Page 200 of Bridesmaid Undercover
When I reach the door, I open it and let myself in.
The space is quiet, and thankfully, it seems they don’t have any guests at the moment, so when I hear the telltale sound of high heels clicking across the cement floor, I steel my nerves.
It takes a second, but when Everly peeks around the corner, my breath gets caught up in my chest because fuck, it feels like it’s been months since I’ve seen her even though it’s been mere days.
And to my fucking surprise, her hair is down, curled into soft waves. Her hair is never down.
Ever.
So, it feels like she’s already got a leg up on me—well, I already knew she did, but this makes it drastically worse.
Not to mention, she’s wearing a simple purple dress that clings to her curves and black high heels that I know she hates wearing around the office. She’s put-together, beautiful as always, and looking razor sharp and ready to kill.
Ready to kill…me.
“Hardy,” she says flatly. “What are you doing here?”
Now’s the time to try to win her over, make her your friend again, man.
Woo her in any way possible.
Hand her the cronuts.
Sweeten her up first then go in for the kill.
“I brought you cronuts,” I say, holding out the box.
Her eyes fall to the box and then back up to me, completely unimpressed. “I don’t want your cronuts. Now if that’s all, I’m going to get back to work.” She turns on a dime and without another word, slips into her office.
Uhh…okay.
Wasn’t expecting that.
I thought the cronuts would at least soften her a touch.
Well, worst-case scenario, she takes the cronuts, kicks me in the shin and walks away. At least if she accepted the cronuts, she’d think about me writhing on the floor while eating them.
Knowing this probably isn’t a good idea—going into the bear’s den—I continue forward and walk up to her office door. Without knocking, I let myself in and find her sitting behind her desk, staring at her computer screen.
“It’s worrisome that you don’t know how to take no for an answer,” she says as she keeps her eyes trained on the screen in front of her.
“You forgot to take the cronuts.”
She continues to type. “I told you I don’t want them.”
“Afraid they’re poisoned?” I ask. “Because for future reference, that’s not my brand.”
“No, I don’t want to accept your pity cronuts.”
“They’re not pity cronuts,” I say, getting slightly frustrated. I don’t pity her.
I like her…a lot. And I need her to see that.
“I don’t have time for this, Hardy. I have a lot on my to-do list, and that list doesn’t include listening to you try to come up with another explanation for what happened the other night.”
Well…fuck.
This is going to be a lot harder than I thought, and with that last comment from her, I feel my nice guy persona slipping.
