15. Chapter Fifteen #2
Another moment of disbelief crossed his mind—this can’t be her.
Yet, as he continued to observe Miss Nicholson as she walked, he noted the familiar poise in her posture.
It was, without a doubt, Margaret Nicholson, but in this moment, she seemingly transformed into someone entirely enchanting.
Never would he think Miss Nicholson would give in to the flapper style, even if her outfit was more on the modest side.
“Beautiful, ain’t they?”
Roger swallowed hard, slowly removing his gaze from Miss Nicholson’s direction. “Yes.”
Graydon slapped his knee. “Well, well, that’s the friend I’ve longed to have! You’ve never taken such an interest in any woman . . . not for a long while at least.”
Roger shrugged and took another sip of his cola. Graydon rubbed his chin and continued to stare. “Do tell me, Rodge, is it the one in the purple dress that has captured your gaze?”
“She’s my boss’s daughter.”
Graydon sharply turned in their direction again. “You don’t say? That’s the girl you came home complaining about night after night?”
Roger didn’t answer.
Graydon turned back, his eyes wide and mouth open in shock. “Seriously, Roger? How could you complain about someone that beautiful? I would murder to see a woman that dreamy by my side at work.”
“It’s not like that,” Roger snapped. “She’s just my secretary, nothing more.”
“I can’t help it.” Graydon stood and put on his coat.
“What are you doing?”
Graydon grinned, straightening his collar. “Going to get a girl. What about you?”
Roger stood swiftly, blocking his way. “I won’t allow you to get involved with my boss’s daughter.”
Graydon shook his head and poked Roger’s chest. “You gonna stop me?”
Then Graydon took off with purpose. Roger’s heart pounded.
The thought of Graydon getting involved in Mr. Nicholson’s family affairs caused his muscles to tense.
So, he chased after his friend. Graydon walked faster, his smile growing wider.
Roger followed him, practically pushing other club members out of the way, and it seemed as though he and Graydon were two giggling school girls.
Miss Nicholson and her friend were standing close to the dance floor, and the young woman with short hair fluffed her curls and smiled at every man around.
How desperate she must be. However, Miss Nicholson stood awkwardly, biting her lip and rubbing her naked forearms. She may have dressed like those flapper women Roger despised, but she didn’t seem like one.
Should he be her rescuer like before, as he could see how uncomfortable she was?
If so, there would be no going back. Would he accept this role? Twice her knight in shining armor?
Graydon finally approached them. “Good evening, ladies,” he said with a bow. Roger wanted to roll his eyes.
The one with short hair giggled. “And good evening to you, sir.”
Roger slowed his pace as he approached. He ran his hand over his hair, trying to smooth out the mess from chasing after his bold friend.
“I am Marjorie Nicholson,” the short-haired woman said, shaking Graydon’s hand. “And this is my sister, Margaret.”
Graydon smiled, taking Margaret Nicholson’s hand and planting a kiss on it. “A pleasure. I am Graydon Marshall.”
Heat rushed from Roger’s face to his ears after seeing the sight.
He blinked twice, trying to remove the scene from his mind.
Why was a casual greeting making his muscles so tense?
Then, Graydon spotted him, his mischievous grin growing.
Roger longed to run, but it was too late.
The last thing he wanted was to be caught at one of these outings with his boss’s daughter. This wasn’t business—this was personal.
“Miss Nicholsons, you must meet my friend. This is—”
Margaret Nicholson locked eyes with him. Her eyes widened, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face as if she had just seen a ghost. “Mr. McKinley!”
The room grew stuffy as Roger’s forehead beaded with sweat. Miss Nicholson nervously scratched the back of her head, avoiding any direct eye contact with Roger.
“I see you have met my friend already. No need for introductions, I assume,” Graydon said, standing ever so close to Marjorie Nicholson.
Roger wanted to speak again, to explain himself for approaching so suddenly, but Miss Nicholson’s sister spoke. The young woman latched herself to Graydon’s arm like all women had done before her.
“Mr. Marshall, would you care to dance?”
“I would love to,” Graydon replied. Then he escorted her onto the dance floor.
Miss Margaret Nicholson and Roger were left alone, the space between them speaking louder than words. The room seemed to grow warmer, neither of them daring to lock eyes.
Roger cleared his throat. He thought about leaving, but he and Graydon had shared a motorcar.
This awkward tension wasn’t just about their personal lives intertwining—Miss Nicholson knew things he had never told a soul.
