Page 32 of Tempting Mr. Knightly

He respected the process. He’d built his career on due diligence.

Knox: I’ll see what my schedule allows.

He sent it and immediately hated it. It sounded like a man declining a meeting invitation, not a man who’d stood in a dark kitchen at two in the morning learning to fold ganache while the woman who taught him rested her fingers on his and told him to be lighter.

He hadn’t kissed her. He’d had three full seconds and her fingers on his wrist and every reasonable opening, and he’d stepped back instead. He’d feared it, with the dread of a number that wouldn’t reconcile no matter how many times he ran it.

Now a file waited, and he was not ready to learn what it held. The 2018 archives were something he’d have to face before he faced her.

You didn’t start a thing you weren’t prepared to finish honestly.

Three dots appeared. Jane was typing.

Jane: That’s the most corporate response I’ve ever received outside a job rejection. Four o’clock. Be human.

Knox saved the number, filed the contact under “Wang, Jane,” and then changed it to “Jane” because filing a twenty-three-year-old grad student under her last name felt like further evidence of the exact problem Lucy had with him.

He slid the phone to the far edge of the desk, screen dark. It stayed there almost a minute.

Ronan appeared at his door. “You received a data request form at eight forty-five. The request field is blank. Did you intend to submit it empty, or are you experiencing a workflow interruption?”

“I haven’t submitted a request yet.”

“The system logged an access attempt on the 2018 archives. Read-only. Your credentials.” Ronan’s voice was neutral, but his eyes were not. “Is there something I should know?”

“Not yet.”

“What about when there is?”

“You’ll be the second person I tell.”

“Who’s first?”

Knox considered this. “Lucy.”

Ronan nodded. He set another coffee on the desk. It was as terrible as every cup from the machine he’d bought for the office with his own money, because he believed that providing hot beverages was an expression of care, and Devney had told him it was, and Ronan trusted Devney’s assessment of human behavior more than any textbook.

Knox drank it.

“For what it’s worth,” Ronan said from the doorway, “Devney says Lucy made madeleines.”

Knox looked up. “She doesn’t make madeleines. They’re not on her menu.”

“Devney says that’s the point. She made them in the middle of the night, and Devney swears she’s never made them before.”

Knox said nothing. He’d left the bakery a little after two. An hour later she’d made something that wasn’t on her menu and, if Devney was right, had never been made for anyone. He ran the arithmetic twice because he didn’t trust it the first time. Both runs came back the same. Hope.

Ronan studied him. “Devney says that’s significant.”

“So I gathered.”

He paused. “I’ve been reading about love languages…”

“Ronan.”

“Mine is acts of service. Devney’s is quality time. I made a chart. Would you like to see the chart?”

“I would not.”