Page 26 of Bronson

I smile back, following Bachman across the store. Good to know—Alice isn’t the jealous type. There’s something so soft and welcoming about her, that now I’m working here, I would love to become her friend.

We enter the office.

The empty space on his desk catches my eye.

My stomach tightens.

Before I can lose my nerve, I open my purse and remove the little brass clock. I set it carefully in the exact spot where I remember seeing it.

Bronson closes the office door behind us. His gaze moves from me to the clock.

One dark eyebrow rises. “I wondered when that would find its way home.”

Heat floods my face. “You knew I had it?”

“The security cameras knew you had it.”

“Oh.” I smooth the front of my dress. “Then why didn’t you come after me?”

“I wanted to see what you would do.”

I hate the quiet satisfaction in his voice. Mostly because he has earned it.

“I shouldn’t have taken it,” I mutter.

He goes still. “What did you say?”

I lift my eyes to his. This time, I force myself not to make an excuse. “I said I shouldn’t have taken it. It belonged to you. I was angry, and I wanted to prove you hadn’t gotten the better of me.”

“And did you prove it?”

“No. The damned thing kept me awake half the night.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He runs one finger over the curved brass top. Something unexpectedly tender moves across his face.

“It belonged to my mother.”

Shame hits me so hard I feel it in my stomach. “Bronson, I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

His gaze searches mine, as if the words matter more than I want them to. “Apology accepted.”

“That’s it?”

His eyes darken. “Returning it does not mean there will be no consequences for taking it.”

My bottom tingles beneath my dress. “Of course it doesn’t.”

But when he places the clock back in its proper spot, something inside me settles too.

Always the gentleman, Bachman helps me out of the coat. Handing it to me, he says, “You can hang it right there.” He gestures to the hooks behind the closed door. There are no coats hanging there, other than his. Where’s Alice’s? Surely, she had worn one in today.

I hang the coat on the hook. I’m sad to be parted from her. I give her one farewell pat with my hand. “Goodbye, gorgeous.”

I turn to find Bachman chuckling at me. Throwing my hands on my hips, I demand, “What’d you expect? She’s my first Daughtry.” I realize that what I just said sounded like I was expecting him to buy me more pieces in the future. That I thought this was more than a one-off charity case. I quickly add, “And my only. So, I want to be sure she knows⁠—”