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I want you at the apartment at six tomorrow. Be there.
I roll my eyes.
Me: Why?
Austin: Because I said so.
Me: That’s not fair.
Austin: 6:00, Jada. I mean it.
48
Austin
What am I doing today at six o’clock? I’m making her dinner. That’s all I’ve got so far.
I went into the office at seven this morning to make sure I got all my shit done. I’ve interviewed three candidates to run the New York operation. And I’ve promoted Blake, a guy who interned at our San Diego office to general manager. It’s ruffling a few feathers, he’s just over a year out of college and just four or five months ago was an intern, but the guy is organized, numbers-oriented, and I trust him.
The way I’ve been working my ass off and lining up the reorg, I might even be able to get out of here after two months instead of three.
Though that presents other problems if that happens, so I’m not thinking too much about that yet. For a switch, I’m not dying to get out of New York and that’s because of Jada.
What I am thinking about is that I don’t know what happens beyond dinner tonight. Don’t know what I’m gonna say to her. I know I have to do something to stop the bleeding on this thing with her though, settle it, and I figure I’ll know when she’s here with me what that’s gonna take.
She walks in on time and her eyes land on me with surprise.
“Good timing. Dinner’s gonna be ready in twenty. Wine?” I ask.
She hangs her jacket and her purse up and takes in the space with surprise.
“Dinner?”
“I’m making you dinner. Take a load off.”
Frankly, Jada looks like something the cat dragged in. And I suspect that’s by design… that she doesn’t want me looking at her sexually. She’s in baggy sweats with a bleach stain on the knee and her hair is in a sloppy ponytail. Still, I know I’m heading in the right direction with this effort I’m making because I still want to fuck her. And do more than fuck her. I want her. Period.
“You don’t need to make me dinner, Austin.”
“Too bad because that’s what I’m doing.”
I’ve got Fleetwood Mac on the stereo, candles on the island, and flowers in a vase as well as placemats set with our dinner plates and cutlery out.
I pour her a glass of wine.
“Why’d you do this?” She looks around with suspicious eyes.
“You’ve been busy taking care of your father, taking care of me. Trying to take care of your brother. Tonight, I’m taking care of you.”
“I look like shit,” she whispers.
Her eyes are filling with tears.
And I’m having a different reaction than I usually do to a woman’s tears. Usually, they irritate me or make me wanna run the other way. The idea of Jada crying has me wanting to find a way to make her laugh, make her smile, make her feel the opposite of what she’s feeling.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. Sit down and let me look after you.”
Panic spreads across her face. “I’ll change,” she says and then she disappears down the hall, grabbing for her purse and nearly knocking the hall tree down.
Looking frazzled, she rights it and takes off into her room.
I’m relieved she hasn’t taken all her clothes to her father’s. I looked the other day to make sure when she took her computer she didn’t take everything else.
I’ve got the food served when she comes out, wearing jeans and a nice sweater. She’s got makeup on and her hair is tamed into a tidier ponytail. She looks like she made a bit of effort, put in a pair of earrings, but she’s playing it off as casual.
The next thing she says proves this point.
“I didn’t want to look like a slob since you went to some effort, but you should know I don’t wanna be here. I’m here because you told me to come and it felt like a boss-style order crossed with a Mr. Groucho the Third order and I’m telling you I’m here as your employee, not as your-”
“As my sweetheart?”
“Right.” Her face turns red and she grabs her wine and takes a healthy mouthful as she climbs up on the stool. Then she does a double take. “Um, wow.”
“Wow?”
“This food… did you make all this?”
“Yeah. I hope it tastes okay. I probably should’ve done a test run, first.”
“You’ve never made this before?” She’s blinking at her plate.
“Nope. I watched a video and followed a recipe. Dig in.”
I sit beside her and dig into mine. I made beef wellington, asparagus, and roasted Parisienne potatoes with fresh herbs. I’ve been at it since three o’clock getting it all prepped.
“I made dessert, too,” I tell her.
“You did?”
“Well, I mean, I’m gonna put pudding cups into fancy bowls and spray whipped cream on them and blend up some M & M candies for on top. Fancy, right?”
