Читать книгу One Night, Second Chance - Robyn Grady - Страница 11

Four

The next morning, Wynn arrived at the office early.

By seven, he was downstairs, speaking with his editor-in-chief about a plagiarism claim that was causing the legal department major grief. An hour and a half later, he was heading back upstairs and thinking about Grace. They had parted amicably, to say the least. He thought there was a chance she might even take him up on the invitation to accompany him to Cole’s wedding.

He’d give her a day, and then try her at the hotel. Or he could get her cell number from Brock. Even if she decided not to go to Sydney, he wanted to take her out again. By the time he got back to the States, she would have left New York and gone back to her life in Florida.

Wynn made his way past Daphne’s vacant desk; his assistant was running a little late. A moment later, when he swung open his office door, he was called back—but not by Daphne. Christopher Riggs was striding up behind him, looking as enthusiastic as he had the previous day at his interview.

“Hey, Wynn.” Christopher ran a hand through his hair, pushing a dark wave off his brow. “Daphne wasn’t at her desk. I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were in.”

Wynn flicked a glance at his watch. His next meeting—an important one—wasn’t far off. But he could spare a few minutes.

As they moved inside his office, Christopher’s expression sharpened when something on Wynn’s desk caught his eye—the interconnecting silver L and T of a publishing logo. “La Trobes,” he said.

Leaning back against the edge of the desk, Wynn crossed his arms. “Impress me with your knowledge.”

“I know La Trobes’s publications have a respectable share of the marketplace.”

“Keeping in mind that print share is shrinking.”

“But there are other, even greater opportunities outside of print, if they’re harnessed properly. I’ve given a lot of thought to out-of-the-box strategies and the implementation of facilities for digital readers to be compatible with innovative applications.”

For the next few minutes, Wynn listened to an extended analysis of the digital marketplace. Obviously this guy knew his stuff. But now wasn’t the time to get into a full-blown discussion.

After a few more minutes of Christopher sharing his ideas, Wynn got up from the desk and interrupted. “I have a meeting. We’ll talk later.”

A muscle in Christopher’s jaw jumped twice. He was pumped, ready to let loose with a thousand initiatives. But he quickly reined himself in.

“Of course,” he said, backing up. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Christopher was headed out when Daphne appeared at the open door.

“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” Daphne said. “I didn’t realize—”

As she backed up, her elbow smacked the jamb. When her trusty gold-plated pen jumped from her hand, Christopher swooped to rescue it. As he returned the pen, Wynn didn’t miss the wink he sent its owner. He also noted Daphne’s blush and her preoccupation as Christopher vacated the room.

Rousing herself, she nudged those glasses back up her nose and, in the navy blue dress reserved for Thursdays, moved forward. As Wynn dragged in his seat, Daphne lowered into her regular chair on the other side of his desk. So—head back in the game. First up, before that meeting, he needed to make some arrangements.

“I’m flying to Sydney Monday.”

Daphne crossed her legs and scribbled on her pad. “Returning when?”

“Keep it open.”

“I’ll organize a car to the airport.” She scrunched her pert nose. “Will you need accommodation?”

“We’re all staying at the family home. Guthrie wants us all in one place leading up to the big day.”

If Grace decided to join him, he’d make additional arrangements. Lots of them.

As Daphne took notes, her owlish, violet-blue eyes sparkled behind their lenses. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected his assistant was a romantic. She liked the thought of a wedding. Not so long ago, she had really liked Heather.

The two women had met several times. Daphne had commented on how carefree, beautiful and friendly his partner was. The morning after Heather had left him sitting alone in that restaurant, he’d returned to his apartment and had lain like a fallen redwood on his couch. He’d let his phone ring and ring. He didn’t eat. Didn’t drink. When an urgent knocking had forced him to his feet, he’d found Daphne standing, fretting in his doorway. Looking pale, she’d announced, “I’ve been calling all day.” For the first time in their history, her tone had been heated. Concerned.