After pouring out their souls and exposing their vulnerabilities hours ago, he couldn’t look her in the eye.
She held his dark secrets in her grasp. She had seen him weak and heard his deepest regrets.
But so had she, making the space larger between them.
“You’re not going to tell my father, are you?
” Miss Nicholson’s eyes held innocence, and her face was flushed.
Roger blinked then swallowed hard. What was she talking about?
The misunderstanding from earlier? The automobile accident?
Perhaps it was the nightclub, but it seemed all ladies her age and younger came.
“I don’t know what you are referring to.”
Miss Nicholson stepped closer to him. “My outfit,” she murmured.
Roger looked down, then caught himself. A cold sweat broke along his back. Stop looking, Roger. What are you thinking? He had stared too long at her attire earlier and tried his best to avoid looking again, clearing his throat. “I don’t believe this is any concern of mine.”
“Please,” Miss Nicholson begged. “My father isn’t a fan of the fashion, and my little sister talked me into it.”
“I won’t tell,” Roger promised. “But you must be more careful. Perhaps this will be a lesson for you.”
Miss Nicholson bit her lip. She looked around her as if someone was going to expose her at any moment.
“Would you care to sit?” Roger asked impulsively. “My friend and I had a booth in that direction.”
Miss Nicholson nodded. “I’d like that. Thank you, Mr. McKinley.”
She followed him, and Roger led her to the booth where he originally sat beforehand.
“Are you thirsty? Hungry perhaps?”
Miss Nicholson shook her head. “No.”
Roger shrugged. “All right.” He took a sip of his now-watery drink.
Miss Nicholson sat quietly, playing with the bracelets around her exposed wrists.
“You didn’t want to dance?”
Miss Nicholson shook her head. “I’m just here to chaperone my sister. It’s her night, not mine.”
Silence lingered between them for a minute or two.
“Do you dance, Mr. McKinley?”
“Not much,” Roger confessed. “It hasn’t really been an interest of mine.”
“Oh.”
More silence grew. This was the first time he and Miss Nicholson engaged in conversation outside the workplace.
Roger didn’t know what to say that wasn’t work-related.
Miss Nicholson was dashing before him, so beautiful.
Never once had he seen her without professional attire.
He preferred this better if he was being honest with himself.
She seemed more human, especially for a woman her age—young and lively.
Sweat drizzled down his back. What are you thinking? You despise flapper women!
“How . . . How are you settling in?” Roger asked, adjusting his collar. Why was this open room so hot?
“I’m becoming accustomed to the city. I much prefer the countryside. It’s peaceful there.”
“Believe it or not, but I haven’t seen the country in some years.”
Miss Nicholson’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Roger sat up straighter. “I guess you could say Richmond has grown on me. Do tell me, what makes the country so much more thrilling than the city?”
“It’s simple,” Miss Nicholson answered. “It’s like a dream. I guess you could call it . . . pastoral.”
Roger’s chest warmed as if light seeped into his soul—the first in a while. His heart skipped a beat from the term Miss Nicholson had said. “And we will sit upon the rocks, seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals.”
Miss Nicholson stared at him blankly, her eyebrows raised. Poetic words had sprung out of him naturally with no control. It had been years since he had been able to do that.
“Pastoral,” Roger explained, scratching behind his ear. “You mentioned pastoral. That’s a reference to pastoral poetry . . . simplicity.”
“Oh,” Miss Nicholson said. “I didn’t realize you were a lover of poetry.”
Roger’s face burned. “Used to be.”
“What made you stop?”
Roger sighed and looked away. The music still played loudly, but he could find it in his spirit to let it woo him.
“I’ve lost my passions,” he explained. “My passions for everything. I have become numb to the world and its beauties that had once captured me. All I do now is work and try to survive.”
“There has to be something you’re passionate about.”
Roger looked into her hazel eyes. They sparkled like diamonds, eagerly waiting for his answer. Her lips curved into a smile, making his stomach flutter. If only he could allow himself to transfer whatever this passion was elsewhere. This woman’s soul was infectious.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m certain you’ll find your passions again.”
“I hope so.”
An ounce of hope surfaced in his voice—something Roger hadn’t considered.
Mr. McKinley was a man of surprises. It seemed each conversation that didn’t involve shouting and insults created a new personality for him.
Margaret saw him in a new light—not just a coworker but a friend.
He was someone she could confide in with honesty, no judgment between them—well, judgement seemed to be moved on her end.