One to Chase - Tia Louise Page 0,5

behind the receptionist’s desk.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Merritt,” I say, choosing to be formal. Don’t want him to think I’m the typical, narcissistic Millennial.

“Are you...” Her eyes flicker to her computer screen. “Amalie Knight?”

She actually got it right. “Yes,” I say with a smile. “You speak French?”

Her cheeks flush a pretty pink as she rises from her seat. “I’ve always dreamed of going to Paris.”

“You should do it!” So often Americans put European trips on this high pedestal, as if they’re impossible to accomplish or would take so much effort. The truth is, traveling to Europe is relatively easy once you have a passport.

“I know.” She shakes her head and looks down as she goes to the wood and glass double doors. “I’ll let Mr. Merritt know you’re here.”

I watch as she strides through them and down the mahogany-paneled hallway. While I wait, I take in the reception area. It’s very traditional, with brass, wood, and leather everywhere. Dark, cherry-wood paneling and stained oak floors. Not a speck of dust or a fingerprint in sight. The entire place smells like a library.

I’m glad I opted for my steel-grey crepe suit. The pencil skirt keeps it from being too masculine, and trust me, such details matter in the Midwest. I’m a feminist, but I also know how to play the game.

“Miss Knight?” Pixie is back. “If you’ll follow me?”

I nod, taking my tan clutch with me. The hall is as elegant as the reception area, and when she arrives at what I assume is Edward Merritt’s office, she steps to the side, allowing me to pass.

“He’s on a call, but he’ll be right with you.”

“Thanks.” I give her a smile. She can’t help it if her boss has no manners.

Stepping around his office, I almost roll my eyes. You know how some men use cars to make up for inadequacies in other areas? This guy clearly uses his office. It’s ridiculous.

Arched, built-in bookshelves hold dozens of leather-bound law books. Recessed lighting casts gleaming reflections off shiny brass accents. High above them, a coffered ceiling adds to the cathedral-like quality of the space. A sanctuary to the law or to this guy’s ego? I have a pretty good idea which.

I go to a circular leather chair and take a seat. The man behind the desk has his back turned, a titanium iPhone pressed to his ear.

He’s tall, and his tan dress-slacks hang nicely on his slender waist. A matching suit coat is on the back of his chair, and a sleek, white button-down covers his broad shoulders. From the way he holds the phone, I can just make out the curve of muscle beneath his long sleeve, and a delicious heat fills my lower stomach. Interesting.

Caramel brown hair touches the top of his collar in slight waves, and I can’t keep the naughty thoughts from filtering through my mind. I wonder if this could turn into something better than a courtesy call.

I dismiss the idea at once. Edward Merritt is practically my brother-in-law. Is that even legal?

Still, I can’t resist the idea of threading my nails through those thick waves, his large hands spanning my ass like...

The Man in Wilmington’s.

A low growl vibrates my throat. It’s so impossibly ridiculous, I’ve given him a label: The Man in Wilmington. As if I would actually think twice about a random hook-up.

Edward chooses that particular moment to remember he has an eleven o’clock appointment and ends his call. Lowering the smart phone, he releases a short exhale and turns.

Everything stops.

The air in his cathedral office freezes.

Everything freezes, including my breath.

I’m pretty sure the shiny brass clock on his stupidly large desk stops ticking.

“What the fuck?” The man, who is most definitely not Edward Merritt, hisses softly.

Years of practice keep me from completely losing it in that moment. I cross my legs and channel all the Gwyneth Paltrow-cool hammered into me from finishing school.

“It’s... You’re...” The Man from Wilmington flicks his phone toward me, but he must not’ve had a good grip. It slips like a bar of soap from his hand and arcs through the air straight into my lap.

Thank god for small mercies. I’m snort a laugh, which cuts the tension at once.

With a teasing smile I lift the small black device and place it on the desktop in front of me. “You’re welcome.”

Going forward, I will never forget his response. It’s splendid in its precision. I can’t help but admire his control. Marcus Merritt sits in his leather-studded chair, and his