instead for tucking an imaginary strand of brown behind her ear to cover her blush. “I better go take care of the flight arrangements,” she said rising. Then she had to go home and pack. Oh, dear Lord, pack! The completely normal task suddenly seemed overwhelming. She was going to have to find Chloe and Larissa to ask them what she should wear. Then, at some point, she needed to tell her insides to settle down. This was a business trip; not a romantic weekend getaway.
“Delilah, wait!” Simon’s baritone reached her just as her foot reached the hallway. “Could you also dig up the name of the florist we use? I need to have some roses delivered.”
In her mind, Delilah heard a soft pop! as her excitement burst. As reminders went, she couldn’t do much harsher. “Sure thing,” she told him. “I’ll get it as soon as I return to my desk.”
Just as she had thought; the invitation was too good to be true.
* * *
Welcome to Boston, the airport sign read. Enjoy Your Visit.
Good old Boston, Massachusetts. Had it really been fifteen years since he’d visited?
Should have been longer, as far as Simon was concerned. Unfortunately, Jim Bartlett decided to base his operations here, and since he needed Jim Bartlett’s business, here he was. Otherwise, he’d never step foot in this godforsaken state again.
His breast pocket buzzed with text messages sent during the flight. Pulling out the phone, he read the top one on the call screen.
Got your roses. Go to hell.
At least she got straight to the point, unlike last night, when she insisted on going on and on.
Why did women always want to talk late at night only to get all dramatic because he’d rather sleep than share his feelings? Seriously, what did Finland think he was going to tell her? The truth? He could imagine how well the truth would go over. Sorry, Fin, but I don’t have deeper feelings. I gave them up fifteen years ago. Here, in Boston. Talk about coming full circle.
At that moment, the town car entered a tunnel, plunging the backseat into shadows. Jarred by the abrupt change, Simon’s mind jumped to a different darkness. Where you going, freshman?
He shoved the voice from his head. He didn’t have time for this when there was so much riding on his performance.
Damn, but the memories hadn’t hit him this hard in years. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
He ran a hand along the back of his neck, grimacing at the dampness under his fingers.
“Headache bothering you? We could stop for some painkillers.”
From her side of the car, Delilah watched him intently. For some reason, the concern in her blue eyes gave him the extra push he needed to regain control. “I’ve already taken more than I should. Another dose and my liver will stop functioning. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. Bartlett won’t even know I’m under the weather.”
“You better be all right because if I have to carry the conversation, the agency’s doomed.” She ran a hand around her ear. “I’m not very good at small talk.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You never seem to have a problem at work.”
“Because I’m talking work and it’s with people I know. Take away my agenda, and I’m screwed.”
Come to think of it, the two of them did seem to limit their conversations to business. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time they had had a personal conversation. His previous assistants shared everything. Delilah appreciated the value of reticence. Almost too much. He needed to remind her to speak her mind more.
“Well, Bartlett made it very clear on the phone he doesn’t want to talk about business at all tonight.” Like a male Finland, he wanted to “get to know them as people.”
“Yep, I’m screwed.”
“I doubt you’re that bad. What about when you go out clubbing? You talk to people then, right?”
She gave him a long, odd look. “If you want me to flirt, we’re in bigger trouble.”
“I don’t want you to flirt.” He tried to picture his assistant as a femme fatale and failed. “Just be yourself. The key to good small talk is to find some common ground. Shared experiences, that sort of thing.”
“What if you don’t have ‘shared experiences’?”
“Then you put the attention back on them. People love to talk about themselves. And if you get really stuck tonight, you can always ask about beer.”
Her response was too soft to hear. “What?”
“I said we’re going to be doing a lot of talking about beer then.”
“So long as they talk about something.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. Damn muscles were as tight as rods. “I don’t have to tell you how important signing this account is. With the economy off, clients are scaling back their ad dollars in all three offices. An account Bartlett’s size would erase the deficit and keep us from having to lay off employees.”
“In other words, the agency’s financial future depends on how well you and I socialize over the next two days.”
She could have been listening in to a conversation with the board of directors, she managed to quote his father so accurately. “You’re catching on.”
“Great. So long as there’s no pressure.”
She didn’t know pressure. Yet again, the expectations his father placed on him were almost insurmountable. Thankfully this time he had an ally. So long as she didn’t clam up from shyness. If he was going to survive visiting Boston, he needed all the support he could get.
* * *
Other than the insignia flag flying over the front door, the University Club looked like all the other brownstones lining the street—stately and old. Jim Bartlett stood on the sidewalk talking with another man when the cab pulled up. If Delilah were to describe him, she would say he looked like his product. Ruddy-faced, he had a shining bald head and a body shaped like a barrel.
He greeted both of them with enthusiasm, clasping Simon’s hand between both of his. “Right on time, even with the baseball traffic. I’m impressed. I just finished betting Josh you were stuck downtown.”
“Josh Bartlett,” his companion said, sticking out his hand. He was a younger version of his father right down to the barrel shape and matching blue blazer.
“And don’t let him fool you. We were the ones stuck in traffic. It’s a pleasure meeting you in person, Delilah. My father’s mentioned you often.”
“In a good way, I hope.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the dampness on her palms.
When she told Simon she didn’t do small talk well, she wasn’t kidding. Too many years of biting her tongue and walking on eggshells made her far better at saying as little as possible. Perhaps if she had a chance to put on the cocktail dress and pumps she packed, she might have more confidence. Unfortunately, thanks
