by Ried Reese
Rick rubs his hands together. “My work here is done, and my work over there is just beginning,” he says as he hurries off in the direction of some disgruntled furniture deliverers arguing about something.
“Sorry,” I apologize to Brandon. “She’s not very subtle.”
“Neither is Rick.” His mouth curls into a grimace that matches the dryness in his voice.
“We really do need help with the furniture, though. Thanks for agreeing to help out.” A time when Gemma and I broke a shelf we were trying to mount comes to mind, but I don’t want Brandon to think I’m totally inept. So instead, I shift the toe of my heels nervously against the stool.
“I promise it is no problem,” Brandon says again, hooking his thumbs in his belt. The movement is so casual, but the weight of his arms pulls the belt down and presses his shirt against the rock-hard formations of his abs.
Every time I think I have myself under control around this man, he does something that proves me wrong.
“Then here, do you want to put your number in my phone?” My arms don’t shake when I hold it out, but a shiver runs through my body and ends in a place I shouldn’t even think about in the workplace when he brushes my hand to grab the phone.
He presses a few buttons then hands it back. “Text me so I’ll have your number. By the way, while I’ve got you—”
Poor choice of words, he has no idea how ‘bad’ he’s really got me—
“—could you take this and figure out what to do with it? It’s all the things I ordered for the renovations. I don’t know the actual final cost of everything added up, but I think it’s going to come out to be a little less than my estimate.”
“Sure, I know what to do with it. It is less, by the way,” I inform him, looking over the receipt he hands me.
“What, how do you know?”
My shrug is noncommittal, but secretly I’m delighted that Brandon’s clearly impressed. “I just have a good memory for numbers, and the other total was higher than this one.”
“I mean, I was good at physics and math, but I feel like you could memorize an entire textbook word-for-word if you wanted to.”
He’s… serious. Brandon doesn’t smile, and the way his chin angles forward just a little bit farther than usual and his eyebrows draw together just slightly, drives his earnestness home in my heart. This beautiful, striking man actually believes I could memorize an entire book, word-for-word.
“P-probably not,” I all but stutter, fumbling for some kind of witty reply. “Too many words, not enough numbers. Anyway, I need to get back to work. See you later?”
“Sure. I’ll text you!” he calls as he walks away.
I throw myself back into my world of numbers with a good will. Now that I know I’m going to see Brandon later, I find it easier to concentrate. Maybe Gemma is right. Perhaps what I need is more of Brandon, not less, to get over continually thinking about him.
I’m finishing up a few entries that Isabel asked me to make when I realize that Cullen is picking Gemma and me up in about thirty minutes, and I’ve totally forgotten to ask Isabel what to do with the receipt Brandon gave me. She’s not in the staff rooms, so I hurriedly finish the entries and walk out and around the bar as quickly as my stilettos will allow.
I let out a startled squeak as a sudden force grips my right foot and forces me to hobble to a stop. An irritated look at my foot tells me that a coiled cable that runs off to somewhere under the bar is wrapped around and under my heel.
“Damn it,” I mutter darkly as I try to bend down to untangle myself, but I nearly overbalance because the way the cable wraps around my shoe means my toe is on uneven ground.
“Hold up, ma’am. I think this is a job for a working man.” Brandon takes my hand to steady me, then drops down on one knee. His calloused hands envelop my calf in their strength, ever so slowly brushing away a circle of cable that became wrapped around my shin.
“Brandon, what are—” I almost squeak, unprepared for the sensory overload of having Brandon kneeling in front of me and caressing my leg. “Brandon, it’s my shoe, not my entire leg!”
“I’m just doing a… thorough job.” The suggestiveness of that sentence nearly finishes the job the cable started and knocks me off my feet.
Hoping my face isn’t the color of a ripe tomato, I give up and use Brandon’s shoulder for balance as he works the cable away from my shoe slowly and carefully. “There,” he says, picking up my foot gently and placing it on the ground beside the cable. “I believe my job here is done.”
