“Did you just compare my laugh to a dead bird?” he says, smiling in a way that should come with a warning label.
I shrug, trying to hide my embarrassment. “I meant it in the most rare, National Geographic kinda way.”
“Great.” He chuckles. “You’ve officially made me self-conscious about my laugh.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t even know you.” I hold out my hand and catch a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “Hi, I’m Jenna.”
“Dylan Hayes,” he says, wiping his hand on his jeans before shaking my hand, gently but firmly. “And apparently, an endangered species, here to make your office dreams come true.”
“Well, Dylan,” I mutter, attempting a recovery. “Good luck. I’m the worst at making decisions.”
“Good thing I’m great at helping people figure out what they want,” he replies, his expression teasing yet oddly comforting.
Handsome, decisive, charming. And he works with his hands? Yeah, I'm in trouble.
“Awesome,” I say, tucking a loose hair behind my ear. “Can you help me figure out what I want in all areas of my life?”
Oh my God. Did I just ask a complete stranger to help me fix my life? Why is my filter short-circuiting with him?
His smile deepens, and I swear it’s physically impossible not to look at those dimples. “I’d love to, but my expertise is limited to office renos and making the best fried hot chicken and homemade ice cream you’ll ever taste.”
Did I say trouble? No. I meant full-blown catastrophe. First, the tools, now he cooks and makes homemade ice cream? If this man also plays the guitar, I might have to call HR on myself and beg for a leave of absence.
“Oh no!” I gasp, as my brain finally registers the squished banana on the floor. “Lily’s art project! I was supposed to drop it off at school during lunch! She's my eleven-year-old going on sixteen.”
Dylan walks over and grabs a lunch bag off the windowsill. “Want me to help you make a new one? You can have my banana,” he says with a grin, pulling one out.
I glance at it, but my eyes slip lower—to the bulge in his jeans, then down to his unusually large feet. My face flames again, and I scramble to stay composed. “Sure. Lily and I would appreciate it,” I manage to say, even though my mind’s screamingmarried, married, married.
We stand side by side at my desk as he carefully glues the pieces back together, his forearms flexing with each squeeze of the bottle. The low hum of the radio, mixed with the soundof coworkers shouting in the hall, and tools clattering fills the silence.
When his eyes meet mine, it feels a little too intimate. “There,” he mutters, handing me the finished dolphin. Warm tingling shoots up my arm as his hands brush mine. “Good as new.”
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice a little shaky.
“You know, I love kids,” he says, stacking the papers I dropped. “I’ve got two little ones waiting for me at home.”
Wait—what? He has kids. The words catch me off guard. And now I’m wondering how old he is.
He smirks. “Okay, I lied. They’re ten and twelve. Mostly drool and beg for belly rubs and walks outside.”
Ah. Dogs. Of course. I imagine him with golden retrievers, or something equally adorable, and laugh. “You do look a little young for tweens.”
“Not that young—turned thirty-three June eighteenth,” he adds, his smile softening. “And I can say the same about you. Never would’ve guessed you’re a mom to an eleven-year-old.”
I snort. “Smooth. Is that your subtle way of calling me old or young?”
“Neither,” he says, cocking his brow. “Just an observation.” There’s something in his tone, not flirtatious, but it makes my heart beat faster.
Doomed, doomed, doomed, my brain chants. But it’s no use. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like someone sees me as more than a mother, wife, or employer. And it’s intoxicating.
“What do you do here at Elegant Affairs?” Dylan asks, leaning against my desk, crossing his arms and feet.
“I’m an event planner—or I’m supposed to be. Most days, I’m just an overworked assistant. Between phone calls and invoices, there’s no time for the creative stuff.” I pause, the frustrationlikely noticeable in my tone. “But I stay, trying to learn more. Maybe run my own business one day.”
“What are you working on now?” His voice sounds unexpectedly sincere.
“Nothing exciting,” I say, glancing toward the corner where a stack of empty boxes waits. “Just another stuffy gala for a thousand people with too much money and no clue what to do with it.”
