Page 49 of My Best French Wedding

But maybe it was okay that she didn’t have a designer showplace for an office, since she wasn’t a figurehead editor. Walter, of all people, should appreciate a more democratic approach to office space. This was a room where actual work happened, hence the clutter. Instead of trying to straighten the mess, Hildy decided to use her remaining two minutes to check her hair and reapply her lipstick—and then blot it off so it didn’t look like she was trying too hard. She was a journalist, not an actress playing the part. Though there was no reason an editor couldn’t also be hot, as Meryl Streep had demonstrated inThe Devil Wears Prada.

Dropping her mirror back into her purse, Hildy kicked the desk drawer shut. What else? She’d been on the phone all morning, trying to get access to a temperamental young chef they were hoping to profile, but it wasn’t the kind of work that left a visible trace, and she needed Walter to know she wasn’t just counting the minutes until she could enjoy an expensive lunch on the company dime.

Footsteps approached her door. Olive was extremely literal about time, which was great for punctuality but less awesomewhen Hildy could have used a more generous definition of three minutes. Grabbing one of the old proofs she used as scratch paper, Hildy flipped it over and started drawing red lines through the text at random.

There was a brief knock—Hildy was pretty sure she didn’t jump—and then the door swung open.

“That bad?” a much deeper voice than her intern’s asked.

Hildy’s head jerked up. She wondered what he’d told Olive to convince her he didn’t need an escort.It’s okay. We’re old friends. I’ve seen her half naked.

Her expression must have been confused, because Walter nodded at the page on her desk, now striped like a candy cane. “I didn’t realize you could read upside down.”

Damn. It took her a half second to rally. “And backward, but who’s counting?”

“Maybe you should just set it on fire. Hand back the burnt remains.”

“I’m not that kind of editor.” She slid the stack of papers that strongly suggested otherwise into a drawer. “What can I do for you, Walter?”

Did that sound suggestive, or was her imagination playing tricks? Hildy had once had an elaborate sex dream about Walter involving this very office, but that was a secret she’d take to the grave.

This Walter was a lot more polished than the imaginary version, and not just because Dream Walter’s pants had been around his ankles. Had he dressed up to see her, or was this his new normal? Because that was an expensive suit, and the fit suggested custom tailoring—thankfully not in the too-snug style popular among some guys her age. The line between dress pants and leggings should be crystal clear, in Hildy’s opinion. It was much classier to leave something to the imagination.

The drape of Walter’s navy wool trousers gave only the baresthint at what was underneath. Then again, Hildy had already been up close and personal with everything his pants concealed, so she didn’t need a preview of coming attractions. Although teen Walter had been a different animal than the man whose presence seemed to be sucking all the air out of the room.

“Take a seat,” she said, attempting to regain control of the situation.

He scooted the chair a little closer to her desk before sinking into it. “How are you?”

“Fine.” If he wanted to go through the charade of making small talk, she could play along. “You?”

“Same.” Walter white-knuckled the arms of his chair before deliberately placing his hands on his lap.

Hildy was burning with curiosity but equally desperate to hide that fact from Walter. “Can I help you with something?”

“Maybe.”

The plot thickened. “I assume there’s a reason for this visit?” she hinted, when he failed to elaborate.

“Call it a professional courtesy.”

She let the skepticism flash across her face like a neon sign. “You? Are being courteous? And professional?”

“Off to a great start,” he muttered, fiddling with his watchband.

“I’m just surprised. Did a trio of holiday ghosts recently visit you?”

“A job is a job, Hildy.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“I don’t have to.”

That brought her up short. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I gave my notice.”

“Really?”