I approached with the tray and Caine looked up at me. I quickly wrenched my gaze away from his forearms. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying his corded, tan arms.
The son of a bitch had to have some kind of physical flaw. I was going to find it. I was.
“You’re late.” He curled his lip in annoyance.
Personality flaws, on the other hand … oh, I’d already found lots of those.
“Sorry, Mr. Carraway,” I murmured, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “I was delayed by Mrs. Flanagan.” I straightened, eyeing him for a reaction.
And I got it.
Wariness had crept over him.
If I could have I would have done a fist pump in triumph.
“She wanted me to tell you that she made your favorite—banana cream pie.” I grinned with faux sweet innocence. “You’re to stop by tonight for a piece.”
The unhappiness radiating from him would have quelled any normal person into silence—or at least wiped the stupid teasing smile off their face. But I never claimed to be normal. Nope, I was enjoying his obvious discomfort, because it meant I had found something real out about him, and I was eager to learn more about the charming Mrs. Flanagan.
“Get out of my office, Alexa.”
At the growled command, I decided it was wise to choke back my chuckle and do just that. Caine’s gaze burned into my back the whole time.
The next morning …
I braced myself as Caine marched toward my desk, his appearance dark and grim. I was so busy looking at his face I didn’t notice what was in his hand until it was clattering down on top of my desk.
I stared in bewilderment at the Tupperware container. Inside it I could see a piece of pie.
I looked up at Caine in question.
He was clearly pissed off and extremely uncomfortable. “Mrs. Flanagan insisted you have a piece of pie,” he said, teeth gritted.
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a sharp “Don’t.” With that he threw open his office door and slammed it shut behind him.
Caine cared enough about his elderly neighbor to follow through on her instructions despite the fact that it almost physically killed him to do so.
I opened the Tupperware box and stuck a finger in. Licking the sweet cream off it, I smiled and settled back in my chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan.”
And not just for the pie.
CHAPTER 5
I left the conference room as an intern rolled in a tray decked out with pastries I’d bought. It was Friday morning and I’d survived almost an entire week working as Caine’s PA. He had a conference in fifteen minutes and he wanted me to make sure that the room was set up.
I smiled at Caine’s CFO’s secretary, Verity, as I passed. His CFO¸ a Ms. Fenton, was scary. She was a little robotic—all cold and efficient and superintelligent. There was nothing motherly about her and that was why I was surprised to discover that the reason she was one of the busiest people I’d ever met was that she was also a wife and mother to two kids. Suffice to say we’d spoken fewer than five words to each other. I knew Verity a little better. She was friendly and we’d managed to chat for a brief few minutes when I was at the photocopier, but Caine had me running one errand after another, so I still hadn’t gotten to know any of my colleagues at all well.
For half of yesterday I’d spent the day running around Boston trying to find a doll from a Disney movie for the daughter of some judge Caine rubbed elbows with. The guy was in the middle of a big case and didn’t have time to buy his kid a birthday present, so Caine had offered up my services. The doll the kid wanted was not easy to find. In fact, it was so not easy I found it in this little independent toy store that should probably have been killed by the economy by now. By the time I got back to the office, I was a sweaty mess and Caine was pissed I’d taken so long.
I wanted to tell him that perhaps he shouldn’t loan his PA out, but somehow I bit back my attitude. I wasn’t so sure yet that Caine wouldn’t fire me at the slightest provocation. He was not a man you trifled with.
Four and a half days I’d been working for him.
It felt longer.
As I returned to my desk my phone started ringing. It was in-house. Caine. “Sir?” I asked upon switching on the speakerphone.
“I need you to make a reservation for two at Menton for this evening at eight. Also, have a dozen red roses delivered to Phoebe Billingham, Harvard University Press, Cambridge. I want them delivered this afternoon.”
Phoebe Billingham. Smart. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Wealthy. She was a copy editor for Harvard University Press and a society darling. She really was perfect for him.
I ignored the burn in my chest. “Of course. What would you like the card to say?”
“The card?”
“On the flowers.”
“From Caine.”
I wrinkled my nose, the romantic in me wailing in outrage. “That’s it?”
Caine had apparently been dating Phoebe for eight weeks, which was a long time in Caine’s world. I wasn’t surprised, though. Phoebe had it all, and she had the potential to make him happy. At the end of the day, Caine deserved nothing less.
He needed to step it up to keep her interested.
“Yes,” he replied, the word edged with impatience.
“Don’t you think you could be a little more romantic?”
“I’m sending her a dozen red roses and taking her to dinner at a nice restaurant. That’s not romantic?”
“It’s fine.” It was a little generic, but whatever. “But the card could be a little more personal.”