He releases my foot, stands up, and walks away like nothing happened.
A couple of people are staring, so I do my best to look like everything is completely normal and return to my quest to find Isabel.
Really, I’m positive I’m still blushing by the time Cullen drops Gemma and me off at home. I know Gemma can tell something’s off, but she probably thinks I’m just nervous about seeing Brandon this evening.
Hot water does wonders for any lasting nerves. I wrap a towel around myself and stick my head out of my bedroom door to find Gemma, an entirely new problem in mind. “Since you helped orchestrate this whole thing, get your ass over here and tell me what to wear.”
“Ooh, now you’re speaking my language.” Gemma joins me as I retreat back into my room, and we eye the clothes hanging in my closet together. “Hm. you’re going to be working and you sweat easily—”
I roll my eyes, but it’s true.
“—so maybe some dark colored top. And of course, you want to look sexy, but not too sexy because you’re putting together furniture and eating, and I’m chaperoning.”
“Chapter—” I choke on my own laughter. “Gemma, you’re way too irresponsible to be a chaperone.”
“Well, whatever. I’m here, I mean. So, not too sexy….” Gemma roots through my clothes and picks out a black top that’s like a T-shirt and a crop top combined. The skin that a crop top would cover is covered, but the T-shirt parts—the sleeves and just above my belly button to the bottom of the shirt—is see-through mesh.
“I like this shirt,” I admit. “What should I wear with it?”
“I’d say jean shorts or skinny jeans,” Gemma says promptly. “A skirt would be too sexy.”
Huh. Gemma’s good at this.
Brandon texts me about twenty minutes later to tell me he’s on the way. I don’t realize how excited I am to see him again until I see those three simple words: “On my way!”
When he arrives, I eagerly run down the stairs to meet him and let him in. “Thanks for coming,” I tell him again as I lead the way upstairs.
“It’s no problem. I wasn’t sure exactly what tools we’d need, so I just brought most of the common ones I could think of when it comes to furniture.” To accompany his words, he holds up a fair-sized metal toolbox with one hand. I watch the ship-on-the-ocean tattoo on his bicep writhe and wonder if I could lift the box with two hands.
Gemma, Brandon, and I sit down in the living room to wait for the furniture truck to get here. The two hit it off immediately, joking around and telling stories like they’re old friends. I was a little afraid that Gemma would be too much for Brandon—she’s really chatty, not at all subtle, and permanently positive—but he’s matching her enthusiasm for the conversation.
After the truck arrives and we carry up the furniture with the help of the driver, the conversation turns to different tools and how to put the furniture together. We end up needing a fair number of the tools Brandon brought, and I realize that we would have had a lot of trouble with some of the heavier pieces without his help.
“That just leaves the sofa, so I’m going to go ahead and get dinner ready.” Gemma stands up and heads into the kitchen, and I hear water running a moment later.
“Spaghetti,” I inform Brandon as I peruse the instructions for assembly. “Gemma has this recipe her mother used to make. It’s delicious.”
Gemma has perfect timing. Just as we drag the old couch into my room out of the
way and put the new one in its place, she announces, “Dinner’s ready!”
We’re all starving after struggling with the heavy furniture for the last two hours, so we dig in with an appetite.
“This is good,” Brandon mumbles past a mouthful of spaghetti after a brief, content silence.
“It’s one of the few things I can cook well,” Gemma admits. “I can cook other things, but this always turns out super good.”
“How did you make the sauce? I make spaghetti sometimes, but the sauce isn’t as savory as this.” Brandon pokes at his food with his fork as though it’s a device that will tell him what’s in it.
I just eat my food as they continue to talk about food and recipes, smiling or occasionally nodding when they include me in the conversation.
I don’t feel awkward at all. I just feel… content to be here in this room, listening to two people I care about talk about things they care about.
For the first time in a long time, everything feels right.
