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Last night’s temporary reprieve excepted, of course. I’m not sure what that quiet moment over wine was. An anomaly, definitely, because the rest of the cleanup session was half antagonism (me) and half icy silence (him).
It’s why I had to make sure to look extra good this morning.
Now, you might be thinking, how good can one look in workout clothes?
One word: formfitting.
The point is, I’m pretty sure my early morning grogginess will all be worth it when I see Andrew’s face when he catches a glimpse of me in yoga pants.
“Good morning, Charles!” I sing as I stroll into the lobby.
“Ms. Watkins,” he says, looking up in surprise. “Don’t I usually see you coming from the other direction this time of the morning?”
“You do,” I say, all but skipping over to the counter, delighted to have beaten Andrew down here. “Sorry I don’t have donuts for you this morning. A little change in routine.”
Charles pats his belly. “Just as well. Where you headed so early?”
“The gym, apparently,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor by my feet and rifling through the little bowl of chocolates they sometimes put out on the desk, searching for dark chocolate.
I’ve just popped it into my mouth when I hear his voice.
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“Candy is not breakfast, Georgiana.”
My head whips around and my stomach gives a little flip that has nothing to do with the chocolate.
He’s wearing the exact same thing as always—gray shirt, black pants, black gym bag, et cetera—but something feels…different.
Not the glare. That’s still the same. But there’s an extra little snap of awareness between us.
My eyes deliberately drift down his body to the black sneakers. “No Oz detour today?”
“No time. I’ll have a tagalong slowing me down.”
“Don’t let me stop you. I love poofy dresses. I can totally be the Glinda to your Dorothy.”
Andrew leans his elbow on the counter and takes a sip of the health goo in his travel mug as he stares me down. “Really? Because I sort of had you pegged as the Scarecrow.”
I blink. It takes me a minute to get it, but when I do…
Wow. Wow.
The comment is so unkind that I instinctively replay it once more, looking for a second meaning, because surely even he isn’t so much a jerk as to imply…
I swallow. “Did you just imply I have no brain?”
My voice is a little hoarse, and I’m horrified to feel the sting of tears.
Out of the corner of one now-blurry eye, I see Charles pick up the phone. Not because it rang, but because I’m assuming he’d rather fake a phone call than be present in the awkwardness that is this moment.
Andrew’s face seems to go slightly white at my reaction. “Wait. No.”
“Then what?” I ask, anger mingling in with the hurt now. “That’s how the story goes, right? The Tin Man needs a heart, the Cowardly Lion needs courage, and the dumb Scarecrow needs the brain. Just like ditzy, flighty Georgie Watkins.”
“Georgiana—”
I shake my head and bend to pick up my bag. “Have fun at the gym, Mulroney. I hope you choke on your wheatgrass.”
