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Plus whatever amount he’s paid me is a drop in the ocean of the Worthing fortune.
Finally I say softly, “Thank you. Not just for the compensation but for everything you’ve done for me. I’m not sure...” My voice breaks. “I’m not sure what would have happened to me if it hadn’t been for you. I’m so completely alone.”
Our eyes meet for a moment before he breaks the gaze.
“You aren’t alone. If I weren’t here, Jenna would have helped you. With your experience, you could have gotten another job.”
“Maybe. But still. Thank you.”
He swallows. Doesn’t look back at me. “You’re welcome.”
***
HE TAKES ME TO AN OLD-fashioned ice-cream parlor that delights me. I try not to act like a child, but I’m beaming as I gaze around at the retro decor and study the dozens of unique flavors in the big ice-cream cartons beneath the plexiglass.
The young woman behind the counter grins when we reach the front of the line. “You’re back! I wondered where you two went.”
I blink in surprise. Evidently we’re regulars here.
“Our schedule got thrown out of whack for a couple of weeks,” Arthur says casually. Then he turns to me. “What would you like?”
“I don’t know. I can’t choose.”
“You can get the Kit and Kaboodle,” the woman suggests. “That has some of everything. You can share it.”
I have no idea what that is, but it’s better than being put on the spot for a decision. So I nod and smile, and she looks excited as she puts together the biggest ice-cream concoction I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Oh my God!” I breathe as the scoops and toppings pile up in a large bowl. “What have I done?”
The woman behind the counter laughs, and Arthur is smiling, his eyes resting on my face.
After he pays, Arthur carries the ice-cream monstrosity over to a small table with two chairs near the window.
I can’t stop giggling as he sets the bowl in the middle of the table and we both make relatively small inroads from each side. It’s delicious but also ridiculously too much.
Arthur is clearly enjoying it too. Not just the ice cream but the experience. His shoulders are shaking with amusement. His expression is relaxed, almost soft. He chuckles when I playfully spoon-fight with him for the small mound of quadruple chocolate.
We don’t talk much, but we don’t have to.
I have a really good time. And I’m absolutely convinced that he has a good time too.
***
COMING HOME FEELS LIKEthe end of a date.
No matter how much I try to talk myself out it, I simply can’t shake the feeling.
On the ride home, Arthur plays music from his phone through the car speakers. It’s a collection of my favorite singer/songwriter. From what I’ve picked up, his tastes in music are somewhat eclectic, but I have to assume he knows she’s my favorite and added the music to his phone just for me.
I have a good time with the music, and every time I check his expression, he’s relaxed and smiling, so he can’t mind the selection too much. When the best song plays, I start singing with it automatically, and I’ve gotten to the second verse before I realize what I’m doing. I stop abruptly in case Arthur finds my singing annoying or silly.
He slants me a frown and picks up singing the chorus in a pleasant but unexceptional baritone.
He knows all the words. I gape at him, trying not to giggle.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, exaggeratedly lofty.
“How do you know this song?”
