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“I just wanted to call and let you know I’m having a courier drop off a replacement bike at the co-op.”
“A bike? For me?”
“Yes. Consider it a gift.”
My emotions are everywhere. Half of me wants to jump at the opportunity to solve one of the dozen problems crushing me at the moment. The other half of me is smart enough not to accept a gift from James without knowing his intentions first.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to be in your debt,” I reason. “Besides, my mother taught me not to take gifts from strangers.”
Calling him a stranger is a petty jab, but the rest is true. I don’t know what kind of strings come attached to gifts from James Ashwood.
“Brooke.” He sighs as if he doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “I forced you to get in my car. I put your bike in the trunk. Forget that I called it a gift. It’s the least I can do for putting you through that wreck.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Please just let me do this. It’s nothing.”
I stare down at my finger twisting my duvet cover into a tight spiral. “So you bought it for me out of guilt?”
“Does it matter why I bought it?”
Yes. I want to know the real reason, because if it is just out of guilt, that’s one thing, and maybe I’d keep it if that were the case. But, if it’s something else, a motive that runs a little deeper, I’d like to know. Still, he sounds exasperated, and I need a new bike. James feels like he owes me one, so I’ll accept the gift, and when I’ve saved up enough to buy my own, I’ll give it back.
“Okay,” I concede. “Well, thank you.”
“He should be there in a few minutes.”
“I’ll head outside in a second.”
I’m standing up, pulling a sweatshirt on over my pajamas, when he admits, “I wasn’t sure what color to get.”
“You didn’t outsource the job to Beth?”
“No. It only took a few minutes,” he says, quick to downplay the significance.
Even so, I smile thinking of him picking out my bike himself. Then I frown, thinking of him picking out my bike himself.
Outside, the sun is setting behind the houses across the street, and cicadas nearly drown out the sound of children playing a few blocks over. I plop down on the curb and glance left and right, checking for the courier.
“Okay, well, I’m outside now.”
A long pause follows and I wait for the inevitable goodbye. Instead, he says, “I saw your text the other day.”
My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. “You saw it, but didn’t reply.”
“I saw it, but didn’t reply,” he echoes.
I chuckle. “I know you’re a little older, but text messages aren’t like paper letters—you’re allowed to respond immediately.”
His tone doesn’t carry the same amusement as mine when he replies, “I thought it was probably best to give you a little space.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“This phone call?”
I know what he’s really hinting at, but I refuse to acknowledge his concerns because they’re my concerns too, and if we both agree that this is a bad idea, it’ll end. No reason for any more phone calls.
“How was your day today?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away, so I sigh, “C’mon, it’s a platonic question. Pretend I’m your friend.”
“My day was fine. Busy. I’m still at the office, actually.”
“But the sun’s about to set.”
“I missed it rising too.”
I frown thinking of him locked away in his office all day and all night.
“Well, spoiler: it looks the same as it did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.”
He laughs, and then I hear the hinges of his chair squeal. I picture him sitting behind his desk, loosening his tie and tilting his head toward the ceiling. Maybe it’s the first time he’s taken a deep breath all day.
“I took our new CFO to the club for lunch today. I didn’t see you there.”
Was he hoping to?
“I had a job interview.”
“How’d it go?”
“Oh, you know.” I drag my Birkenstocks back and forth along the concrete. “Not that great.”
“Why do you think that?”
I laugh, thinking over the worst parts of the interview. “I could just tell, but it’s fine, because I was actually hoping to work at Twin Oaks until I die. I bet the mortician will let me wear my uniform to my grave.”
He chuckles. “You won’t stay forever.”
“No, probably just until forever isn’t very long anymore.”
“I could hire you.”
I burst out laughing.
“Yeah, c’mon,” he goads. “You could teach me French.”
“Uh huh, right.”
“Bonsoir.”
Oh Jesus, even his terrible French accent is sexy.
“Say something,” he urges.
“Si seulement les choses avaient été différentes.”
“What does that mean?” he asks with a dark, husky tone.
I tell him to look it up if he wants to know.
