Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FINLEY
The fact that Thomas doesn’t drive very well makes me feel closer to him than anything else could. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who doesn’t possess all the normal skills
It starts to pour down rain as we walk to the diner. Grabbing my new friend’s arm, I pull him away from the curb, so we have rain protection from the awnings hanging over the buildings. “What’s life like in New York?”
“Busy,” he replies. “I was always on the move.”
“But not here?”
He stops walking before turning to face me. “I don’t know as many people here yet. I don’t have as much draw on my time.”
“You must have a lot of friends back home.” Thomas is such a friendly and social guy, he’s probably got plans every night.
“I have a good number,” he says, but he pauses again like he’s really thinking about the question. “I think maybe I just feel busier in New York because everything around me is busier. Does that make sense?”
“It’s a stimulation thing,” I tell him. “When there’s a lot of outside stimuli, people can get overwhelmed.”
As though I’ve just given him the key to understanding me, he asks, “Is that why you don’t think you’d ever enjoy living in New York?”
I forgot I already told him that. “This might sound crazy, but big cities sort of squoosh my aura.” The rain lightens up slightly, so I pull his arm to cross the street with me.
“Your aura …” he repeats.
“Yeah, you know, the energy field around a person.” I explain, “The body is just the vehicle. It’s not us. And it’s claustrophobic enough being stuck inside of it.”
“So, what you’re saying is that big cities squoosh your soul.”
I love that he understands this. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
We walk into a rather crowded diner. “Is this too busy for you?” Thomas asks.
I shake my head. “It would be if the street was crowded with people and I’d already been bombarded with other energies. But I’m calm going in, so I’ll be fine.” I’m surprised I confess this as readily as I do.
Thomas takes my answer in stride and doesn’t comment. We approach the hostess stand and by the time it’s our turn, there’s only one table left in the restaurant. It’s a booth in the front window.
The hostess says, “You’re lucky this one just opened up.”
“It’s very nice,” Thomas tells her. While he takes his coat off, his gaze is diverted to something across the room. He looks disturbed.
“You okay?” I ask him.
Thomas offers a flimsy wave before turning toward me. “I need you to start the fake girlfriend angle tonight. Now, in fact. My boss is sitting over there.”
“Constance?!” I half gasp and screech at the same time. Suddenly my aura is beyond squooshed, it’s nearly snuffed out. “Maybe we should go.”
He shakes his head. “No way. I need her to see us together. Hopefully, that way, she’ll stop hounding me.”
“Yes,” I say, “but I don’t want to talk to her. She’s mean. She made me feel like a fool.”
“So, get even.” Instead of sitting across the table from me like a normal person, he scoots in next to me. Which is both crowded and lovely. His shoulders are so broad, they touch mine, and I instinctively lean in toward him.
“Get even how?” I manage to croak.
He tips his head toward mine like we’re full-on canoodling, and whispers, “Show her you have the man she wants.”
Stabbing hot awareness fills my body. It’s like I’ve just been attacked by a colony of fire ants. “Conceited,” I tell him. But he’s right. I wouldn’t mind showing Constance up. “Would you like me to crawl onto your lap?” I tease.
Thomas’s face turns red in what might be embarrassment, or it might be returned interest. I can’t tell. “I don’t think you need to do that. Just hang on my every word like I’m the most fascinating man you’ve ever met.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I laugh.
He leans closer to me and exhales into my ear, “I really would.” His hot breath causes goose bumps to pop up all over my body. Talk about overstimulation. For a person who strives to keep balance, I’m failing.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Neither Thomas nor I heard the waitress approach, and we both jump at the intrusion into our little bubble.
“What would you like?” Thomas asks me.
I smile up at the waitress. “I’ll have a diet cola, please. With three slices of lemon.” I’ll only use two, but two isn’t one of my preferred numbers, so I order up.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” Thomas tells her. Turning to me, he asks, “Unless you’d like to share a bottle?”
My ability to pretend I’m normal ceases to exist when I drink alcohol. I’m not sure Thomas is ready for the real me yet. So, I tell him, “No thanks, I’m good.”
When the waitress walks away, I inadvertently make eye contact with Constance. Shoot. She’s glaring at me like she wants to rip all the hair off my head, one excruciating clump at a time. Forcing myself to turn away, I tell Thomas, “Your boss looks like she’s ready to commit murder.”
“You or me?” he wants to know.
“I think she’ll start with me. But you might be next if you don’t let her have her wicked way with you.”
“Her behavior is very unprofessional,” he grumbles.
I don’t know why, but that comment rubs me the wrong way. “I’m sorry she’s making you uneasy, but you are aware this is how men have treated women in the workplace since women were allowed to work outside of the home.”
Thomas doesn’t look the least bit offended by my comment. In fact, he agrees. “Every one of those men should have been reprimanded or fired, depending on the extent of his behavior.”
My hackles retreat. “That’s a very refreshing attitude.”
“Have you ever been on the receiving end of workplace misconduct?” he wants to know.
“I work for myself so, not really. I’m a pretty great boss.”
“You must have had a boss somewhere along the line …” he prompts.
An irritatingly cocky face pops into my head. “The problem with Dillion wasn’t sexual harassment,” I tell him. “He was into guys. His problem was that he didn’t like me, and he made sure to let me know it as often as he could.”
“Where did you and Dillion work?” he wants to know.
“At the faculty gym at our university. We handed out locks and towels, did laundry, that kind of thing.”
Thomas gazes into my eyes with laser-like intent. “How did he treat you that made you think he didn’t like you?”
“He used to throw the sweaty towels at me.” I make a face like I’m going to throw up.
Thomas looks appropriately horrified. “Did you ever complain?”
