“I have to go to work.” I missed half the day yesterday, and I have to finish getting the pallets ready to ship.
“You’re not working today. Or tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Get your sweet ass back in bed, then we’ll talk.”
Warmth explodes behind my sternum, and I catch my smiling reflection in the mirror. I’m in so much trouble with that man. How am I going to feel when he returns to Denver?
“Fine. McBossy.”
“Good girl.”
Laughter sputters out of me. The crushing sadness from yesterday is still there. And the fatigue. I could use two weeks of the sleep I got last night. But I’m lighter. Talking about Holly made me feel better and less conflicted.
I finish in the bathroom and crawl into bed. It’s still warm from us. I pick up an album, and the grief returns. I set it back on the stack.
“Open it up.”
I jump again. “Jeez, how are you so big but so quiet?”
Calder enters the bedroom. Unfortunately, he put a shirt on, but his gray sweats are still on. Big fan of those. He’s juggling two plates in one hand, each with a calzone and a banana, and two bottles of apple juice are tucked into the crook of his arm. He hands a plate over. “It’s an eclectic mix.”
“Looks perfect.” I take it from him. “Eating in bed? You don’t seem like the type.”
“I can be casual.”
The appetite I lost yesterday roars back, and I saw into my calzone. He digs his phone out of his pocket and tosses it on the bed. A stream of messages lights his screen.
Alarm spikes in my gut. “Is everything okay?”
“Just work.”
“It’s running okay without you?”
He gives me a quick smile. “Mostly. Some clients are worried it won’t be for long because I can’t jump on a call whenever they beckon.”
“That’s what you used to do?” I stuff a cheesy bite in my mouth.
“For the money they were paying me, yeah.”
I knew he was working on his stuff in the office during the day, but how much? Is he getting any rest, or answering emails after he goes to bed? He’s gone for his dad’s funeral. His clients should understand.
I swallow my mouthful. “But you’re making them a lot more money, right?”
“Yep, but I can’t without their trust. I’ll return the messages later.” He gestures with his fork to the edge of the bed. “The album?”
Okay. The discussion of his work is over. I lift the scrapbook album Holly made. The front cover flops open to show a picture of me and Sawyer on the brothers’ horses. “Shoot. Sorry.”
“No, I’m glad they got ridden. They were good horses.”
“The best.” I down the juice, and he hands another bottle of water over.
I page slowly through the album, filling in information between bites. Christmases he missed. Cattle drives. Halloweens.
“Nice, Annie,” he says.
Leave it to Calder to recognize my ninth-grade costume, Little Orphan Annie. “No one knew who I was, and half the school thought it was uncool to dress up anyway.”
