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She was always an unpleasant woman, but I don’t remember it being quite this bad. Maybe I’ve just forgotten.
“Thank you,” she says acidly as we finally depart the study room. “And don’t clomp down the stairs like a herd of elephants!” she calls after us as we descend the two-hundred-year-old wooden staircase.
I stomp extra. So does Levi, and I also stomp extra as I cross the foyer, push the door open into the slightly-cooler-than-daytime early evening air.
A moment later, Levi appears behind me. We turn and walk down the sidewalk together without saying a word, and as soon as we’re out of sight of the Burdet House, he holds one hand out.
“What?” I ask.
“I got you something,” he says, and I open my hand under his.
He deposits a pen with a few inches of chain still attached to one end.
Despite myself, I start laughing.
“Did you steal the sign-in pen?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder to double-check that Marjorie isn’t watching.
“I did, and I’d do it again,” he says, rubbing his hands together.
Then he glances over at me, smiling and mischievous, almost devious. I’ve never seen him like this before, but there’s nothing I can do but smile back at him, pen in hand, laughing.
“You hungry?” he asks.Chapter FifteenLeviI hold the hot pizza box on one hand, fingers spread, like I’m a waiter holding a tray of champagne at a fancy event, only I’m holding pizza and standing next to my pickup truck.
“You seriously don’t have a stash of fast food napkins in here?” June asks, her voice muffled and echoey from inside the cab.
I look away from her, toward the river, because she’s half in my truck and half out of it, bent at the waist as she searches for nonexistent napkins, and it’s distracting as all hell.
“I seriously don’t,” I answer her.
“Someone must have put some in here while you weren’t looking,” she says, still buried in my truck.
Despite myself, I glance over. The late-summer evening light is just starting to fade, but I can make out the curve of her backside all too clearly, the dip of her lower back, the way she arches just slightly as she reaches for something inside the cab.
As I watch, she shoves herself harder into the truck, kicking up one foot. Her shirt rides up an inch and now I can see a pale strip of skin.
I hold my breath. I stare. I wonder if her poison ivy is better, if I should ask, if she’d show me, if I even want that.
I shouldn’t. We agreed that the kiss was a mistake. We agreed that we’re on the right path now, that we’re friendly colleagues and nothing else, and we both know we’re doing the right thing.
It’s just that the wrong thing also feels pretty right.
“You really don’t,” she says, her voice full of wonder as she pulls her torso out of my truck. “Huh.”
“I told you,” I say, still holding the pizza box.
“I know, and I didn’t believe you,” she says, pulling her shirt down and brushing herself off. “Everyone’s got fast food napkins. Maybe Starbucks if you’re fancy. What do you do if you spill your coffee while you’re driving?”
“I don’t drink coffee in my car,” I shrug. “Actually, I don’t drink coffee.”
June looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head.
“Are we discussing my caffeine needs or are we eating this pizza?” I ask, faux-sternly.
“We’re finding napkins because pizza’s messy and I don’t want to just wipe my greasy hands on my jeans,” she fires back, her eyes laughing.
“I’ve got a roll of paper towels in my tool box.”
“And you didn’t mention this while I was tearing apart your truck for McDonald’s napkins?” she asks, grabbing the side of my truck and stepping one foot onto a tire.
I shift the pizza box and offer her a hand, but it’s too late because she’s already hopped over and is sitting in the bed of my truck, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
I didn’t mention it because I was somewhat distracted, I think.
“I told you I didn’t have napkins and you didn’t believe me,” I point out.
She takes the pizza box from my hand and I push myself up onto the side of the truck, hop over.
“Well, first, that’s a ridiculous claim to make,” she says, putting the box on the floor of my truck bed and flipping the lid open.
I sit opposite her, stretch my legs out, open the toolbox that lives behind the cab of my truck, and grab the paper towels. I hand her one.
“And second?” I prompt as she removes a piece of pizza from the box.
“Second,” she starts, then takes a bite and chews, thinking. “Second, everyone has napkins in their car.”
“Not everyone,” I point out.
“You’re right,” she teases. “I should have known that everyone but you has napkins in their car.”
