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“I’m going to head back to the bus,” I said to him as I pushed my chair back from the long dining table. The two of us had stayed at the table with Maya and her husband, Dom, long after everyone else had scattered around the living room to watch a late football game on the large-screen TV. Cheers and jeers had erupted periodically as Maya and Dom discussed Elustre and PennCo Fiber with Thatcher, but once the nanny had appeared to let Maya and Dom know one of their kids was asking for a late good-night kiss, they’d gotten up with their apologies and headed out of the room.
As I moved away from the table, Thatcher caught my wrist. I turned to blink at him. My reflexes were sluggish from the alcohol and the seeping warmth from his grip.
“Today was a good day,” he said.
“Yeah. A really good day,” I murmured.
But then, yesterday had been, too. And the day before. And the day before that.
Every day of this damn trip that I’d thought would be a catastrophe had been incredible, and even the low points had been better with Thatcher there. But the closer we’d gotten, the more we’d talked and shared, the harder it was to remember why I needed to keep my distance. Why I should bother being professional.
Thatcher might still technically be my boss, was still my father’s friend, but he was mine now, too, and it was getting harder not to show it.
Especially when I was tired and a little bit drunk.
His thumb stroked the skin of my wrist while his eyes stayed on mine. “You sure you don’t want to take Maya up on her offer of a bedroom? You’d be more comfortable in a real bed.”
The Martinezes’ huge house was already full of guests. They’d only had one extra bedroom to offer us, but they’d been able to offer McGee a nice parking spot with electricity hookup next to one of the detached garages on the property.
“No,” I said, shaking my head unnecessarily. “I don’t mind the bus.” Honestly, I preferred the bus at this point because it was just for us. On the bus, I was able to stay closer to Thatcher, almost like sharing a suite in a hotel instead of being in separate rooms.
“Want me to come with you?”
I knew he’d promised Dom and a few of the other guys he’d watch some of the game with them after dinner. He’d been having a good time with everyone, and I didn’t want to be the cause of his cutting the night short.
I shook my head again and gave him a reassuring smile. “Nah. Stay and have fun. I’m going to crash. All this fresh air at altitude has worn me out. And the whiskey flight didn’t help.”
It wasn’t a lie, but Thatcher kept his eyes on me a few extra beats as if testing the truth of it.
“If you’re sure.”
He released me, and I made my way to the living room, waving a quick but hazy goodbye to several of the people I’d talked to during the day. I knew I’d have the opportunity to thank Maya and Dom in the morning before leaving, so I didn’t bother waiting for them to return from wherever they’d gone to check on their kid.
The cold air outside woke me up a bit but didn’t sober me up much. When I wove my way down the driveway and knocked on the bus door, McGee was laughing. “Need help?”
“Never try to keep up with pro ballers when they’re tasting fancy whiskey,” I muttered, kicking bits of snow off my shoes before stepping up into the bus.
He closed the door behind me and followed me back to the kitchen area, fussing at me about storing my coat and shoes before dripping all over his floors. When I was finally in my socks and had grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, I threw myself down in one of the recliner seats.
“Hey, kid.” McGee took the seat next to mine and turned to face me. “How’d it go with the Martinezes?”
“Good. Maya loved the samples and is going to put Thatcher in touch with… whatever the name was of the… whoever… needs to…” I wasn’t all that in touch with my memory at the moment.
McGee laughed softly. “Good to know. Where’s the boss?”
I thumbed over my shoulder in the wrong direction. “Still there. Mr. Popular with the ball boys.”
“Okayyy,” he said with a chuckle.
“Baseballers. Pro ballers. The guys on the team. The Boise Thunderclap.”
“Thunderbolts,” McGee corrected.
I waved my hand dismissively. “Whatever. They all want him. Or their wives do. Or I do. All of them.”
McGee looked at me funny, but I didn’t realize what I’d said to give him such a strange reaction. “Did you have a nice time?”
“Mmhm. Good skiing. Good food. Good company. Good prospect with the Zen yoga line. Thatcher was great with them. Got them to agree to an official proposal.”
