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“This one can’t go in the paper, Thompson. Understood?”
“Yes, boss.” She nods solemnly.
“I used to ride a motorcycle.”
“What?” she chokes out and then flops onto her back. “You’ve done it. You killed me. I’ve officially expired.”
I nudge her with my toe.
“Leave me alone.” She shuts her eyes. “I’m picturing you shirtless on a motorcycle. I can die happy.”
“I most definitely did not ride it shirtless. That’s a great way to get injured. Road burn is not pretty.”
“Shut it.” Her full lips are curved up, like this is the best fantasy she’s ever entertained. “So when did you stop?”
“Years ago. It didn’t really fit with the personality I tried to cultivate.” Why am I being so honest with her? Even Miles doesn’t know about the motorcycle. “I was very different at nineteen.”
“What were you like? I can’t picture it. In fact, I assumed you were born wearing a bespoke suit.”
I grin. “I wore a chain in high school.”
“No way.” She sits up. “A chain?”
“Oh yes. I wore a chain, I had a thick New Jersey accent, and I thought J. Crew button-downs were fancy.”
“Heaven forbid.” She’s smiling though. “Did you take your girls on dates to Olive Garden?”
“You know, I think I did. But only if I really wanted to impress them.”
She starts laughing and my chest warms. I don’t talk about my past. Christine says I’m ashamed of my roots, but it’s not that simple. I’d rather just pretend it never happened. The man I am today is respected, feared. The boy I was then had no idea what the world held. Naïve and overly confident. The worst combination.
“When did you get rid of it?”
“I didn’t.” I wink. Callie’s mouth forms an O and I want to kiss her. And then, even though I haven’t been on it in years, and I must truly be losing my mind, I say, “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you ride it.”
* * *
On Wednesday, Callie tells me that the first batch of documents from our FOIA request has been received.
“We need to start going through them.” She’s tapping her pen against her lips while I lounge on the couch next to her.
“Hmm?” She’s stunning today. Her dark hair is up and her dress is a deep navy that brings out the color of her eyes. It’s definitely not work appropriate, like all of her outfits, which makes it my favorite.
“Are you listening?”
“I’m fantasizing about peeling that dress off you and seeing how many orgasms I can get out of you before my next meeting.”
Her jaw drops, and her cheeks go pink.
“Focus.” She pokes me in the thigh.
“Poke me again, Thompson,” I growl. “See what happens.”
“I need to start combing through the documents. I just need to figure out where to start.” She flips pages. “When I’m doing this for the paper, I usually start with the most personal stuff, but this is business.” She makes a thoughtful sound.
My stomach sours a little at the mention of her work. I try not to think about it, but it’s always there. Be sure. Andrew’s words echo in my head. I’m still not sure, and she’s not asking, so limbo is where we’ll be. A limbo in which I think about her constantly and fantasize about her in my free time, and even during meetings.
She heads for her desk and I head to my meeting, and for the first time in years, I’m bored. I’m never bored. Boredom is for people who are too stupid to take interest in the world around them. I can’t fathom boredom. And yet, as I negotiate against this investor, with only half my brain, the other half wonders what Callie is having for lunch, whether she might want to go to a concert that Christine keeps badgering me about. The baby shower. The thought pops into my head. I will it away. But it keeps coming back. I could take Callie. She would love Christine. She’d have fun. She’d make it halfway bearable for me to pretend to like tiny cupcakes and small talk.
