out some unintelligible nonsense and laughed awkwardly.

We reached the corner and waited for the signal to walk. Niall pocketed his phone and stood a respectable distance away from me, but close enough that the arm of his jacket brushed against mine when I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder. The morning was cold, and each one of his exhales sent a little puff of condensation out into the air in front of him. I had to force myself not to stare at his lips and the way his tongue peeked out to wet them.

When the light changed, the crowd moved in front of us, and I felt the press of his palm on the small of my back, urging me forward.

His hand on my lower back . . . just inches away from my ass. And if he was going to touch my ass, it was basically the same as him touching me between
my legs. So, yes, my brain reacted like Niall Stella was touching my clit and I nearly tripped and sprawled flat in the intersection.

We reached the sidewalk on the other side, and he seemed to make a conscious effort to slow his steps.

“You don’t have to slow down,” I told him. “I can keep up.”

Niall Stella shook his head. “Sorry?” he asked, feigning innocence. So one: he was trying to be polite and not point out that my far shorter legs were struggling to keep up with his. And two: he was a terrible liar.

“You’re like eight feet tall with legs that are twice as long as mine. Of course you’d walk faster than me. But I can keep up, I promise not to slow you down.”

A hint of a blush warmed his cheeks and he smiled. “You were nearly falling down there for a moment,” he teased, motioning behind us. My heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with sprinting down the streets of New York.

“I was trying to be smooth and pretend that didn’t happen,” I said, laughing. I was glad he kept his eyes forward, because my grin was so wide it was about to crack my face in half. “Forget the fancy shoes, next time I’ll wear my Nikes.”

“Those aren’t bad,” he said, nodding toward my boots. “Quite nice, really. I remember Portia would wear the highest heels, even when we’d travel. She’d—” He paused, glancing over to me as
if just realizing I wouldn’t know any of this. “Sorry. Won’t bore you with the details of all that.”

Whoa, what?

Even in profile, I could see the way his brows drew together in a frown. He clearly hadn’t intended a stroll down memory lane, but I couldn’t deny the secret, dark part of me that delighted in the slip. That he’d let himself get into that comfortable place where he’d let his walls down, for just a moment.

“Portia was your wife?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational, light. Definitely not showing that I was hanging on his every word. He’d mentioned her on the plane, but hadn’t ever said her name.

We walked a few steps before he nodded, but didn’t add any more. I’d only seen the ex—Mrs. Stella in passing, but hadn’t known it was her until she was gone, and it was too late to scrutinize every detail. I’d heard stories, little bits here and there, but never much. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken rule about gossip in the office: a little is encouraged, but too many details would just be poor taste.

We passed a trio of beautiful bronze and verdigris green headless statues in front of a towering skyscraper, one set on one side of the building, and two on the other. “Those are supposed to represent Venus de Milo,” I said, pointing them out.
“They’re called
Looking Toward the Avenue
.”

He followed my gaze. “But they have no heads,” he noted. “They aren’t looking anywhere.”

“I hadn’t really thought of that,” I said. “Lovely breasts, though.”

Niall made a sound as if he was choking.

“What?” I asked, laughing at his expression. “They are! The city actually gets a lot of complaints about them.”

“The breasts or lack of heads?” he asked.

“Maybe both?”

“How on earth do you know all this? You said you’d never been here before.”

“My mom had this sort of romanticized fascination with New York. I could be your tour guide and bore you with lots of random stuff.”

“That sounds like an amazing time,” he said, but his tone was strange. Was he being sarcastic, or—

Oh my God
.

I stopped dead in my tracks, and Niall Stella had to turn. “What is it?” he asked, looking on ahead, as if he could make out whatever had caught my eye. “Is everything all right?”

“Radio City Music Hall,” I gasped, continuing on with quicker steps now.

“Iconic,” he agreed with a hint of amused confusion in his voice, easily keeping up with me as I practically
sprinted closer.

“They do a Christmas show here every year and my mom is going to die that I’m this close.” My gloves made it nearly impossible to grasp on to anything as I fumbled in the pocket of my jacket in search of my phone. “Will you take a picture of me?”

You’d have thought I just asked him to draw me in the nude.

“I can’t—” he said, and then shook his head, looking around us. “What I mean to say is, we can’t just
stand
here.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s . . .”

He didn’t say “undignified” out loud, but his face was screaming it.

I looked around where we stood, at the scores of people doing that very same thing. “Nobody’s paying any attention to us. We could probably make out on the sidewalk and people would just walk right by.”

His eyes grew wide before he sighed and pulled out his phone. “I’ll do it on mine and send to you. Your case is covered in hideous girly rhinestones.” A tiny smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Look at me. I’m far too masculine for such a thing.”

I’d had a taste of it last night, but I was still blindsided seeing it again: Niall Stella was polite, brilliant, refined, and contained, yes, but Niall Stella was capable of being a
guy
, and he was a
total
flirt.

I knew I was pushing my luck,
but damn, he looked so cute standing there, a sea of tourists rushing by while he opened the camera app. He might have been protesting but the expression on his face when he snapped the first picture made him look a little . . . charmed?

“Right,” he said, and turned the phone to show me. “Quite lovely.”

