“So, see anything you like?” I ask just as Everett sees us. His eyes brighten, rounding into big sparkly spheres as if he’s clinging to my every word. I feel Roberta elbow my side, but I ignore it.
“I picked out a few chairs and sofas over there,” he says, pointing a finger to the living room furniture portion of the showroom. “But I like some of these coffee tables. I think they’d look nice with the furniture I was looking at.”
The phone trills from the other side of the warehouse. “I’ll let you two do some browsing,” Roberta announces, already turning back to her office. “If you need me, just holler.”
Roberta walks off, leaving Everett and me alone. I take a few cautious steps toward him, Roberta’s words burning a hole in my head. I stop in front of the table he’s hovering over and stoop down to run my hand over the material, my fingers tracing the grooves and glossy finish. “I really like this one,” I say in a low voice.
“Yeah?”
I nod, smiling softly at him. “I asked Roberta to carve the same design into my desk at home.” I pause, focusing my movements over the curves. “See the waves at the edges? That was a special request by me. And she started incorporating it into her other pieces.”
Everett’s fingers start following the patterns I’m drawing. “It’s beautiful.”
His face drifts closer to me where I hear a soft sigh exhale from his lips. I get a deep whiff of his cologne. It’s not the Calvin Klein he used to wear, a bottle always kept on his nightstand next to his retainers and wallet. It’s something more masculine, formidable. Something that’s a part of this new Everett. The one I’m getting to know all over again.
His hand moves from the wood surface to my wrist, grazing against my skin in careful strokes. We both stand upright, his fingers sliding up my forearm. “I think it would look amazing at the hotel.”
“I think so too.” My voice is a whisper, and I don’t even know why.
Why my words feel like they’re caught in my throat. Why my heart is racing like I’m on a stage with a crowd full of eyes on me.
Why it also aches like someone is squeezing it in their fist.
His palm lightly cups my elbow. “I think we’ll go with this one.”
“Yeah,” I breathe. I get sucked into his gaze, and it’s hypnotizing. Like I’m in some trance, transported into an alternative universe where the thought of Everett doesn’t include pain. Where my heart was never broken and left whole for the last twenty years. Where I was always just…happy. And that thought, the idea that I could’ve been happy, makes me instantly sad. Like I’m mourning over a life I could’ve had. Should’ve had. “We should get going. With the traffic, it’ll take a few hours to get back.”
“Yeah.” He lets go of my arm, and my body gets sucked back to reality.
I turn to Roberta’s office and find her and her wife, Lisa, walking out into the showroom. Lisa, pixie cut hair with denim coveralls and working boots, breezily links her arm through Roberta’s, and the two walk toward me with knowing smiles.
“Hi, Lisa!” I greet her, pulling her into an embrace. “I’m so glad I caught you before I left.”
“Hey, Teeny,” she says, pulling away from me. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to say hi to our favorite designer!” She takes a quick glance at Everett before extending a hand in his direction. “Hi. I’m Lisa.”
“Everett,” he responds cordially. “Nice to meet you.”
“I think we’re just about finished,” I tell the pair. “We have enough options to choose from within the next few weeks.”
“Great!” Lisa says, eyes ping-ponging between me and Everett. “You need to make it out here more often. Bring us more business.”
I laugh. “You know you can always count on me for that.”
“Are you two heading out?” Roberta asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “We got a long drive back to San Diego, and the rush hour traffic isn’t going to be fun.”
“You know,” Lisa says with a thoughtful hum. “If you want to wait out the traffic, there’s this amazing French bistro around the corner. They have the best burrata and french onion soup.”
“Oh, no. I don’t?—”
“That actually sounds amazing. I’m famished,” Everett interrupts me. “We should check it out.”
I throw a “what the fuck” glare at both Lisa and Roberta, to which they smile smugly. “I’ll text you the address.”
Finding that the restaurant is actually within walking distance, Everett and I opt to leave my car in Roberta’s lot and trek the two blocks to Le Petit Paris. Sitting between a plate of burrata and two glasses of chardonnay, an awkward silence lingers in the air as does something much more palpable. Something alive and beating with the reminder that Everett isn’t just a client, only strengthening Roberta’s point, and I’m not just someone Everett hired to make his hotel look pretty.
“How’s Sadie?”
