“So, how have you been, Archie?” he asks like we’re a couple of old pals, just grabbing a bite.
I eye him, my lips turned downward. “I’m doing fine,” I tell him. “Should we at least start the meeting while we wait for your food?”
“I’m doing great, thanks for asking,” he says.
“I didn’t.” I give him a smirk.
“I know,” he says. “How’s Gigi?”
This catches me off guard. He remembers my grandma? I guess I can’t blame him. Gigi is hard to forget. She’s a tiny force to be reckoned with. Plus, she was so flirty with him when they met at that company picnic where she was my plus-one. She later told me he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and that I should “try to get some of that.” I believe those were her exact words.
I told her in no uncertain terms that I would never date a coworker. Not with the curse. Imagine dating someone, kissing them, being rejected, and having to see them day in and day out? No, thank you.
Plus, Luke Wilder is not someone I’d be interested in dating. Ever.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Can . . . we get to work?”
He regards me for a beat. “Why all the animosity?”
I drop my chin, pressing my lips together. Is he being purposefully obtuse? “You know why,” I say.
“Come on, Arch. That was two years ago.”
“Yes, and the statute of limitations for fraud is three, so you’ve got another year of watching your back.”
He swipes a hand down his face. “I told you I was sorry.”
I angle my head to the side, scrunching my face. “I don’t recall you ever apologizing.”
He pauses, staring again, like he’s not sure if I’m being serious. “I did in the voicemail I left you. I explained everything.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I didn’t listen to it.”
Luke’s eyes widen slightly before he looks away, fingers moving to his chin. It’s his contemplative pose. He’s done it forever. Or, at least, for as long as I’ve known him.
He drops his hand, and his gaze slowly turns back to me, his mouth pulling into a grin. “I’m actually relieved to hear that.”
“Why?” I ask, suddenly curious.
I was so mad when Simone told me Luke took a job with Pulse—and Ella Abbott—that I didn’t even listen to the voicemail he left.
What could he have said to fix that?
I’ve made it my job to avoid him ever since, and it hasn’t been easy since we work in the same circles and his building is only a few city blocks away from mine. I mostly see him at industry events or parties that we both happen to be at. I’ve nearly run into him atCommon Ground, the coffee shop down the street, a couple of times. But I left as soon as I saw his stupid smug face.
“Why?” I ask again when his smirk turns into a smile.
“Oh”—he waves a hand—“I just said some things I probably shouldn’t have.”
Well, now I’m even more curious. “What did you say?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
What does he mean by things he shouldn’t have said? What could that possibly be, in the context of an apology? Groveling? Crying? Begging? None of that sounds like Luke, but now I feel like Ihaveto know.
“Luke,” I say, his name coming out as if my patience is wearing thin. Because it is.
He shrugs. “You just missed out on my heartfelt apology.”
