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Chapter Sixteen
Andi grabbed two Topo Chicos from the coffee-bar counter and thanked Dwight, the new WorkAround barista, before turning to Hill, who’d arrived right on time looking like a sexy mirage in the desert after the marathon of finishing her podcast. She handed him his drink. “When you rent space here, you get two free drinks a day. My friend Jasper used to make the best iced coffees, but he’s leveled up and bought an improv theater, so now I’m working on training Dwight. He’s a sweet guy, but if you don’t watch him, he puts too much milk in everything. Luckily, he can’t mess up mineral water.”
“Thanks.” Hill accepted the drink and glanced around the bottom floor of WorkAround, his gaze bouncing from one thing to the next in the high-ceilinged, industrial-style space. The sound of clicking keyboards filled the air, and many of the hot desks were still occupied with people wearing headphones or AirPods and nursing coffee drinks even at this late hour. “So all these people are just doing their own thing?”
Andi walked alongside him, matching his slower, methodical pace and continuing her mini-tour. “Many are one-person operations, entrepreneurs, that kind of thing. Some may work for a company but work remotely and don’t want to or can’t work from home. Some have day jobs and rent a hot desk for a few hours at night or on weekends for a side hustle.” She pointed. “Alyssa over there is a social media manager for a number of popular online sites.” She nodded toward someone else. “That guy with the fedora—he’s got a YouTube channel about board games—but during the day he’s a dental hygienist. Tyra, the gorgeous woman with the messy bun, she’s got a popular beauty-based Instagram channel, but comes here a few days a week to work on the behind-the-scenes aspects of her business. She’s got a ridiculous number of sponsors, so I’m sure getting that all coordinated each week takes a lot of time.”
Hill listened intently as they walked. “You know all these people?”
Andi sipped her drink, the glass bottle already sweating even in the air-conditioned space. “Not all of them. I try to meet as many people as I can, but the hot desks rotate so much that there are always new faces. Some people’s ventures fail and they can’t afford the rent anymore. Some move on to more permanent arrangements or move into an office upstairs. Some go off the grid and hike for a year. Whatever. The first floor is very transient.”
Hill shook his head. “This makes me feel really old.”
She laughed and gave him a quick once-over. He’d gone for his standard uniform of a T-shirt—green this time—and well-fitting jeans for this visit, and was looking like all her best fantasies of him. “Yes, Hill, you’re ancient. You’re what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-one,” he said, “but in spirit, I feel ancient compared to these people—toyou. I can’t imagine flying by the seat of my pants with my job. That seems terrifying.”
“Oh, it is,” she said with a humorless laugh. “I pretty much live with the daily fear that it will all crumble beneath me at any time. As my landlord, you didn’t hear that.”
His lips tipped up. “Of course not.”
“But when I think of doing something else? Some nine-to-five thing that I don’t feel passionate about? I just… I’d rather eat ramen and wait tables until I got on my feet again if what I’m doing now stops working.” She pushed the button for the elevator. “I grew up in a family where money was basically everything. My parents have a lot of it, but it’s never enough. They always want more. Status is everything. Appearances are more important than reality. I want no part of that.”
He glanced her way. “What do they think of what you do?”
She rolled her eyes as the elevator doors opened, and they both stepped inside. She pressed the button for the second floor. “They tell people I’m studying literature at Tulane.”
“What?” He leaned back, grabbing the rail on the wall behind him, and flexed his knee as if loosening it up. “You’re a published author.”
“Of utter trash, Hill,” she said patiently, using her mother’s heavy Georgia accent. “Not of respectable books an educated young woman should be writing. There’sviolenceandbloodandsex, oh my. Things a proper young lady shouldn’t speak of, much less put in print. What did we send her to college for anyway? What a waste.”
He grimaced. “That’s messed up.”
The doors opened on to the second floor, the blast of air-conditioning hitting them in the face. “Yeah, I know, but I’ll never convince them they’re wrong. They think I write what I write because of what happened to me—an incident they’d like to pretend never occurred—so it’s a constant reminder. Thanksgiving is fun. We get to play pretend.”
He frowned as he followed her out. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s okay. I’m used to it. I can’t live up to their expectations, and they can’t live up to mine.” She shrugged. “We’re at an impasse.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a badass,” he said, falling into step beside her. “I finished your book this afternoon. I never saw the twist at the end coming. You’re really talented.”
The compliment pleased her more than she would’ve expected, warming her from the inside out. She stopped in the hallway and turned to him, hand on hip. “You sure you’re not saying that just because you want to make out with me?”
He leaned down as if he were going to whisper a secret to her. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And I also want to make out with you. Those two truths can exist together, you know.”
“Oh.” A hot shiver went through her. “Well, thank you. On both.”
“You’re welcome.”
She took his hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
“Your office?”
“Later. First, I have a little surprise,” she said, sending him a cryptic smile as they began walking again.
His expression shifted into one of concern. “Now I’m worried.”
She laughed. “Don’t be. Trust me. This won’t hurt a bit.”
