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A serious, committed one.
“Here’s the break room. We sprung for a Keurig earlier this year.” I push away inappropriate thoughts of alone time with my boyfriend as my potential boss ushers me into a small room with a kitchenette. I fake a smile at his mention of the coffee maker, hiding the disappointment at the realization that when I move out, I won’t be able to craft my regular morning latte on my grandfather’s cappuccino machine anymore. I guess there were a few perks to living with my parents I overlooked.
“And that’s the end of our tour.”
“Your office is nice.” There’s that word again, but Mr. Stanford beams like I just said his business should appear on the cover of a design magazine.
“I’m glad you like it. I’m sure you’ll fit in here splendidly. Your resume was everything your father said, and you seem like a good fit. Of course, we need to go through all the formal channels, but, as the boss, I think it’s safe to say you should be getting a good call from us soon.”
His reassurances have the opposite effect. Blood thunders in my ears and I’m sure it pools heavily in my cheeks.
“My father?”
“He was singing your praises. Well, maybe not singing. You know how your father is. Relatively quiet man. But that’s why when he talked about you, I paid attention. And I’m glad I did. Of course, I was also in a good mood after having soundly beaten him on that final hole. Poor man got caught in a sand trap.” Mr. Stanford clucks his tongue.
All the while my ears ring like the building caught on fire, and I’m holding all the alarms.
Mr. Stanford and Judge Herbert are golfing buddies.
And I was the last to know.
I wonder if he’s the first person my dad asked to give me a job. Or just the first one who agreed. For all I know, my parents have been peddling my woes around town, trying to drum up sympathy and a career for their incompetent daughter who can’t hold down a job. Or a man.
Poor girl can barely stand on her own two feet.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanford. For your time, and your consideration.”
He smiles at me, and the expression comes off as indulgent.
I want to vomit.
Luckily, I make it out to my car before the frustrated tears begin to fall.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dash
I fold down the corner of my magazine when I hear the back door open. Ever since I licked her pussy in my bed, I told Paige not to worry about knocking.
After sliding the issue ofCar & Driverback to its hiding spot, I consider getting up and meeting her in the kitchen. But I stay put, wondering what might happen when she finds me here.
“Dash?” Paige strolls into my room, lighting the place up with her smile. “Is someone being lazy?”
When I stretch my arms over my head, I get a satisfying crack from most of my joints. “Just resting up.”
“Ah, bracing yourself.” My girlfriend toes her shoes off and crawls from the foot of the bed toward me. She has on a loose sweater, and from this angle I can see a beautiful view straight past her neckline. “Well, I’ve given everyone a stern talking to. My Dad mainly, but also Charlie. He gets how the Germany offer was manipulative, and he apologized. So, this shouldn’t be like last time. Besides,” she sprawls next to me, hooking one of her legs over mine and settling her head in my chest, “it’s a holiday. We’re all supposed to be focusing on what we’re thankful for. Still, we’ll leave if they step out of line. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”
Her body is heavy and warm in my arms, as I tug her closer to me. For a little while, we just lay wrapped up together in my bed. Even though I often can’t stop thinking about getting Paige naked and underneath me, right now all I’m focused on is the contentment seeping into every inch of my muscles.
In a little bit, we’ll leave for Thanksgiving dinner at the Herberts’ house. But for right now, it’s just the two of us. With Paige in my room, the place doesn’t seem so bland and lifeless. Part of that is her presence, but there’s also the few changes I’ve made.
A neighbor had some leftover paint, enough for me to coat one of my walls in a deep forest green. An accent wall, Paige called it, running her fingers over the surface before grinning over her shoulder at me. Then there’s the weirdly colorful blanket Cole’s grandmother knitted for me, folded and hanging over the back of the chair in the corner. But my favorite addition is the simple wooden frame sitting on my bedside table that holds a photograph of Paige, smiling big, her arms wrapped around Pumpkin who has on her trademark doggy grin.
When I told Paige I wouldn’t accept her money anymore for training, the next session I showed up for she handed me the picture.
“So you know how much this means to us. How muchyoumean to us.” My girlfriend scratched her dog behind the ears, looking down long enough for me to swallow the lump clogging my throat.
In the present, Paige sighs and props herself up on her elbows to meet my eyes.