“Okay now, you come here.” He crossed toward me and I took his phone, examining the photo. “Let’s get one together,” I said, holding his phone out in front of us.

“Wha—” he started to say, but thought better of it. “Your arms aren’t long enough.”

“Are you kidding me? My selfie game is strong. Just . . . bend your knees a little, this is like my head and your deltoids, which—don’t get me wrong—isn’t a bad thing, but—”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, snatching the phone from my hand.

“I promise I won’t tell Max you took a selfie on Sixth Avenue,” I whispered, and he turned his head, eyes meeting mine.

He was only inches from my face. We were practically married right then.

He held my gaze for a fraction of a second before he cleared his throat. “I’m holding you to that.”

It took a few tries to get the right angle, and for the last one, he wrapped an arm around my waist, and pulled me in tight.

And that was it. I mentally entered
a “one” in the Number of Times Niall Stella Put His Arm Around My Waist and Pulled Me Close column. I knew right then what it would feel like to celebrate Christmas and birthdays and a job promotion and have the best orgasm of my life all at the same time.

He looked at the photo and turned the screen so I could see. It was a good picture, fucking great actually. We were both smiling; the camera caught us mid-laugh as he’d tried to snap the photo with his gloves still on.

“What’s your number?” he asked, looking down at his screen. I watched as his cheeks grew redder than they were already from the sharp, cold wind.

I recited it, watching as he typed. He hit
SEND
and smiled up at me: a little shy, a little playful, a little something else I wasn’t sure I was ready to believe. In that moment, he didn’t look anything like a vice president, an intimidating ultra-crush, or a man who finished school before he was twenty. He just looked like a beautiful guy, outside in the city with me.

In the pocket of my coat, my phone buzzed.

I tried not to think about the fact that he now had pictures of me, and of the two of us together, on his
phone
. I tried not to think about the fact that he now had my cell number. I tried not to think about how easy it had just been between us, when I stopped worrying about how to act around Niall Stella, and had just enjoyed this unguarded moment with Niall.
Just Niall.

As he pocketed his phone and motioned for me to follow him to the crosswalk, I noted his enormous grin.

I tried not to think about how he looked pretty thrilled with all of this, too.

Our temporary office was on an empty floor of a large commercial building. The entire suite had been rented as temporary office space for visiting consultants by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. It’s true, beggars can’t be choosers, but honesty time: our office was the size of my hotel shower, and the heater was clearly cranked up to Sinner’s Inferno. The window had been permanently painted shut, and we figured that out only after Niall struggled with it for a good five minutes. He definitely had my attention the entire time. His broad back demanded separate billing: Niall Stella and The Deltoids.

I suspect you wear everything well
.

Too small an office meant Niall was mere feet from me all day, making it nearly impossible to concentrate on even the simplest task. And too hot meant that within an hour of arriving he’d removed his suit jacket and—after much visible consternation on his part—loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He’d also rolled his sleeves up his forearms. If I could, I probably would have ratcheted the thermostat
up another ten degrees to get a peek at his bare chest. See also: why I should never be in charge.

I’d never seen his forearms before (a giddy check in the Number of Times I’ve Seen Niall Stella’s Bare Forearms column), and, as expected, his skin was perfect: arms toned and wrists tapering into long, slender fingers. As covertly as possible, I watched the ticking of muscles when he typed, the way they flexed in sequence as he spun a pencil around his desk when he was thinking, the way the tendons in his hands tightened as he drummed his fingertips on the arm of the chair.

Niall Stella was a fidgeter.

We didn’t talk much as we worked at our respective desks, sifting through boxes and setting things up. For lunch we stepped out, stopping at a vendor selling hot dogs from a stand on the corner. This took some persuasion on my part.

“You go to the one with the longest line,” I explained, patiently waiting my turn. “Don’t you ever watch the Food Network? See how there’s a huge wait for this one and only two people in line for the one across the street? The short-line hot dogs are probably made out of feral cat.”

He sighed, muttering something in his posh accent about how he’d probably be dead by the end of the day, and throwing a “You call these chips?” in there, too.

“How
does
your brother survive in a city with such meager offerings?”
I teased.

“No idea.”

“What are you doing?” I asked, stopping him as he went to put some fancy vomit-colored mustard across the bun. It had
seeds
, for God’s sake.

He blinked at me, bottle held aloft over his hot dog like we weren’t even speaking the same language.

“You can’t put that on a street dog,” I told him. “There are rules about these things.”

“You enjoy your generic, artificially colored
mustard
,” he said, and I could practically see the air quotes suspended above his head, “and I’ll use mine.” Our new marriage could already use some counseling.

I moaned a lot while eating my dog, just to prove a point: it was way better than his.

He closed his eyes in suppressed amusement, shaking his head at me.

“You know,” I said after swallowing a giant bite, “if I didn’t occasionally catch you smiling in that little secret way you have, I might assume you were either the most disciplined emotional being on the planet, a Replicant, or Botoxed.”

“It’s Botox.” He took an enormous bite of his hot dog.

“I knew it,” I said. “You can barely hide your vanity.”

He choked-laughed, and reached to steal the napkin I had in my hand. “Too right.”