Thank God for discipline because it’s the only thing stopping mefrom obeying. “Well, I care. And we shouldn’t be kissing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yes. We absolutelyshould.”
“No. We’ve got unfinished business and we shouldn’t let our physical attraction cloud our judgment. You know…walk before we try to run.”
He opens his mouth, seems to think better of whatever he’s about to say and closes it again. “Okay. Fine. So when can I see you, again?”
“Can I have the week? Just to clear my head and some hurdles at work?”
He sighs in resignation but smiles. “Of course, Sin. Take your time.”
“Happy Labor Day, Kwame.”
“Yeah, you too.” His smile gets an A for effort.
“See you next week.” I wave and force myself to walk away.
Thank goodness the days of setting myself on fire to keep everyone else warm are behind me. I’d rather be alone than accept less or settle for less than what I need. But God, I hope Kwame can get his shit together.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sin
Shot Down
The Monday after a long weekend in DC is usually a slow day. Most people are off on PTO they used to take advantage of the long weekend. But inThe Spectator’soffice, we’re buzzing with activity.
It’s open pitch day and I’m almost ready. I check each stall to make sure the bathroom’s empty and send a silent apology to my dad for all the lies I’m about to tell before I press the green phone icon.
The call is answered on the first ring.
“Good morning. Event office. This is Laila. How can I help you?” A chipper woman’s voice trills.
I clear my throat and lower my voice an octave. “Good morning. I’m calling from Ozwald Annan’s office. I wanted to confirm you received his RSVP for the fundraiser on Saturday. I found the card as I was cleaning and wanted to make sure you had him down.” I read the words from a notecard so I don’t make a mistake.
“Of course. Let me double-check.”
She puts me on hold for forty-eight agonizingly long seconds. “We have your RSVP. It says Zuri walked it in herself. I remember it like yesterday.”
“Oh, that’s right. She must have forgotten to tell me when we talked this morning.” So Zuri is back and working with him. I need tolet Leon know.
There’s a beat of silence before she answers. “I thought Zuri left. What did you say your name was?” The suspicion in her voice makes me queasy.
“I’m new. Still learning everyone’s names. Thanks for your help, bye.”
I hang up and glance at my watch.
The open pitch meeting starts in five minutes and today I got confirmation from my task force contact that the man in the picture is the man they’d been looking for. I didn’t send the pictures of the items I took. I’m still waiting to confirm their authenticity.
I grab my phone and laptop and head for the conference room.
I take three steps before I remember my suit jacket and dash back to my desk to grab it.
I stuff myself into it while I sprint down the hall.
I pause at the closed doors of the conference room to catch my breath. I open the door to find the room empty. Relieved that I’m the first to arrive, I arrange my notebook, put the coffee service in the center of the table, and snap a selfie so I can remember the moment I took a chance on myself.
Unlike the rest of the spare utilitarian light grays and whites ofThe Spectator’snewsroom, The Pearl, as this room is called by us, is luxe. Decorated in a stylish composition of cool purples with accents of creams and golds, it’s not like any other conference room I’ve ever seen.
