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A chorus of cries sounds, and then all the orange shirts are racing to step over me, one of them landing a kick.
Susan, I’m looking at you.
The chase is on outside, and this time Static is trying to help.
I jackknife up to sit and rub my hands over my face, wondering if this day can get any worse when?—
What the?—?
I open my eyes and find two paws pressed against my chest. The blur is staring at me from three inches away, one ear straight up, the other flopped down, overlong tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, and tail wagging so hard his whole body moves with it.
I raise a brow and look out at where Susan, Static, and the other orange shirts are checking under cars and behind dumpsters.
I look him in the eyes. One eye. “Really?”
He cocks his head like he’s actually listening, and I give him a rub before gathering him into my chest and standing up to let everyone know the blur has been secured. And it’s time to get this PR piece done.
17
Lara
After the intensity of submitting my presentation followed by last night’s unexpected turn of events, I climbed into bed with Ben, bracing for a sleepless night of vigilantly maintaining a six-inch buffer between us.
Unnecessary, as it turns out. I slept straight through to my alarm at five.
Ben was long gone. The sheets cool on his side. No sign he’d even been there, except for the faint lingering scent of his soap on my spare pillow… which I only sniffed once. Okay, once when I woke up with my nose buried in it. And then once more after I’d showered and dressed for work. But that was just curiosity.
Me wondering how long that fresh mix of spice, soap, and Ben would last, speculating as to whether it might still smell like him when I got home.
A quick search of the apartment revealed he wasn’t in the back office or his room or out front.
I hope I didn’t keep him awake. I haven’t slept, slept with anyone in a few years, and for all I know, I’ve started snoring like a bear, and Ben was forced to retreat to…
A hotel? His sister’s spare room? A teammate’s place?
A hookup’s bed?
Wouldn’t be a stretch. The man probably has a few hundred women begging to make themselves available at the drop of a hat trick.
Totally fine. Great for him.
I want to mean it, but then I’m chewing my thumbnail wondering what if he decides it’s just easier to stay somewhere else tonight too?
None of my business and nothing I have feelings about one way or another.
Gah.
My lies would be a heck of a lot easier to buy if I wasn’t currently standing in the open doorway to his room, staring at his stripped bed and swept floor with this betraying knot of dread deep in my belly.
I fill my travel mug and tuck my laptop into my oversized tote. Take a few steps toward the door, debating whether I should text him— when I jolt to a stop.
My presentation.
Oh my God, here I am sniffing pillows— yes, I hit it again —while my project, months in development, hangs in the balance.
It’s too soon for anyone to have looked at it. Not before six a.m., but once people start rolling into the office or opening their email on the train, I want to be ready to answer questions, take feedback, and revise as necessary.
Which means, priorities, girl!
