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“No, I mean, yes, but there are others. From you kissing me at the winery event. Are they all over your feed?”
I shrug. “I don’t really have a feed, but a few people have sent stuff to me.” I’m downplaying, trying not to freak PJ out since she already seems very freaked out, but the messages I’ve received in the past few minutes are anything but positive.
She scrolls from page to page on her phone, the lines on her forehead growing deeper, her scowl turning into an angry bark. “They’re such assholes. How can they accuse you of being tone deaf just for getting photographed getting coffee?”
She knows the answer, but I say it anyway. “Because I’m in Napa Valley, where some people buy wineries like other people pick up private jets.”
PJ slumps into the soft cushions of a burgundy velvet couch opposite her desk. Above her, an open window lets in enough fresh air to make me aware of the sheen of sweat across my brow. I still can’t decide whether I’m more concerned about my potential media problems or her reaction to them.
“I feel terrible. I should be helping you avoid the media storm, not contributing to it.” She reaches for a pink metal water bottle on her desk, uncaps it, and slugs down half its contents.
I walk over to the couch, sit beside her, and put my hand on her knee. Her leg feels tense under my hand, so I gently massage it, hoping she’ll slow her roll. “You didn’t contribute to it. I’m as much at fault as you for not doing what I was told. It was my idea to kiss you in public and to go out for breakfast, remember?”
“Still, I should know better. This is my job, after all.” She goes back to scrolling on her phone even though I feel certain she’s seen the worst of it. I gently put my hand over hers and guide her to put the phone on the couch between us.
When her eyes meet mine, I see worry and indecision that she hasn’t shown in the time I’ve known her. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Talk to your PR people, tell them you’re working with me as a consultant, and the photos were of the two of us after a meeting. Make sure they punch holes in the gossipy stuff about you being spotted at a movie theater and restaurants and all that. It’s just hearsay since these are the only pictures.”
She looks around her office, the wheels spinning in her head a mile a minute. “Tell them to play up the angle of you and Archer being college friends. Make sure they communicate that you aren’t here touring wine caves, drinking thousand-dollar bottles of wine, or looking to buy property. The optics of youflitting around Napa only look bad if you don’t control the message.”
PJ opens her mouth, surely to launch into another set of rules and publicity tactics, but I gently place a finger over her lips. Her large blue eyes blink at me until I remove my finger and replace it with a kiss. Only then does her body relent, leaning a little more softly against the couch cushion.
“Relax. It’s going to be fine. I’m going back to work on Monday, and I’ll say all the right things in the right places to put this in the rear view. Can we just…try to enjoy the last day together here?”
Nothing changes in PJ’s eyes, but she finally nods her head before resting it on my shoulder. She exhales a long breath, and I finally feel her body relax underneath my arm around her shoulders.
This.Thisis what I’ve been missing from my life for all the years I’ve spent putting astrophysics in front of every other priority. And for the moment, this, having a woman find solace in me, is all I want.
I love her. I want more than two weeks with her, but I’m in uncharted territory. When it comes to space exploration, the feeling of the unknown thrills me. With PJ, it makes me nervous because I’m worried I’ll screw it up.
But I’ll deal with all that on Monday. For today, I have everything I need right here.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Colin
I could have guessed how things would go when I returned to work.
After two weeks away, all the pressures and excitement about the upcoming launch came back at me in spades.
At first, I didn’t mind at all. I was hungry to feel useful, and months of prepping for the next space mission left me exhausted and happy at the end of each day. PJ and I talked on the phone and FaceTimed at night, so it was easy to keep my optimism high. We’d make this work. The week would fly by, and we’d see each other over the weekend.
The good thing about loving my work is that I’ve never been upset about spending sixteen hours a day on it.
When the first weekend rolls around, I cringe at what I need to do. “I’m so sorry. I want to see you, but I’ve fallen so far behind that I need to catch up. It wouldn’t be fair to you if I’m half distracted by work,” I tell PJ when I have to break the news that I’m canceling our plans.
“I get it. You’re doing important work. We’ll see each other next weekend. Right?”
I assure her that we will. “I miss you so much already. Can’t wait to see you.”
Then I get back to work. It’s all-consuming, but I can’t fully get my mojo back, and it concerns me. A part of me is distracted thinking about PJ, picturing her skin under my hands, needing the closeness of her.
I’ll see her in just a few days, I tell myself, and I’ll get the hang of the elusive work-life balance. I need to make it work, not just because I love her, but because I need to prove to myself that I won’t let the same thing that happened to my marriage happen again.
It can’t. It won’t.
“The maître d’ of Cevice called to confirm tonight.” My assistant Kate hovers in the doorway of my office, where I’ve spent most of this week.