“I complained to him, but that seemed to make things worse.”
“Why didn’t you go to his superior?” he wants to know.
“I would have, but I didn’t know who that was. Don’t worry, though. I got even the day I quit.”
My dinner companion shoots me such an adorably expectant look, I’m tempted to go ahead and crawl onto his lap.
“I brought a fudge brownie into work with me,” I tell him.
I love this memory so much, I take a deep breath to savor the recollection before sharing, “I rubbed it into a towel and then I screamed and threw it at Dillion. It looked like, you know.” I don’t bother spelling it out because the brain only conjures one thing when it sees ground-in brown stuff on a towel.
Thomas’s face lights up in such a way I can tell he appreciates this story as much as I do. “What did he do?”
“He yelled and threw the towel right back at me. Then he fired me. But I told him it was too late to fire me because I quit. Then I opened the towel and licked the brownie remains. I thought Dillion was going to faint.”
Thomas laughs out loud. “Licking the brownie was very childish.” He says the last like it’s the highest compliment.
“Thank you,” I say proudly.
The waitress drops our drinks. I take the wrapper off my straw before inserting it into the soda at the perfect forty-five-degree angle. Only then do I squeeze in two of the lemon slices before taking a sip.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks.
I get the patty melt and Thomas orders the tacos. “Do you need a second entrée?” Thomas challenges me like he doesn’t believe I’ll get one.
Smiling up at the waitress, I tell her, “I’d like the meatloaf, too, please. What does that come with?”
Instead of looking surprised by my gluttony, she looks delighted. After all, a bigger check means a bigger tip. “It comes with a baked potato and peas.”
I love peas, but they’re also my nemesis due to their rollability. “Can I get the peas in a bowl on the side?” I ask. She nods her head and walks away.
“Why not get something else if you don’t like peas?” Thomas asks.
“I love peas,” I assure him.
“Then why on the side?”
There’s no getting out of telling him now. “I don’t like them rolling all over my plate.”
“Ah,” he laughs. “You don’t want them touching your other food.” Before I can ask if he has the same predilection, he says, “My sister is the same way.”
“What else doesn’t your sister like?” I wonder if maybe she might be on the spectrum, too. That would actually be great for me because then Thomas would be used to people with differences.
“She doesn’t like root beer,” he says. “She says it tastes like medicine. And she thinks mint chocolate tastes like toothpaste.”
I like root beer and mint chocolate, so I’m going to need something more. “Anything else?”
Thomas thinks for a moment before answering, “Humidity?”
Clearly he’s not going to give me what I want. Which would be a deep-rooted hatred of whistling, a revulsion to nut chewers, an almost homicidal reaction to bubble gum poppers … The list goes on and on. I finally ask, “Is your sister older or younger?”
He smiles fondly as though he’s imagining her face. “Vivie is four years younger than me. She’s an artist.”
“An artist?” I ask. “Like a working artist or a hobby?”
“Working artist,” he says. “She has paintings hanging all over the city.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. It’s hard to become known in that field.”
“She’s kind of a prodigy,” Thomas tells me proudly. “She painted a piece in junior high school that won an award. It got some media attention, and one of the big bank buildings on Wall Street saw it. They wanted to buy it for their lobby, but my parents wouldn’t let Vivie sell it.”
“That’s amazing!” I say excitedly.
“They hired Vivie to paint another one for them. She’s been doing commission work since, but she also creates and shows her own collections.”
“Thomas,” I tell him, “that’s truly incredible. I’ve never known anyone like that.”
“My sister is one of a kind. You’d like her.”
Before I can reply, we both hear the very stern voice of the woman responsible for us sitting on the same side of the booth. “Thomas. Ms. Harper.” Yay. It’s Constance. She says my name like she’s cursing me to the depths of hell. My blood positively runs cold.
Thomas turns his head around so fast he almost bangs into my nose. “Constance, how are you?”
Her left eyebrow raises up at the same time the left side of her mouth does. She’s full-on sneering at us. “You’re dating Finley Harper?” she demands. She makes it sound like I’m the human version of chopped liver. And not pricey pate, either.
“Blissfully,” he tells her. “Is that a problem?” I can practically feel the anger radiating off Thomas.
Instead of a mic drop, his question feels more like a gauntlet drop.
Like he’s marched onto the battlefield and won’t leave without a victory.
Although, I’m afraid he’s stepped on a land mine and we’re all going to get blown to smithereens as soon as he lifts his foot. That woman is unhinged.
Instead of answering his question, Constance demands, “Where did you meet her?”
“We met through you,” Thomas tells her.
Constance shakes her head vigorously. “But you didn’t work well together …”
I decide it’s time to enter the fray. “We do now. And honestly, we owe our happiness to you, Constance.”
Steam is practically rising from her ears. I have never enjoyed putting someone in their place as much as I currently am. “I didn’t get you together,” Constance growls. “I hired you to take Thomas’s picture and you bungled the job horribly.”
“I retook those pictures,” I tell her. “And they look fantastic. I’ll be sending them to you tomorrow.”
“We’re very grateful to you,” Thomas tells her.
The look on his boss’s face causes me to scan the table for sharp objects to hide. She looks like she wants to take our happiness and crumple it up before grinding it under her booted heel. It goes without saying that dousing it in gasoline and setting it on fire would be the inevitable ending.
“I’d like to see you in my office tomorrow, Thomas. Nine a.m.,” Constance says before turning around and practically marching out the front door.
As soon as she’s gone, I tell Thomas, “I think you’re in trouble.”
He looks visibly shaken. “What could she possibly do to me?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But whatever it is, I don’t think you’re going to like it.”