Page 10 of The Package
And when Archer McMasters turns to face me, I’m met with his vibrant blue eyes behind black framed lenses. “Ms. Jilliland.”
Archer McMasters was the man in the elevator. The CEO of Garters & Lace. The man I told he basically didn’t know how to market his own company.
Jesus.
I hate the jolt of electricity that runs through me when our eyes meet.
Seriously?
I thought I’d imagined the chemistry I felt in the elevator yesterday. I’d talked myself into believe it was nothing. But I was wrong. Oh so wrong. Because it’s back with just a simple look and the sound of his voice saying my name.
I want to shrink into nothing.
Not only did I insult him, but I proved my incompetence by delivering the wrong package to him.
Kill me now.
So many thoughts run through my mind but all I can think of is if I just got my job back, I’m surely fired now.
Act professional, Jules. Give him his package and leave. Save face.
“Take a seat, Jules.” His voice is low but I hear every syllable over the hum of the restaurant at my back.
“No. I—uh—your package.” I take a step forward and shove it at him. “It got mixed up yesterday. I apologize. I’m sure it was important and I was flustered and I’m sorry.” Every word I utter comes out faster than the last as he just sits there with those eyes of his locked on mine, his face impassive.
Archer reaches out and takes the parcel from me and sets it on the table in front of him. He points to the chair beside him but doesn’t speak.
“No. I . . . again, sorry.”
“Sit,” he demands and I exhale audibly.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
But I oblige. And, of course, the only chair to sit in is adjacent to the corner where his is.
I try not to notice the details about him but fail. Miserably. The crisp, white dress shirt that is unbuttoned at the throat. The cuff links. The way his thumb runs up and down the edge of his highball glass.
“What? No reindeer antlers?” he asks.
“No.” My voice is soft as I suddenly feel self-conscious in my Docs and my secondhand dress in this upscale restaurant. I smooth it down over my knees and shift in my seat.
“I like them on you.”
I offer a partial smile but avert my eyes to the glass of champagne that a server just slid in front of me. “I’m sorry, you have company coming. I’ll be going.”
When I go to stand, Archer puts his hand on my arm and holds me still. “The package didn’t get mixed up, Jules.”
My head startles. “Yes, it did.” I point to the label on the front. “Your name is right here. I messed up,” I confess though I know I did not have a single package for Archer McMasters yesterday.
I freeze when he leans closer and the subtle scent of his cologne fills my nose. “Jules.” His voice is low, the heat of his breath hits my cheek. “I did it on purpose.”
I twist my face toward his, which is only inches from my own. My breath hitches and my heart races because yes, I screwed up but hell if every part of me didn’t just react to all parts of him. “You what?” I ask although I know I heard him correctly.
“I wanted to see you again.”
If I thought my pulse was racing moments before, my heart just flip-flopped in my chest. “Why?” My voice is barely audible.
“Several reasons.” He reaches out and tucks a wayward lock of hair behind my ear, a gesture that seems so natural and intimate. When he’s done, he runs the back of his hand along the line of my jaw and I fight the innate want to turn my cheek into his hand.