Chapter Twelve: Brandon
Cullen has another staff meeting planned for today. Rick tells me it’ll be short, just a fifteen-minute informative meeting in the middle of the day, and that I probably don’t need to attend.
But he used that word: probably. If I just ‘probably’ don’t need to attend, there’s always that small chance that I’ll miss something if I don’t.
Of course, there is one other reason. That reason has blonde hair, blue eyes, sexy legs, curvy hips, and a smile to knock a boxer out of the ring.
Cullen goes over a few general things that apply to everyone working on the renovations, then addresses more specific topics. “Let’s see… laptops for the accountants are arriving today,” he informs the accountants. “They should be delivered at 7:00 PM. You can talk to Dixon today or tomorrow and sign for it when you pick yours up.”
My eyebrows crease when I spot Taylor’s slightly crestfallen expression. I thought the news of the laptops’ delivery would make her happy, but she doesn’t look pleased at all.
The meeting lasts a couple of minutes after the fifteen-minute mark while people ask questions, then everyone returns to their jobs. I jog after Taylor. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” she says with surprise.
“You just didn’t look too thrilled about the laptops arriving,” I explain, feeling a little silly.
“Oh. I just thought it would have been nice to have mine this evening to do homework on, but I can’t wait around for them to get here.”
“I can take it to you after work,” I offer immediately, pleased there’s something I can do to help.
“No, I can’t ask you to stay late,” Taylor protests.
“If I stay late today, I can leave early tomorrow,” I point out. “I don’t exactly have specific hours and shifts. It’s no trouble.”
“Only if you promise to stay for a while.” Her eyes twinkle, and my heart skips a beat. “I promise there’ll be… pizza?”
“Pizza sounds great. Double check with Dixon that you can sign for the laptop early. If he doesn't let you, I’ll talk to him.”
She laughs. “Whoa there, chill out. Dixon’s a nice guy, and he knows you. He’ll let me sign early.”
An hour later, I’m leaning uncomfortably far into an access panel when my phone buzzes in my belt. I extricate myself and pull off my gloves to check it. It’s a text from Taylor.
Dixon’s okay with you picking up my laptop!
Placing my gloves under my arm, I reply. Great! Can’t wait to see you.
Her response is instantaneous and not what I’m expecting. Do you like wine?
Yes. Why? I text back.
Have some that Cullen got for Gemma. My girl doesn’t do wine.
I smile at the words. Pizza and wine. Perfect.
Gotta go. Overlord is glaring.
I can easily imagine Taylor brazenly texting in front of Isabel while still answering questions accurately, and I return to work chuckling.
At about 6:45, I head downstairs to ask about the laptops. “Yeah, they’re here,” Dixon tells me, leading me to the staff rooms where three laptops and chargers are sitting on a table next to the large box they came from. “It doesn’t matter which one, and I already have Taylor’s signature.”
“Thanks.” I pick the one on the right, nod to Dixon, and carry it and a charger out to the truck.
My apartment is only a little out of the way, so I stop to shower and change. By the time I reach Taylor’s apartment, dusk is falling.
Here, I text her, and within two minutes the side door opens. “Should I park in the garage?” I ask through the window.
“Nah, visitors can park on the curb here for up to three hours officially, and unofficially they don’t really enforce that.” Taylor pushes her hair back, and I notice with a thrill that her blonde locks are still plastered together and messy from a recent shower.
I nod, hop out, and follow her up to her apartment. The place is well lit but quiet. “Where’s Gemma?”
“Out with friends. She has tomorrow off from training because Zinzy will be out of town, so I think a few of the dancers are going out.” Taylor sits on the couch, her face devoid of regret that she wasn’t one of them.
I hold out the laptop in my hand. “Oh, here’s this and the charger to go with it.”
“Great,” she says enthusiastically. “My old ones starting to drive me insane. After I get everything I need on the new one, I’m going to do a clean reset and see if it helps.”
