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Kirkland 2(5)

By´╝ÜGlenna Sinclair

I was not the kind of girl a guy like Mr. Handsome could possibly want. Yet, he was outside waiting for me.

I shoved my apron in my bag and tucked my blouse into my jeans. That was about as good as it was going to get.

He was still staring at his phone when I walked up to his table. I waited for him to notice me, a little reluctant to interrupt what looked like something important if his slight frown was any indication.

But then it took him so long to look up that I was beginning to feel like a fool. Other customers were staring, a couple of college girls whispering and pointing. I cleared my throat.

“Hey,” he said, that frown instantly disappearing as his eyes moved over me. “You ready to go?”

“Whenever you are.”

He immediately stood and slid that phone into his back pocket. “I’m parked out back,” he said, gesturing for me to lead the way.

There was a pickup truck and a BMW at the back of the parking lot. I assumed the pickup truck was his. I mean, it seemed like a reasonable assumption. He was a construction worker dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. So, I was more than mildly surprised when he walked to the Beemer.

He opened the passenger side door and gestured widely with his hand.

“You first, my lady.”

“Why thank you, sir.”

I climbed in, afraid to touch anything. The last time I’d ridden in a Beemer, I accidentally reset all the preprogrammed radio buttons. Granted, I was five, but it was still one of my least proud moments. So I sat on my hands until he opened the door. Then I pulled them out and clutched them in my lap, afraid he’d think I was odd if he saw me sitting on my hands like a five year old.

We drove in awkward silence for a few minutes. I didn’t know what to say. And he didn’t seem too inclined to lessen the awkwardness by saying something to break the silence. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot of a popular restaurant.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “Do you like pasta?”


He got out of the car and came around to help me. He took my hand, and his skin was so soft, so warm, that thoughts I probably shouldn’t be having this early—like the thought of how nice that hand would feel on my belly, between my thighs—were surging through me until I had to bite my lip, hoping that little bit of pain would bring my thoughts back to the practical.

After we were seated, he ordered a nice bottle of red wine, and we both settled on the shrimp scampi. Suddenly, we were left staring at each other. I picked up my wine glass and sipped a little of the cool liquid, quite impressed with the dry, but not bitter taste.

“I guess you’re wondering why I invited you to dinner.”

“I was curious.”

He pressed his hands to the table and stared at them for a minute, as though he was nervous. Then he looked up at me, his eyes searching my face for a second.

“Do you remember when you filled out the paperwork for the application to work at Thorn Construction?”

I nodded.

“There was a nondisclosure clause in all of that.”

I remembered. I thought it was kind of odd that it would be included, but I signed it because I really wanted the job. The fact that he was bringing it up now made me wonder if this was more than just a simple date.

“The clause is still in effect even though you weren’t offered a job.”


“So what I’m about to say to you, you can’t tell anyone without penalty.”

Apparently, I was wrong; this clearly this wasn’t a date. “Are you offering me a job?” It was the least I could hope for. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in me. I had known that part was too good to be true.

He tilted his head slightly. “You can think of it that way.”

But then he picked up his glass and took a deep swallow, emptying the glass with that one gulp. He seemed nervous, and I didn’t understand why. If he was offering me a job…

“I don’t even your name,” I said suddenly.

He looked up, his eyes widened. “I thought you knew who I was.” And then he laughed. “Now that makes all this even more awkward.” He reached across the table, his hand outstretched. “I’m Miles Thorn.”

My heart skipped a beat, as much from the name he offered as the hand that touched mine with strength and virility. Miles Thorn. Miles Thorn was CEO of Thorn Construction.

I’d thought he was just a construction worker.

At least that explained the BMW.

He poured us both another glass of wine—I hadn’t even realized I’d finished mine—and sat back again, his eyes studying me as though he expected some sort of odd reaction. I didn’t know what to say. I mean…damn, I didn’t know what to say when I thought he was a nobody. Now that I knew he was somebody, what was there to say?