Ironically, I’d been flustered over the sight of her. She was lovely.

Alas . . . “She’s the one who seemed concerned you were leaving for a month?”

I could practically see Tony’s head growing, and he smiled proudly. “That’s right.”

“Is it really necessary to send someone, though?” I asked. “Most of the meetings will be logistics anyway. Engineering was only going to advise.”

“Aw, ya prat. I’m sure you can get her to go to the titty bars with you.”

I groaned inwardly. “That isn’t—”

“And besides,” he interrupted, “she’s fit as all fuck. You may not need a girly bar if you’re getting a leg over on Ruby. All legs, good tits, bloody fantastic face.”

“Tony,” I said with steady calm, “I’m not going to ‘get a leg over’ on an intern.”

“Maybe you should. If I wasn’t tied down, I sure as fuck would pull that.” He let the silence bounce around the room, and I tried to hide my disgust that he seemed more disappointed that he was unable to shag Ruby than worried that his wife had gone into labor early. “How long since you’ve been out?”

I blinked away from his challenging expression, looking down at my desk. I hadn’t dated since the divorce and, except for the drunken grope I’d received at the pub a few weeks back, hadn’t been close to a woman in what felt like forever.

“Right, so you’re staying here,” I deflected, “and Ruby is coming along to New York. Have you gone over the agenda with her?”

“I told her the agenda is you get there, hit the bars, get pissed, get a leg over.”

I wiped a hand over my face, groaning. “Bloody hell.”

He laughed, turning and walking to my door. “Of course I gave her the agenda. I’m just taking the piss. She’s a good one, Niall. She may even impress the likes of you.”

* * *

I was alone in the lift, heading out for the night, when Ruby stepped in just as the doors were closing. Our eyes met, I coughed harshly, her breath caught . . . and descending in the weighted silence became immediately dreadful.

The lift moved too slowly.

The quiet felt enormous.

We were going on a business trip together, and glancing at her now—young and energetic and, admittedly, unbelievably beautiful—I registered we would be required to chat and get on, and there were few things I was worse at than talking up women.

She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped, falling back into silence. When she looked at me and I looked over, she blinked away. Just as the doors opened in the lobby, I gestured for her to lead us out, and instead of moving, she nearly shouted, “Looks like we’re going away together!”

“Too right,” I said, but my smile felt stiff.

Try, Niall. Try to get it out of robot mode for at least one conversation.

Nothing. My brain felt like a sieve, completely void of social pleasantries. And she still didn’t exit the lift.

The moment needed to end. I was bloody awful at small talk, and close up, she was even more attractive than I’d expected. Several inches shorter than I, but by no means short, Ruby was willowy and toned, with short, playfully mussed golden hair, sun-kissed cheeks . . . and a truly perfect mouth.

Ruby was rather exquisite. On some strange instinct, I held my breath.

She shrugged a little, smiling. “I’m from the States but I’ve never been to New York. I’m really excited.”

“Ah. Well . . .” I searched for a good response, looking around the small space before eventually settling on “That’s good.”

I groaned inwardly. That was bad, even for me.

Her eyes were enormous, green and so clear I registered with one glance down at them that she was unlikely to be a very good liar: her entire world spilled out her through those eyes, and right now she was an anxious heap.

I was a VP at the firm. Of course she was nervous around me.

“Will we meet at the airport on Monday morning?” she asked, looking back up. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips and I fixed my attention to the middle of her forehead.

“Yes, I believe so,” I began and then stopped. Was I meant to arrange a car for the two of us? Dear God, if three minutes in a lift was this bad, I couldn’t fathom how claustrophobic the forty-five-minute commute to Heathrow would feel. “Unless—”

“I don’t—”

“You—”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, cheeks bright. “I interrupted you. Go ahead.”