Page 8 of Staking His Claim
Waiting for the glass door to shut behind me, I suddenly became aware that with only parts of the glass walls that constituted the office partitions shrouded, anyone walking past would see me handing Fletcher his gift.
Granted his corner office wasn’t heavily trafficked but even his PA could look in and see.
I glanced out into the corridor and bit my lip.
“Would you like me to activate the privacy glass, Emily?”
Would I? On the one hand it felt like I was overblowing the importance of my role in his divorce. But on the other, I wanted to be a part of it. Thegoodpart.
Without awaiting my response, Fletcher returned to his desk, picked up the tiny remote and pressed the button. Immediately, the glass clouded.
From past experience, I knew that despite the door not being locked, anyone who needed Fletcher now would knock and wait to be invited in before entering. That made me feel a little better as I reached into my tote and brought out the tall object swathed in black and gold silk wrapping.
Dropping my bag on the chair, I held it out as he walked to where I stood.
“Champagne seemed a bit…” I shrugged. “I went with this instead. I hope you like it,” I tagged on, cringing at my feeble, hopeful voice.
He took it but didn’t open it immediately. “You bought me a gift?” His voice held zero inflection. It was the kind of voice he used sometimes in the courtroom, when he wanted to catch opponents off-guard.
Damn, Ihadoverstepped.
My palms went clammy, and I was scrambling around for an excuse when he attacked the wrapper. And gave a low, appreciative whistle when he saw what he’d uncovered.
“Emily, this is a $3000 bottle of Macallan 21.”
My palms got clammier. I should’ve gone with my third instinct and gotten him a $100 paperweight or something equally banal. “It’s what you drink, isn’t it? Did I get it wrong?” I didn’t. I knew everything there was to know about this man.
And from the hooded look he flicked at me, I was sure he suspected that too. “You know you didn’t.” His gentle chiding held a layer of contemplation.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Was he about to call me out for my fixation?
I couldn’t look him in the face. I didn’t want to see his condemnation. Instead, I watched him open the top of the box and draw out the stylish glass bottle.
The way he cradled it in his large hands said he appreciated it. Enough not to shove it back and tell me how inappropriate I’d been. And yeah, in hindsight, it was a shedload of money.
Grandpa Hartley would probably turn in his grave if he knew I had spent a chunk of the inheritance he left me on a gift for my boss. But I hoped he would understand. After all, he drove cross-country without stopping to beg Grandma for a second date after falling in love with her at first sight.
And while my family wasn’t insanely wealthy like Fletcher Knight of the very well-heeled Chicago Knights, my general salary and the bonus I received at Christmas two months ago was more than enough to keep me afloat.
Besides, between the long hours and sometimes weekends Fletcher demanded I work, I hardly socialized. Not that I wanted to.
“It’s a beautiful, thoughtful gift, Emily. Thank you.”
Heady relief flooded me. “My pleasure. You deserve it after what you've been through,” I added, softly.
3
Emily
His fingers curled tighter around the bottle for a second before he gave another of those abrupt nods. “We should christen this. Will you join me for a drink?”
“Sure,” I responded, surreptitiously rubbing my damp palms on my skirt.
He turned and started to walk towards the liquor cabinet but then paused at his desk. Leaning over, he hit the intercom. “Lauren?”
“Yes, Mr. Knight,” his PA answered.
