Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ben
A t that moment, Nikki breezed into the room. “Have you come to a decision?
“I have. I’ll do it, and I’ll sign the forms as they are.” I took the pen that had been attached to the folder and signed each of them.
Nikki spoke again as she loaded her things into a black bag that must have been sitting at the foot of her chair. “You’ll want to discuss your next few dates, the tour and event dates, and then make sure you cover the physical boundaries and expectations.”
She was all business, but my breath quickened at the subject of any kind of physicality with Whit.
“Good. Thanks for the reminders. I’ll see you next week?” Whit asked, and stood.
“Yes. I’ll see myself out—you wrap up here and let me know anything I should know,” she told Whit, then turned to me. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Ben.”
And off she went down the hall that led to the front door.
We both watched her go, and then I turned back to Whit, hoping she’d lead the way into this new portion of the negotiations.
“In terms of that…” Her cheeks reddened.
How would she approach this element of the conversation? I was man enough to admit I was eager to see.
“Dates?” I asked innocently.
“Well, no, the physical dynamic between us. Obviously, it needs to be believable that we’re together. That you’re not just a friend or family member.” She folded her hands on the notebook in front of her.
I nodded. “Obviously.”
“So we’ll need to hold hands, touch, that kind of thing. Maybe a kiss on the cheek here and there. Mostly, it’s being seen together, seeming like we’re comfortable together, which shouldn’t be a problem. Is that okay with you?” She brushed something off her notebook and then looked up at me through her dark lashes.
“Makes sense to me. I’d certainly want to touch you if we were actually dating.” The truth of that resonated in my mind.
Yes, yes, I would .
She pressed her lips together in a small smile. “Well, likewise. So, just… do what you’d do if we were, and that should be fine.”
She cleared her throat and took her pen, made a little mark next to something on the list in front of her, then looked up at me .
After that, we compared schedules. I had a fairly predictable one this time of year, so the rest of October and really, the rest of the year, were easy enough to review. She wanted to get started right away, so we planned to meet for lunch on Sunday when the after-church crowd would be sure to see us, and we put a few other dates on the calendar.
And that was it. The next thing I knew, her front door was in front of me, and she was handing me my jacket.
“I suppose we’ll do the twenty questions tomorrow at lunch?” I asked, pulling on the jacket.
“What do you mean?”
“We hardly know each other. I don’t know anything about you, really, nor do you know anything about me. We get along fine, but if we’re going to seem like we’re really in a relationship, we’ll need at least a modicum of emotional intimacy, don’t you think?”
Her eyelashes fluttered for a moment, then she nodded. No sound came from her lips for another few seconds, then finally, she spoke.
“Sure. Yes. That makes sense. We will… plan on that.”
I decided to tell Thatcher the next day at church. He’d invited me to go about this time last year when my struggle had been evident to everyone. All the questions and emotions that had piled up during the deployment, that I’d locked down hard while we were still in Afghanistan, had hit me like a shrieking car crash when we got back.
After I’d had to ask him for a ride in to work more than once because I was still drunk from the night before, he’d had a heart to heart with me and tipped off Major Flint. Then, the intervention had come in earnest .
And so, I’d started attending church. I’d stopped drinking—fortunately for me, it had just created a habit, not unearthed an addiction, and after the first few weeks, the anger and bereavement had somewhat calmed.
Flint had also forced me to go to counseling. He’d been with me when we’d lost Jones, and he knew what that had taken from me. He’d also known I was working through it, and he was just older enough to make it palatable when it came to advice-giving. We’d formed an unbreakable bond, as odd a pair as we were.
But Thatcher, though much of me couldn’t stand him in a similar way to how I couldn’t stand myself at the time, had refused to leave me alone. He’d dragged me to church, dragged me everywhere, until I could make my own two feet walk.
So Thatch was the first one to know.
“I can’t go to lunch with you today, man.” I casually slung an arm over his shoulders as we walked out of the sanctuary.
He waved at a few friends heading in another direction, off to Robbie’s Kitchen, our usual Sunday spot.
“You told me Friday you’d be there. What’s so important you’re abandoning your best friend?” he asked, playing it up with a hand on his heart and everything.
“I’m going to lunch with Whit Grantham.”
Thatcher barked out a laugh and patted my back. “Good one.”
“I am.”
“ Right .”
“Dude, I am.” It kind of annoyed me he didn’t believe me.
“ Why?” The disbelief etched on his face was not flattering .
I gave him a look. “We hit it off at the concert in September. We chatted on and off after that. I went with her to a dinner thing last weekend, and today, I’m taking her to lunch.”
“You—I don’t know what to say.” He stood there, his broad shoulders slumped slightly, his dark eyes wide. His bright smile then broke out, and he nodded before flashing his eyebrows. “This is good. I like this.”
“That was quick.” A chuckle escaped me at his typically positive response. He was nothing if not a Pollyanna.
“I’m happy for you. Maybe a little nervous, because she seems like she could chew you up and spit you out, but… yeah. I can see it.” He eyed me as we walked to our cars.
“What can you see?” I asked, twirling my keys back and forth around my finger.
“I can see your appeal to her. To anyone, but especially someone like her.”
A car full of other twenty-somethings from the church drove by and honked at us, which reminded me of the time. “I gotta get going, but I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“I’ll want a full report,” he said through a wide smile.
“You won’t get one.”
I slammed my truck’s door and started it up, taking a moment to appreciate Thatcher’s willingness to see me as desirable to Whit. If there was one thing I wasn’t sure about, it was that I was a believable counterpart for her.
She was extremely talented, famous, beautiful, and wealthy.
I was extremely broken, uncertain, and generally out of my depth with life lately. But I could be good to her, and I could be kind, and we could be friends.
And the part of me that stood alert whenever she was near me, the part that thought about what her hair would feel like under my fingertips, or how she’d smell in that sweet shadowy spot between her neck and her jaw… those parts would have to lock down.