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“Good night.”
Once she’s gone, I shove off the covers and race to the hallway, bumping up the heat as promised. I grab my phone and dash back to bed. I need to let Balthazar know I can’t go tomorrow.
But how?
And why?
Any reason I give him will be an insult.
When he typedBoyfriendearlier, I thought the gesture was romantic. Now, I feel ridiculous for thinking he meant something endearing.
I change the heading toMr. Wiseman. That’s better.
Yet composing the message to him isn’t as easy as correcting his name. Deep down, I know I should call him. This kind of discussion deserves a live conversation. But I don’t like confrontation.
I hate for anyone to be mad at me. So I’ll be a chicken and text him. Plus, I won’t get flustered and talk too much or say the wrong thing.
Yes, this is good because I can word everything just right and minimize the chance of upsetting him.
Me:I’ve given it a lot of thought. You are very nice. But we work together and should keep things focused on the business. Thank you though for the offer to go out tomorrow. I know it would have been fun. Have a wonderful weekend!
Just like Bree advised, I keep it professional but also friendly. No way he can be mad about what I’ve said. Although my heart still pounds, not totally convinced that he won’t be angry or offended.
I hit send.
And watch.
And wait.
My chest continues to flutter as I pick up my library book from the nightstand and try to immerse myself in the mystery of the story rather than why he doesn’t answer.
Twenty minutes pass, and he still hasn’t responded.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a busy man and said he had to do something for his Dad, which is sweet. I like that they’re close.
It’s almost eleven. He might already be asleep and probably won’t even see the message until tomorrow. No sense fretting about his response now.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I close my paperback, turn off the light, and slide down deeper under the comforter. I’m sleepy but can’t stop wondering if he hates me. If he’ll fire me. If he’ll fire London.
Oh no! What if I destroy her career too?
Despite the heat blowing, I tremble and curl onto my side.
Am I wrong for listening to Bree?
Should I trust her experience?
Or should I trust my own instincts?
Should I trust him?
Now I wish I had called him. I may never talk to him again and he won’t ever know how I really feel.
Balthazar
If she doesn’t talk to me, I’ll break this damn door down. I hustle up the steps and pound on the cheap wood. “Open up angel.”
Nothing.
