Page 350 of Playing With Fire

And terrifying.

Because New York is a thousand miles from Chicago.

From Wilder House.

From this kitchen.

From him.

Bishop pulls back.

“When's the meeting?”

“Two.”

“Then you better get moving.”

I laugh.

“It's eight in the morning.”

“Yeah, but I've seen how long it takes you to pick an outfit.”

I smack his chest. “Rude.”

He kisses my forehead.

“Take the meeting, Becks. Hear what they have to say.”

I search his face. “And if they offer me the job?”

His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Then we'll figure it out.”

“We?”

He brushes his thumb across my cheek.

“Always.”

By one fifty-five, I've changed my outfit four times, rewritten my résumé twice, and convinced myself I'm about to embarrass every woman who's ever opened a Jane Austen novel.

Angela meets me outside the conference room.

“You look lovely.”

“I'm going to throw up.”

“Please don't. I just had the carpets cleaned.”

I laugh.

She squeezes my arm. “You've earned this meeting, Delaney.”

Then she opens the door.

Beau Montgomery rises from the conference table, smiling.

Beside him stands a woman in her forties with dark hair and an elegant navy suit.