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Three missed calls and five text messages. All the calls and three of the text messages were from Naomi, one message from Carrie, and the last one was from that unknown number, the one I’d come to think of as Dad’s number.
I ignored the other messages to read that one first. “Ooh, sounds like things might be picking up a little for my unknown texter. This message seems more…optimistic.” I mumbled the words of the text aloud. “He…or she…I can be an equal opportunity dreamer…has found someone. That is awesome. It’s like spring is in the air and everyone’s fancy is turning to love,” I muttered to no one. I shook my head. I really had to quit talking to myself.
I shut that message down, ignored Naomi’s bossiness for a moment to check Carrie’s message.
Carrie: Sounds like your photo shoot last night might have been successful. Any ETA on when we can see a mockup?
Since I hadn’t texted her yet this morning, the only way she could know that the shoot was productive was for Callan to have told her. I typed a message back to her.
Me: Working on it now. Need a couple more hours. I should be able to send a first look this afternoon.
I didn’t really need that much time. But I wanted to finish my rough draft, then sit with it for a while before polishing. Plus, I was a firm member of the under-promise, over-deliver school of thought.
Carrie texted back a thumbs up, which I took as approval to take my time. I was en route back to my office when the phone pinged again.
Before I checked the screen, I tapped my mouse to awaken my computer, and the screen flared to life, filling my gaze with the goodness that was Callan’s cover.Yeah, this one is right.
My heart trembled when I saw Callan’s name on the new text message.
Callan: Good morning, Catie-belle. Hope you slept well.
He sent a GIF of a guy yawning, which I took to mean that maybe he’d just gotten up. And that thought stirred images of him waking up, hair sleep-tousled, half-lidded eyes and a bare chest. The blood flowing through my veins moved faster, heating my body.
“Dammit, girl. You have to stop thinking this way. He’s your client.” That argument would only hold water if I could tame my body’s reaction to the sexy man. I hurried to type my reply.
Me: Morning. Slept fine. Lots of thoughts floating around my brain. Trying to do them justice in Photoshop.
It wasn’t a lie. I did have lots of images breezing around my head. But I refused to own that they were of candles, and beaches, and a secluded cloud-soft bed shared by the two of us.
Callan: Forgot to send this last night.
The phone pinged again and the selfie of us he’d taken last night filled my screen. Guess he’d forgotten that I’d already sent it to myself. But the fact he sent it meant he’d been looking at it. Hopefully smiling, maybe wanting me a little. Or a lot. I studied at the image, which was just as beautiful the second time around.
Me: Thanks. That’s really great. If music doesn’t work out for you, you could maybe pivot to photographer. I could give you some tips.
Callan: I will keep that in mind.
There was a pause, while the three little dots did their mesmeric dance. I swiveled my chair in time with the dancing dots.
Callan: I worked on that song last night. I think I’m about ready to record—more dancing dots—I would love it if you were free to come listen to it.
The tempo of my heart raced into a staccato beat. Breathing shallowly, I keyed in my response and pressed send.
Me: That was fast! What time do you want to do the great reveal?
I looked at the clock on my monitor while I waited for the three dots to disappear in favor of words. It was eight now, and I already felt like I’d put in a full day. I had several other projects on my to-do list, but none as pressing or as interesting as hearing Callan’s new song.
My phone pinged again.
Callan: Will 11 a.m. work? We could order lunch for after.
Me: Perfect. Shoot me the address and I’ll be there.
Callan replied with a string of emojis for guitars, a keyboard, banjos, and burgers, followed by an address.
I calculated that it would take me about twenty minutes to drive to his house. I chewed my lower lip and debated swinging by Naomi’s bakery to pick something up, so I didn’t show up empty handed. It was Saturday, so Naomi would have baked her delicious chunky chocolate chip cookies. Hands down, her specialty cookies were my favorite dessert out of everything she baked. I could change into something a bit more professional, run by the shop for cookies, and still have time for a quick chat.
My schedule decided, I parked my butt back in the chair, and opened one of the other projects on my list. This was always a helpful strategy when I worked on a couple projects at the same time. Sometimes, finessing one project made something on another project break loose creatively. The art for Callan’s cover was about seventy-five percent there, but setting it aside for a bit and working on a different project was sure to be inspiring for that last twenty-five percent.
