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Sophie
Oliver’s not in his office, but the door is open and I let myself in. He must not be too far away because no one would leave the door to an office this nice unlocked.
I set up shop. It’s already past six and I barely had time to scarf down some of Claire’s frozen ravioli before coming here. The wood and paint scent that usually hits me was tempered with something else when I walked through the main entrance just now, and I think I’ve figured it out. I think it’s the scent of the little, last-minute things this resort needs all coming together. I swear, readiness hangs in the air.
Except around the resort library area. That place reeks of uncertainty.
My projects tonight include tracking the book packages, setting up appearances with local authors, and keeping my heart as open as I can.
I think I’m ready for that last one. Not because I necessarily know how Oliver will respond, but because if I don’t, I’ll always regret it.
When my stomach rumbles from the cavern the few bites of ravioli opened up without satisfying, I snap my fingers in the air a few times. Maybe I can conjure up Drake, his beard, and his food.
When that doesn’t work, I laugh at myself, but I also take my phone out of my pocket to text Oliver. I’ve been here almost an hour and still no sign of him. Maybe he and Miranda are finalizing his Italian beach front property right now—the thought of which makes me nauseated.
After I text Oliver to tell him I’ve arrived, I get up to stretch and then wander over to the library corner. I’ve stopped calling it a nook because the builder told us the ductwork and electrical behind one of the walls prohibited us from anchoring shelving there. So now it just looks funny, and honestly, it’s a little depressing.
Not the feeling I was intending to invoke. But I wander over there anyway because what else am I going to do? My petition for a real live, brick and mortar library for Marshall County is sitting in some inbox of some council member and there’s nothing I can do about it. And there’s not much I can do about this nook right now, which fills me with a sense of loss. I’d been so excited about this project. It was something new and fresh and different. Now it’s borderline pathetic.
I see that another box of books has arrived from the retailer, and I resist the urge to rip it open and take a big whiff. These babies have to stay put until mama’s got the shelves up and their new home ready.
I’m creeping myself out with the babies and mama talk because this is exactly how I was afraid my life would out: instead of becoming an old cat lady, I’ll become that old lady who talks to her books.
At least the nook, er—corner—has the furniture now. It’s not arranged exactly right, but since I’m no interior designer, I’m going to have to play around with it some more.
I’m trying to shove one of the sofas with my shoulder when Britta walks by.
“Hello, Sophie. The, um, space is coming along nicely.”
See? Even she can’t call it a nook.
“Thanks, I’m getting excited.” I rub a hand over the leather chair. “Have you seen Oliver? I could use his muscles to move this thing.”
“I’ll call someone up to do that for you.” She slides her glasses tighter over her ears. “And didn’t he tell you? He’s in London for a couple of days.”
“Oh.” My heart skitters. I can’t think of a single other response. Why hadn’t he said something? London for a couple of days for me would have been the trip of a lifetime and something I would have told everyone about, including the kid who bags my groceries.
But this is just another day in the office for Oliver, right? People in his line of work do this kind of thing all the time.
Britta leaves to call someone to help me.
But he didn’t tell you…but he didn’t tell you…but he didn’t tell youreverberates against my skull. Alarm mixed with frustration rings even louder.
Maybe I’ve misread things between us.
I feel small. Unimportant.
I need to get some of my aggression out, which is the only explanation for my shoving the sofa even harder with my shoulder. I don’t need anyone else’s muscles. I have quite enough on my own to do this job. As I’m aimlessly shoving against it, my feet sliding across the wooden floor, I see a pair of sneakers with bright colors.
The shoes are attached to Alec.
“Britta said you needed some help.” Even though he’s smiling, I’m not fooled into thinking he’s feeling super content with his life. I don’t even really know what he does for the company. This is the first time I’ve seen him in the building. He’s dressed in workout clothes.
I stand from my odd pushing stance. “When she said she’d send some muscle to help me, I didn’t know it’d be you, Alec.”
“I was already on my way downstairs when I ran into Britta. It’s really not a problem,” he says.
I nod and swing my gaze around, feeling wholly inadequate to be asking him where the sofa should go. They really should have had their designer’s input on this.
