48

I tapped a pen against my desk. “Is that not the case?”

“She was merely the messenger. That last day, those plans that have been made, they’re all me.”

A flutter moved into my stomach, its long tendrils rising to my chest. “All you, huh?”

“My assistant doesn’t know the things you’re into or the places you’d like to see.”

I scanned each of the spots we were visiting.

“For example,” he continued, “when we were at your place the other day and you were in your room, packing up your overnight bag to take to my condo, I checked out your bookshelf. There were a few titles about World War II—both fiction and nonfiction on there. So I booked us a tour of the Jewish Museum, thinking you would enjoy that as much as me.”

My eyes closed, my head shaking.

This man.

My God.

“Mr. Boston, you’re quite the thoughtful one.”

“I accept all forms of appreciation as long as they involve your mouth.”

“You’re too much,” I said, laughing, and I hung up.

The moment I set my phone down, I reached for my cell.

Me