this dress and the rest on Branson’s card.” Thank God I just got paid. My bank account didn’t need to take the hit on purchasing yet another dress, but it’s a matter of principle for me.
Jasmine seems content with my request. “If that’s what you wish. I’ll ring you up.”
The dress needs some minor alterations, so they take it to be picked up later, and then I leave, deciding to brave the cold late-December chill and walk to work.
There’s a food truck on the street, so I walk up to the cart and take a five out of my wallet for a hot chocolate. As I wait for it, I see a homeless man freezing on the sidewalk with a blanket over him. Turning back to the vendor, I ask him to make that two cocoas and walk the other to the man shivering in the cold who smiles at my gift, thanking me as I walk away.
When I get to the office, I hang my coat up and am about to sit at my desk when Branson calls me into his office.
He’s looking down at his computer keyboard as he speaks, “You’ve been gone a long time. I’ve been waiting for the Nielsen report from you. The shareholders meeting is coming up, and we have two failing shows that need revival, or we’re going to have to cancel them.”
I grab the report and then run it over to him. “I didn’t know you were here. I had you scheduled for a long lunch.”
“Well, I’m here and very much in need of an assistant.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have gone to Saks. I just didn’t want to wait any longer because the event is in two days.”
Branson’s head pops up. The frazzled demeanor he just had leaves his expression. “Were you happy?”
I blanch, confused. “Excuse me?”
“Were you happy? With what you picked out?”
“Oh. Yes. I was very pleased. Jasmine did a wonderful job with helping me choose one. You must know that I refuse to let you pay for it. I’m paying you back. For the entire thing.”
“Nonsense.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his foot over his knee. He always looks so handsome when he does this. Like a king on his throne. “I will not take your money, Katherine.”
“I know what you’re saying, but—”
“End of story.” He rises from his chair, dismissing the conversation. “Now, why don’t you and I order lunch in and go over these reports for the shareholders meeting?”
“Order lunch in?” I don’t mean to ask it like a question. I’m just surprised.
Branson and I have never had a working lunch. Not one where we sit in his office and go over reports while having a meal.
He raises his brow, as if he doesn’t understand my objection. I turn around and walk to my desk.
It’s Tuesday, and Branson likes to eat Indian food on Tuesdays, so I place the order. I compile every last bit of research I think he’ll want to go over before his shareholders meeting, the one I’m supposed to give a presentation to next week, and print the data.
When lunch arrives, I walk it into Branson’s office. To my surprise, he moves to the sofa area and sets our food out on the coffee table. The papers are laid out before us.
This is the Branson I like. The one who gives me his attention and asks insightful questions. He listens to me as I explain patterns in the demographic viewings and takes in my suggestions. He gives advice when he thinks I’m off the mark and challenges me to think outside of the box.
This is why I pined for him all those months. He’s so very handsome and smart, and yes, that accent is still so wonderful.
Yet, while I still find him to be the most eligible man in the city, he’s not the man I want anymore.
His pen drops to the ground. He holds his tie close to his chest as he leans down to pick it up. He stays down there a few seconds too long. I glance over and see he’s staring at my feet, and I wonder why.
“Do your socks say, My puns are grate?” he asks, looking at my hideous cheese-grater socks I got from Hunter’s family Christmas party.
I giggle into the back of my hand. “It’s an inside joke.”
Branson dazzles me with his smile. “Care to make it an outside one?”
I smash my lips together and shake my head. “No,” I answer. Not to