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“Okay, okay,” Harper concedes. “I won’t force you, yet. But I do think you should take some time to consider this before you dismiss it outright. I mean, how much longer are you going to give yourself on these other projects? I respect that you’re committed to seeing them through, but I don’t want to see you pursue them at the expense of another really great opportunity.”
“I hear you,” I mumble. “I’ll think about the workshop. But don’t get your hopes up because I don't feel ready to make that decision. I’m not trying to be evasive or difficult. I just don’t have a handle on whether the time is right, and I think when the time is right, I’ll feel it, you know?”
“Yes, I do,” says Harper. “It’s a bit like how your characters realize they’re in love.” She hangs up, leaving me to wonder if I haven’t been better suited for writing romance all along.
Chapter 5
Chris
I replace the old door handle with the new one featuring a secure keypad, testing to make sure it turns freely when unlocked. I program the entry code and automatic lock feature on my phone before shutting the door and testing to see that it is, indeed, secure. Bingo. Now everyone can get their own personal code to enter the building, and we can monitor the traffic. We don’t particularly need to know who comes and goes, or when, but if Charlie ever needs to document something, like whether the cleaning crew is billing him accurately for example, he’ll have access to the data.
Stowing my tools in the back of my truck, I stall to see if she makes an exit. I don’t even know if she’s here, but my guess is the odds are good given that I’ve once again timed my visit to coincide with the staff meeting. Charlie insists on them weekly, even if he isn’t there to oversee it, so the team gets comfortable with one another. Charlie isn’t at this one, another reason I picked tonight to install the new lock. He doesn't need to see something I’m not even sure exists, although, given my mood this past week, something exists.
I’ve alternated between grumpy and anxious for days, remembering how bad our conversation started and finished. But somewhere in the middle, I felt a spark reminiscent of that first night, when all the noise of everyday life had faded, and we were just two people talking. And staring. She really does have the most beautiful brown eyes: dark and intense.
I keep telling myself that getting closer is a bad idea. Charlie specifically asked me not to, and there's no doubt it could be awkward for him if his brother and employee became involved. I really want to respect that, but while avoiding her may be the right thing to do, I can't just forget the spark I felt when we talked. She had been both serious and flirtatious. Curious and awkward. Fiery. All that in the span of a few minutes. I’ve barely scratched the surface, and I want to see more, discover what other surprises she holds.
Several people trickle out of the office, but not her. Is she skipping the after-meeting drinks again, or is everyone headed out? Seems to be the latter. I cross the parking lot and hold the door for the acting CFO—(Megan? Monica?)—and Simon as they exit.
“Everyone headed home tonight?” I ask Simon.
“Yes, this being a long weekend, most of us want to beat the traffic to the mountains.” We both wave at Megan/Monica as she heads toward her car.
“Why is it a long weekend?”
“Presidents’ Day. Don’t you know your bloody holidays?”
“Ah, guess I lost track of the date.”
“Fair enough. Only reason I know is it’s a school holiday. We get those off.” He winks. “Perks of working in education.”
I laugh. “You the last one out? I’m going to finish testing this new lock then head home myself.”
“Ms. Austen’s still inside.”
“Who?” I ask, perplexed.
“Jane Austen, the novelist,” Simon supplies. I’m still lost, and apparently it shows. “Oh, bloody hell. First you don’t know holidays, now you don’t know novelists. I see why you’re the brother who works with his hands. The one always buried on her computer, Lisa. She’s still inside.”
My pulse speeds up a notch. “Oh, right. Her. Okay, thanks. I’ll make sure she knows how to get out before I go,” I ramble, but Simon is already heading toward his car. Good, the fewer prying eyes, the better.
I close the door, enter the code, and turn the handle, testing my installation one last time. Perfect. I’ll still need to add a security system, but at least now the door will never go unlocked.
I head to her office, pausing in the doorway to observe her at work. Just as before, her fingers fly over the keys, her eyes darting back and forth between them and the screen. She pauses occasionally, tracing over the words on the screen with her finger, before returning her hands to the keys and resuming her vigorous typing. How does she make glasses, a sloppy bun, and unwavering concentration so captivating? I stand there for what must be five minutes before she seems to reach a stopping point.
“So, Jane, how’s the novel coming?” I ask when she finally closes her laptop.
She gasps as her eyes dart to me, and the color drains from her cheeks. “What?” she croaks.
“Jane Austen, the novelist.” I borrow Simon’s line. “I’ve been standing here for near ten minutes and you’ve been pounding the keys that whole time, didn’t even notice me. I figure if you have that much to type you must be writing a novel.”
“You know who Jane Austen is?” she asks, clearly not grasping the joke.
“Actually, yes. But it was Simon that gave you the nickname,” I confess.
“Why?”
“Probably because you’re always writing. But it could be because he suspects you find people that don’t find pleasure in a book ‘intolerably stupid.’” I borrow the famous quote.
