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I was talking about him. I didn’t realize I had relayed every detail, or that I liked the fact that he texted me, and not about work. That I liked that Cumberland reads my blog, that he shares his thoughts on it. That his Prada shirts look so damn good on his lithe frame, that his intensity is so intriguing, that his sexy deep British voice reverberates in my head.
    Yes, I am attracted to William Cumberland .
    I didn’t realize it because I have never felt this way before, had this kind of attraction to a man like this.
    But as Reese said, he’s off-limits. I know that. Like he’d even look at me anyway. I’m just the quirky American assistant he’s helping along the career trail. He’s like a mentor.
    And he doesn’t date anyway.
    But if he did, Cumberland would date someone as equally sophisticated as him.
    Like a British society woman.
    I bite my lip. Even though I know all that is true, how come I don’t like that answer very much?

Chapter 6
    By the second week of February, my decorating project is complete.
    I stand in Cumberland’s office and take one final assessment. He is due back any minute now. I arranged for the car service to pick him up at O’Hare after a trip to London and New York. And I want everything to be just perfect for the reveal.
    I purchased some silver lamps and vintage office accessories to spruce up his office. I pick up the pair of antique binoculars that I have strategically placed on his desk. I added plants, hunter green and plum plaid pillows for the tweed guest couch, a plum rug for a pop of color.
    I smile with satisfaction. Cumberland just told me to run with the décor and surprise him like one of the shows on the Beautiful Homes Network. And I cannot wait to see his reaction to his new office.
    Suddenly I hear him. That deep British voice talking into his cell from down the hall. A shiver instantly shoots down my spine in response.
    “Ms. Dalton, I sincerely hope after all this time you are able to render a decision like that on your own,” he says firmly. “. . . Yes . . . No. Absolutely not. Do not even discuss her with me—”
    Cumberland stops speaking as soon as he sees me in his office.
    I bite my lower lip, wishing he’d finish that sentence. Who was he talking about? What woman would he not want Arabella to talk about?
    My heart leaps for a brief second. Me? Could he be talking about me?
    Oh my God! Am I on drugs? Why would he be talking about me? Cumberland could be talking about anyone .
    “I need to terminate this call,” he says, his light blue eyes burning into mine with such intensity that my stomach does a flip. Cumberland punches his phone and stands in his doorway, staring at me.
    I swallow hard. Good Lord. The man can wear a scarf and trench coat like nobody’s business.
    “Good to see you, Ms. Grant,” he says, his voice in a completely different tone than it was a second ago.
    “Welcome back to Chicago, Mr. Cumberland,” I say.
    Cumberland steps into the office and stops.
    I watch as his eyes widen and dart and I can tell he is assessing every detail, every change, every addition I have made.
    “Ms. Grant,” he says, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto his desk in a smooth, fluid motion, “I have to say this is rather impressive. I think it is brilliant. Just brilliant.”
    Okay, why do I feel like doing cartwheels across his office?
    “Thank you. I’m glad to hear that,” I say honestly.
    Cumberland takes off his scarf and trench and moves behind me to hang them up. As he goes past me I smell him, the scent of pine needles and soap on his pale skin. Sexy smelling. Very sexy indeed.
    He moves around the office, picking up objects and inspecting them closely. Finally he picks up the binoculars and I can’t contain my excitement about them.
    “Aren’t those cool?” I say excitedly. “I found them in a little antique shop out in Long Grove,” I say, referring to the suburban Chicago town. “They are my second most favorite