Chapter Twenty-Two #2
I’ll never understand these people. I’ve never once thought I was better than them—I just have no interest in knowing them. There is a difference they’re too shallow to see or understand.
So, I ignore their existence altogether and enter the Fort Myers Post.
There is no bell to jangle as I walk in, and only two large desks take up the main room. One is to the right with a coffee bar built into the wall behind it. Another room with the door open wide is in the back right corner.
What I believe is probably a bathroom is in the back left, and across from the previously mentioned desk is Elijah, sitting at his own station as he types furiously on his computer.
Dressed in a pair of navy blue, wide-legged slacks and a white sweater, he doesn’t seem to notice me at first. He’s typing so quickly that two loose curls bounce with each desperate movement of his fingers.
It reminds me of those same little strands bouncing beneath me just last night, or how some were laid so beautifully around his head as they decorated the pillow underneath him.
I find myself heating once again and note that this is getting to be ridiculous.
“What does a man have to do to get some help around here?” I ask, and Elijah jumps in his seat, his big hazel eyes finding me within seconds.
He stands, sending the leather office chair crashing into the wall a few feet behind him as he yells, “Rowan!”
I grin, approaching his desk to set the white plastic bag on the surface.
“Afternoon, Eli,” I greet.
“W-what are you doing here?” he rushes, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater, and then moving to smooth the lines of his slacks. He’s nervous.
“I brought lunch. I figured it might be better than a text.” At that, I pull out his note, and Elijah flushes a deep red.
“Oh, thank you. You… you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I nod once in reply, beginning to round his desk to touch him.
To hug him or run a hand over his jaw—I’m not sure. But I don’t make it very far before someone else is clearing their throat.
“Having a lunch date, Eli?” the old man asks, and I recognize him immediately. He’s been the man to run our town’s newspapers since I was a kid—John Andrews, the man who told me Elijah had boarded that plane to California.
“Sorry, sir. Is that okay?” Elijah asks, looking nervously between his boss and me.
Shit, should I have texted after all?
“Of course, son,” John responds, walking toward us. Once he’s within range, he extends a hand to me. “Rowan Alexander, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” I respond politely, taking his hand in mine. “And you’re John Andrews, the owner of the Fort Myers Post.”
I appreciate that he’s pretending we haven’t interacted before—that he’s not acknowledging my showing up here that day.
John grins. “Well, if you knew that, why did ya ignore me when I came by your house all those weeks ago?”
Oof. I heard him, alright. Pounding away at my door and calling out to me about his interview. But at the time, I had absolutely zero interest.
If Elijah hadn’t been the one to show up next, I would have declined their request until the day I died. No one in this town cares about my accomplishments; what’s the point in blasting them to the public?
“I must have just missed you,” I lie, and John laughs the way I imagine Santa Claus would laugh if he actually existed.
“No reason to lie, son. I respect your desire to be left alone, even if I wanted this interview more. I’m just happy Eli here was able to use those pretty eyes to persuade you.”
Elijah groans, plopping back into his chair as he hides behind his hands. “John, please. You’re worse than my father.”
John just laughs harder, and he stares at Elijah with handfuls of affection. I find myself pleased with this—with the knowledge that he has someone looking out for him.
“Sorry, sorry! Well, anyway, I’m going to get back to work. You two enjoy your lunch. And Rowan, please come by again. Elijah is normally so put together that it’s kind of nice seeing him all blushy and—”
“John!” John cackles some more at Elijah’s glare, and he wanders back to his office, his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry about that,” Elijah mutters, closing his laptop to make room for our bowls.
I snag the chair from the opposite desk and sit across from him, handing him a bowl and a spoon.
“No need to apologize. John seems nice.”
Elijah opens the lid to his bowl, sending me a smirk over the steam. “Baked potato soup, huh?”
I shrug and say, “Well, it is cold outside.”
Elijah laughs, shaking his head as he blows the steam away from his face. I try not to take note of his pursed lips or the smell of mint coming from his breath.
But I’m only human, and worse—a man, so I take tremendous notice.
“I find it kind of funny that a big guy like you likes soup so much. It’s such an odd picture,” he jokes.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Why is that so funny, angel?”
Elijah flushes once again at the use of the pet name, and he refuses to look me in the eye. “I don’t know… you’d just think a guy like you would like steak or something.”
“Tsk tsk, how judgmental of you.”
Elijah freezes, and he sputters for words. “Wait! I-I didn’t mean it like that! I’m n-not saying that you can’t like soup, I just—”
“Chill, Eli. I was joking,” I interrupt, and Elijah visibly relaxes in front of me. He peeks at me from under his lashes as he wraps his lips around a spoonful of soup. Tease. “So, a date, huh?”
“Yeah, do you want to?” he asks carefully, and I nod.
“I’d love to. What’s the plan?”
“Let’s meet at Tabitha’s Place for dinner, and then we’ll go do something fun. Just dress casually.”
“Tabitha’s Place?” I ask, and Elijah has no issue picking up on my slight panic.
“Do you not like their food?” he questions, and I find myself choosing my words carefully.
I can’t very well tell him the owner’s son threatened me a few days ago—that would lead to too many questions. And clearly, Elijah really likes eating there with the amount in which I catch him going to the establishment.
“No, I like it. We can go.” In response to my words, Elijah watches me for a moment, assessing my reaction. “I just haven’t gone too often, so I was nervous for a moment. But it should be fine,” I lie, and some part of me aches at the action.
I lie to him far too often, even if it is for a good reason.
“Well, isn’t that true for all places in town?”
I laugh. “Good point.”
“Wait,” Elijah starts, sitting up straight. “Speaking of—how did you know where the office was? You never come into town, let alone to the newspaper. I don’t think I ever told you…” He begins to think, staring at a wall behind me as he most likely replays various conversations we’ve had.
I find myself panicking again. I can’t tell him I know the location of the Fort Myers Post because I stalk him, but he’s not far off. Sure, I’ve lived here my entire life, but the newspaper wasn’t always located on this strip of town, and I never had a reason to hunt it down.
“There’s only one Fort Myers Post,” I grasp at straws, doing my best to act neutral. “So it wasn’t hard to find. Plus, Google Maps exists."
Just when I think Elijah will push further, his ever-calculating brain seeing right through me, he shrugs.
“Makes sense. Well, I’m glad you found me. Thanks for lunch.” He smiles brightly, little dimples appearing to greet me, and guilt once again overcomes me.
I’m the fucking worst. I swear it—I will tell him. Once things have settled and Elijah and I are in a stable place, I will sit him down and tell him exactly what I know and what it means.
I will tell him that I’ve been watching him, and he’ll understand that it wasn’t for some perverted interest, but because I feel drawn to him at all times.
Things will be okay, and I will be able to put down this guilt that I am holding onto so tightly.
“Well, I’ll head home and get ready for our date, then,” I say, standing and throwing my empty container away.
Elijah nods, watching my every move with curious eyes. “Sure. I’ll call you when I’m off, okay?”
Leaning over his desk, I place a gentle, closed-mouth kiss on his lips. Elijah squeals quietly, face flushing even further as I pull away.
“Sounds good. Bye, Eli.”
“Uh, yeah. Bye.”
He watches my back as I retreat—I can feel him the entire time. I resist the urge to turn back and see what expression he’s making, in fear that I’ll see one of suspicion or extended curiosity I cannot answer to.
And as I jump into my truck and begin the twenty-minute drive home, I try to calm my racing heart.
Everything will be fine. Things will work out—they have to. It’s destiny.
The red string of fate that ties the two of us together is being pulled taut, and I believe with everything in me that I can keep it from snapping completely.