“Hm.” I look significantly around the room. “If I remember right, I was promised pizza.”
“And it’s in the kitchen. I haven’t gotten out the wine yet. I just got out of the shower,” she admits, as though I wouldn’t have immediately noticed the wonderful freshness that lingers wherever she walks.
“That just means I can help now.” I follow her into the kitchen, and she takes a bottle of red wine out of the cabinet. “I’ve never had that wine before.”
“I’m sure it’s something the rich drink regularly,” she jokes. “It came from Cullen, after all. Have you seen the watches and suits that man wears?”
I laugh. “Good point.” Taylor screws the bottle opener into the cork, pulls down the clasps, then tries to wiggle free the remaining bit of cork still stuck in the bottle.
Her elbow shoots up and she shrieks with surprise as the cork abruptly jerks free, but I realized what was going to happen a moment before. I step forward and catch the arm holding the bottle, steadying her.
My chest presses against her back as we breathe a sigh of relief in unison. I take her hand in mine and guide it to set the wine gently on the counter. The movement takes my jaw so, so close to the side of her face.
I want to comb the tangles out of her hair, whisper her name into her ear, and shower her neck with soft kisses—but I don’t. Every instinct I have tells me to wrap her in my arms, but instead I step back and ask, “Do you have wine glasses?”
A vein on the side of her neck pulses visibly just for a second as she swallows. “Cabinet above the fridge,” she tells me, setting the cork on the counter and opening the pizza box. “I’ll get plates.”
Three minutes later, we’re ensconced on the couch with slices of pizza and glasses of fruity merlot. Taylor has set Gemma’s laptop on the new coffee table and set it to play a stand-up comedy. The volume plays loud enough to hear the words, but not so loud we can’t talk.
Two slices of pizza and one-and-a-half drained wine glasses each, and we stop paying any attention to the show. “Hey Brandon?” Taylor asks, sitting back in her seat and abandoning her pizza crusts on the table.
Her blue eyes are clouded with a pensive, brooding expression. Sensing seriousness, I turn down the volume of the show a little more. “Yeah, Taylor?”
“You ever feel like you’re stuck in the past?”
Mentally scrambling, I wonder where she’s leading with this. “A lot, actually. I think most people are. The past made us
who we are, after all.”
My comment appears to worry her. Her brows draw together and she nibbles at her lip. That little action is endearing when she’s in a good mood, but worries me about the direction this is going.
“But, do you feel like the past influences who you are now? Like… do you think you’ve changed a lot in your life, or do you like to think you’re the same? Consistent, I guess?”
Turning sideways and leaning against the couch so I can meet Taylor’s eyes, I begin slowly, “I think I’ve changed a lot. A lot of things that used to matter to me don’t anymore, and I think I’ve become a different person.”
Ding ding ding. This answer, judging by the subtle lightening of Taylor’s inner storm clouds and the slight, thoughtful nod she gives me, is more what she expected. Or hoped for, maybe.
“Hey, I want to tell you something.” Does she, though? I don’t think she knows for sure if she wants to or not. “Uh… how well do you remember high school?”
Okay. Not the question I expected. “Pretty well. Really well, actually.”
“Do you—do you remember a nerdy, blonde girl with glasses? She would always sit in the stands and do her homework, and watch the football team practice. She was in four of your classes one year, and three the next. She got her locker moved to— to be closer to yours, a-and she tried to talk to you in the hallways—”
Holy shit. I look at Taylor, and it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. “You were that girl. From high school.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Y-yeah, that was me. Guess I’ve changed a lot, huh?” She’s not awkward anymore, but she’s watching me nervously.
I’d seen that girl, high-school Taylor. She was so quiet in class, but whenever she was called on, she always knew the answer. Sometimes when one of my friends laughed too loudly and exaggeratedly, I would see her leaning against a locker and wish I could know her instead. Every practice, I always played knowing that I could look up and see her in the stands, studiously working away, and sometimes the thought made me try harder.
