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Dear God, I hope not.
I leave the table without a word and decide lunch is overrated. My time would be better spent locked inside my dressing room, hiding from my problems.Wednesday night at Cal’s should be a nice reprieve. I walk in, toss my bag on the floor beside the door, and go searching for Ava.
She’s in the kitchen, finishing up dinner. I walk up to her and rest my head on her shoulder.
She laughs. “Long day?”
“Longest.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not in the least.”
She kisses the top of my head and assures me, “I’ll make your favorite dessert.”
Unfortunately, Cal doesn’t get the memo to go easy on me.
“I’m considering bumping Thomas up to Head of Entertainment when Pam retires,” he announces while we eat.
Makes sense. He’s too qualified for his current role anyway, and his end goal was always to run the department.
“That’ll leave his current position open,” Cal continues.
I understand where he’s headed because we’ve gone down this road before. Many times.
“Could you pass the salt?”
He ignores me.
“I think you’re more than qualified to take his position.” I push food around my plate. “And you’re going to have to consider the possibility of leaving your current post one day. Why not now?”
“I like my job.”
“What’s your long-term plan?”
I sigh. “Can’t we just eat dinner?”
It’s times like this that our roles as mentor/mentee blend into father/daughter. It’s like I’ve forgotten he’s Charles Knightley. Right now, he’s just Cal, pushing me out of my comfort zone.
I don’t like it.
I want Ava and her warm apple-pie-baking hugs.
I can sense he’s not going to drop the subject until I give him an answer.
With a sigh, I say, “I guess I’ll work where I am until it no longer makes sense, and then I’ll decide what to do then. Hey, maybe I’ll just go back to selling balloons on Castle Drive.”
He studies me, quiet. His astute ability to cut through my layers reminds me of Derek. Then he nods, “All right. If that’s what will make you happy.”
I think about that word through the rest of dinner. I haven’t really been happy for the last few weeks. I’ve been living on the edge of my seat. Waiting. If I have any hope of regaining some semblance of happiness, I need to take control of this situation with Derek, steer it in a direction I’m comfortable with. So, just before I leave, I ask Cal for Derek’s new address. If he’s curious about why I need it, he doesn’t let on.
I head straight to the exec apartment complex after leaving Cal’s.
Inside, I head for the bank of elevators just past the lobby, but I’m stopped by a woman behind the reception desk. Her hair is pulled up into a severe bun. Her suit is jet black. Her nails are trimmed and neat.
Apparently, all residents have to show an ID for security purposes. I have my work badge, but it doesn’t suffice.
“Who are you here to see? I’ll call.”
“Oh, um…Derek Knightley.”
Her skeptical glare doesn’t go unnoticed. She likely thinks I’m some kind of groupie here to invade his privacy. Still, she places the call while staring at me down the bridge of her nose.
“Yes, Mr. Knightley, sorry to disturb you. There’s a Whitney Atwood here to see you. Should I send her up or…?”
Send her packing.
The pause that follows seems infinite, then she nods and says, “Right, thank you, sir. She’s on her way.”
The elevator ride is quicker than I would have liked. I’m already at his door, about to knock when I take a moment to glance down. Ah yes, my appearance. I’m wearing a thin cream sweater dress and flats. My hair is still pinned up from my shift at the park, though a healthy amount has escaped. I wished I’d thought to glance in a mirror before leaving Cal’s because if there’s food stuck in my teeth, it’s too late to fix it now. The door swings open before my fist makes contact.
Thomas grins down at me. “Whitney! I didn’t realize you’d be joining us for poker night.”
I can feel the color drain from my face as he ushers me into Derek’s foyer then farther into the dining room. Inside the luxurious space, three guys sit around a large circular table, cards in their hands, dark liquor held in thick crystal glasses. Poker chips in towering stacks mark each man’s place at the table. Directly across from where I stand, Derek sits wearing a crisp white button-down, his tan chest barely visible at the collar where he’s undone two buttons. His brown hair is slightly tousled. He assesses me with cool intrigue.
“Sorry to show up here unannounced,” I say, feeling more foolish than ever. “I didn’t realize I’d be interrupting.”
One of Derek’s friends, a man I recognize but have never met, grins lazily then lifts his glass in salute. “You can show up at my apartment unannounced any time you like.”
