Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(7)

Did I want to interact with Dan while off-kilter?

No.

No, I did not.

But what choice did I have? It was almost noon. Eugene had been adamant, time was of the essence. Hurriedly, I made a mental list of subjects that were off-limits—basically, anything gross, illegal, or morbid—and propelled myself forward.

Dan was scanning the crowd in the lobby as he talked to his subordinate and his stare passed over me once. He immediately did a double take and, unsurprisingly, I was ensnared.

My steps faltered. Through sheer force of will, I recovered. But not before the expected eruption of awareness in my stomach and tightness in my chest.

However, given my reason for being in the lobby—my mission to thwart Caleb’s attempts to have me committed—disregarding the flustering sensations was relatively easy. Or maybe I was just getting really good at ignoring my emotions. Whatever. Either worked.

Time is of the essence. Steven. Marriage.

Dan stepped away from his employee and positioned himself at the edge of the high counter. Dark brown eyes—that always seemed alight with mischief—swept down and then up my person, as though conducting a quick assessment of my physical well-being. I ignored that too, determined to keep our interaction as perfunctory as possible.

But then he said, “What’s up, Kit-Kat?”

Oh.

Darn.

I gulped a large quantity of air at the unanticipated use of the old nickname, knowing I’d pay for it later. The price would be ruthless hiccups. But for now, the gulping swallows helped.

The way Dan twisted his mouth to the side lent him an air of amusement without actually smiling. He was adorable.

I hadn’t spoken to him in a long while. His chestnut hair was longer than its typical close cut and it was styled expertly, back and away from his forehead. Or maybe he’d been pulling his hands through it. Either way, it was an exceptionally good look for him.

We’d seen each other in passing, at Janie and Quinn’s apartment, in the lobby of this building, but this was the first time we’d traded words in six months. This was the first time he’d called me Kit-Kat in over two years, since before he started dating Tonya from accounting on the seventeenth floor.

“Sorry. Hi, Dan.” I gave him a tight smile. “Sorry. I just wanted to ask—”

Dan shifted closer and dipped his head, like he couldn’t hear me, and I caught a trace of cologne, just the faintest hint of something expensive and masculine. His new proximity set my heart racing. Inexplicably, I felt like crying.

But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I never did.

Clearing my throat, I started again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

His mouth did curve then, a slow spreading smile that usually would’ve made me forget what I was doing, because I loved this smile.

Dan didn’t have perfect teeth. They were a little crooked, like he’d never had braces, and maybe one or two had been cracked during a fight or while playing sports, and then capped. The dentist had done a great job with the repair work, but I suspected the reason Dan rarely showed his teeth when smiling was because he was self-conscious about it. That meant, when he did show teeth—like now—it was because he couldn’t help himself.

To me, his real smile was wholly genuine, devastatingly charming, and absolutely perfect.

Also perfect, his nose. It had been broken at least twice and was bent just slightly. His shoulders were also perfect, big and wide; how he moved paired with his stocky frame reminded me of a boxer, capable of both brute strength and remarkable grace.

His neck was also strong—but not in a disconcerting way—and provided the perfect pedestal for his exquisite jaw, which was perpetually shaded with a twelve o’clock shadow. Every so often, when he turned his head, I’d catch a tantalizing glimpse of swirling, black tattoos peeking out of his suit shirt.

But his lips . . .

No words could adequately describe the flawless beauty of his lips.

He was rugged everywhere that I could see, except for those lush lips.

I wanted to bite them.

“You’re not interrupting,” he said, gaze warm and a little lazy, eyelids at half-mast. Dan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “How can I help?”

Marry me.

Internally, I shrank from the unbidden thought. Holy wish fulfillment, Batman.

In the next moment, it occurred to me that Dan was recently single, having split from his longtime girlfriend—the aforementioned Tonya from accounting on the seventeenth floor—just two months ago.

When I’d first discovered they were dating, I’d been devastated and ate $47.31 worth of cheese in one sitting. While crying. I cried on my cheese. It was a sad day.

But when I’d discovered they’d split, I went home, did my laundry, did my homework, didn’t cry, and answered work emails while steadfastly refusing to obsess about it.