Chapter Twelve #2
“No, I can’t.” In spite of my efforts, defensiveness creeps into my voice; we’ve been over this ground before. “We’re working on the same project and we’re preparing for the New York convention together. My advisor expects my cooperation.”
“Sure,” he says, and he sounds a little chagrined by his own overreaction. “Just, please, be—”
“Careful.” I press a fingertip to his lips, which he obligingly kisses. “I know.”
We stop at one of the hors d’oeuvres stations and fill two tiny plates on our way back to the table. A few moments later, Bill and Cassie return.
Bill immediately thrusts out his hand. “Reverend Conklin.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Fisher wipes his fingers on a cocktail napkin, shakes the other man’s hand, then wipes his fingers again. “Fisher Davis.”
“Oh, yes. I know,” says Bill. Cassie has mentioned Fisher to him, I suppose. “I was hoping to have an opportunity to talk with you tonight. Someone in your position—well, I’m sure you can imagine, I have a few questions—”
The nerve of thinking that this is an opportune moment to score a little free tech help. No wonder Fisher hates his job.
“This isn’t really the time,” I begin, just as Cassie lays her fingers on Bill’s arm and murmurs his name reprovingly. He jerks his elbow to brush her away.
Just as I’m about to tell him off on both Fisher’s and Cassie’s behalf, I realize his abrupt movement has also knocked the small, high table off balance.
With lightning-quick reflexes, Fisher grabs one edge before it can tip over, but not in time to save me from being doused head to toe in red punch and cocktail sauce.
“It was an accident,” Cassie blurts out, looking stricken as she grabs a fistful of napkins and circles the table to reach me.
Bill just stands there, not saying or doing anything.
As a fellow clumsy person, I never dreamed he did it on purpose, but still!
And I can’t believe she’s taking up for him.
I cut her off with a flick of my dripping fingers and turn to Fisher. “I want to go home.” I speak as evenly and calmly as possible, though my lips are trembling, and my hand shakes as I swipe futilely down the front of my ruined dress.
“Of course.” He shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around me, heedless of what becomes of it. “But first”—he stares pointedly at Bill, one eyebrow cocked—“I’m sure the good reverend has something to say.”
Bill looks more pissed than sorry, but eventually he manages to grind out a few phrases: “Spindly furniture—not my fault” and something that might constitute an apology. Fisher looks unsatisfied but, with every eye in the room on us now, I no longer care.
“Can we go?” I say to Fisher. A moment later, after he retrieves our coats, we’re back in the chilly night air.
As we cross North Street, I glance up at him.
“Your place is closer.” Surprise flickers into his gaze; I suppose I did ask him to take me home.
“I don’t want to run into Cassie right now,” I explain, still more hurt by her behavior than Bill’s.
Fisher says nothing, just steers me toward his house.
Once we’re inside, I peel off his jacket. He takes it from me but doesn’t look at it, doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact that it’s ruined now too.
I don’t know if I’m on the verge of screaming or crying. My voice, when I speak, is a harsh whisper that could presage either one. “Would it be too much trouble for me to take a shower?”
He’s not the kind of guy to make a suggestive remark, though I wouldn’t blame him for laughing at my pathetic state. But his smile is gentle, understanding. “Of course not. I should have offered. Upstairs, first door on the right.”
There are four doors off the first-floor landing, and the one to which I’ve been directed opens to reveal a bedroom with ensuite, so tidy I at first assume it’s a guest room of some sort.
Then I catch a whiff of pine scent on the air.
I look a bit more closely at the few items sitting around that could be considered personal, and realize the room must be his.
I cross the floor quickly, trying not to notice how plush his king-sized bed looks to be.
Like the kitchen, the bathroom has been designed to appear original to the house, even though when the house was built, running water would have been a luxury. It’s all gray-veined marble and rubbed bronze fixtures and one of those rain shower heads I could stand beneath for hours.
My skin is pink when I finally emerge. After toweling off, I run his comb through my hair and then head back into the bedroom, where I discover he’s laid out clean clothes for me: some flannel pajama pants—too long, but at least I can cinch the waist—and a sweatshirt that says YALE.
I realize I don’t know why he has it, whether that’s actually where he went to undergrad, or whether it’s standard issue for boys from Connecticut.
When I step onto the landing, I see that one of the other doors is ajar just enough I can see a sliver of what’s inside.
I hardly know what to call the room—part old-fashioned study, with yet another fireplace and polished woodwork, and part …
lair? There’s a big TV with two gaming systems hooked up to it and a pair of leather gaming chairs on the floor.
I’m pretty sure I’ve met guys who, if they had a setup like this, would never, ever leave it—and they certainly would not look like they know their way around the gym.
I push the door a little farther, enough to see a desk and an oversized curved monitor, in front of which sits Fisher.
His chair spins silently as he turns, as if he senses my presence, and at the sight of me in his clothes, a smile eases into his cheeks.
“I was looking online and found two options for getting the stains out of your dress. Unfortunately, I don’t have any club soda. ”
“What’s the second option?”
His smile twitches slightly. “A blow torch.” In spite of how much I liked that dress, I can’t help but release a huff of wry laughter. He shrugs. “I don’t have one of those either.”
I approach his desk, accompanied by the quiet fwip-fwip-fwip of his overlong pajama pants swirling around my feet with every step.
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess.” One of those notches forms between his brows, like that day at the coffee shop, and he looks me up and down again.
“Oh, I don’t mean—well, I don’t mean just the dress.
I’ve been trying so hard to hold it all together, stay focused, show you the best version of me.
” And because I know that what I’m about to say could put an end to the bliss of these last few weeks, I start to wring my hands.
“But you deserve the truth, and the truth is … the real me is a whole lot more like tonight.”
He reaches for my knotted hands, untangles them, chafes his thumbs across my knuckles. “Which part of tonight? The way you smiled at me from across the room? Or that dance?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I pray they’re still a nice even pink from the shower.
“That dance was pretty amazing. When you took my hand and led me out there with such confidence, and when your arms were around me … well, I almost convinced myself I’d managed to absorb some fraction of your calm, that I wasn’t really such a crazy disaster girl.
” I shrug, pushing back at that dreamlike memory.
“And we both know what happened next. I just think you deserve better than—”
“You’re not a mess, Elle. You’re …” His shoulders lift and the worry in his expression fades, to be replaced by something altogether softer.
It makes the tightness in my gut—frustration and anger and worry—soften too.
“You’re you. Funny and creative and energetic and determined.
Oh, and beautiful. But I said that before. ”
And like before, I can’t help but scoff a little.
I mean, I’m flattered, but there’s no question in my mind it’s anything but flattery.
Maybe all of it, but especially in regards to my appearance, which is just Midwest ordinary, with my short, rather shapeless figure, hazel eyes, and hair that can pass for blonde, but only in the summer.
“As for what I deserve,” he continues, “well, why don’t you let me be the judge of that? We wouldn’t have had that fiasco with the table if I had just set my ego aside and talked with that Conklin guy …”
“Ugh, no! That would’ve just encouraged him.” I blow out a sigh that puffs my cheeks. “I just don’t know what Cassie sees in Bill. She’s changed.”
He squeezes my hands in commiseration. “I want to say something, but every way I can think to phrase it sounds … opportunistic.”
It’s my turn to wrinkle my brow. “Just say it.”
After a deep breath, he does. “If there’s something going on with your roommate, or you just don’t want to go back to your place right now, you’re welcome to stay here tonight.”
I know I can’t run away from my problems. But being here with him in this cozy old house doesn’t feel like running …
I return the gentle pressure of his fingers. “I’d like that.”