6. Line of Sight
SIX
LINE OF SIGHT
Jackie
Sliding into my desk chair after a brutal meeting where Sean had obviously been going through caffeine withdrawal, I check my phone screen.
This is a new habit of mine since Operation Social Life began.
Usually my phone doesn’t make an appearance unless I need to adjust my schedule or check work emails on the fly.
Two text messages from Flynn.
One at 4:55 p.m.: Car won’t be ready
Another at 5:15 p.m.: You better text me when you’re heading home
“What has you smiling?” my cube-mate, James, asks. “I heard most of the EVA crew got their asses handed to them at the meeting by Sean. Didn’t think anyone would be smiling for a while.”
It’s true. Sean was his usual uptight self.
Only a few seem to be immune from his exacting tendencies, and I’m one of them.
Probably because I have the same work ethic he does.
Unfortunately, he’s been even more on edge than usual, as EX-2 had a random malfunction.
It’s probably a one-off, but without a back-up or the ability to power cycle, everyone is stressed.
James looks at me expectantly. I’m guessing that means his question isn’t rhetorical.
I place my phone down on my desk and gather my stuff together in my purse. “Uh… nothing. Just a YouTube video.”
He snorts. “What, another cat video going viral?”
I make a noncommittal sound, somewhere between a grunt and a hum, but it seems to work, as he turns back to his own desk.
James is a good cube-mate. He never eats stinky food in our space and keeps his desk rather tidy.
Even so, I’m not about to tell him I’m smiling like an idiot because a super-hot mechanic texted me. And he has been all day .
Though, oddly, I really, really want to.
“Don’t forget, leftover kolaches in the break room,” he says, eyes locked on his computer screen.
Another hum/grunt and then I’m walking out of our cubicle, phone in hand.
On my way out
Flynn sends a thumbs-up emoji in response.
Ugh. Emojis. Yet another language I’ll need to learn how to decipher. I’m good with NASA acronyms, Russian and French. I’m hoping this new modern-day version of hieroglyphic writing will be easier to manage than that of the Egyptians.
Thumbs-up seems pretty self-explanatory, thankfully.
A few people wave as I walk by, some reminding me about the leftovers. I nod, but though I slow my steps when passing the breakroom, inhaling the savory sweet smell of kolaches, I keep moving.
When I told Flynn, via text, about my usual choice of meals, if you can call me scrounging for leftovers meals, he insisted on taking me out for a proper dinner after work tonight.
I was too shocked that he had actually shown up to drive me home to argue.
Not to say I didn’t think he wouldn’t show up when he said he would …
but still. I’m having a hard time believing that auto repair shops make personal chauffeur services de rigueur.
And definitely not dinner. I’m not sure what Flynn is up to, if anything.
Maybe he’s just a good guy doing a good deed.
Why must I always question men’s motives?
I hate that my past has made me so paranoid.
Even so, I push open the security-locked door and speed walk toward NASA’s west entrance with a smile on my face.
The sun is low in the sky, hovering over NASA as I walk across campus. It’s still light out, so I don’t know why Flynn wants to pick me up. It isn’t like I’m going to be mugged with the sun out. Or even when it’s down. The area around NASA is usually pretty safe.
But I’m not about to point that out. One, I’m sure he’d blow off my valid argument for some reason or another. Two, on the off-chance that he didn’t, I’d be denying myself another ride in his kick-ass car. And three, you know, Flynn .
High humidity causes a mist of sweat to dust my skin and I’m thankful it’s only in the high seventies. I won’t be a complete sweaty mess by the time I reach Flynn. Just a somewhat sweaty mess.
The trees from the Challenger memorial throw shade over me as I walk by.
“Jackie. Need a ride?” A sleek silver car slows down beside me. Ian is looking quite nice in his white button-down shirt, silver tie and aviators.
I work very hard not to drop eye contact, but I can’t help the blush that rushes under my skin. “Uh, no thanks. I’m, uh, meeting Flynn.” I wave ahead of us. “In the badging lot.”
“Is that right?” Ian’s nostrils flare as he fights a smile. He loses the battle.
“Oh shut up,” I mumble.
Ian just laughs. “You two drive safe, now.”
Before I can respond, he pulls away and around the corner.
Since the Ian and Flynn episode the other day, Ian has been far more relaxed at work.
I’m not sure what that is all about, but it’s brought a sense of relief, as I’m no longer looking for nonexistent signs of attraction anymore.
I can just focus on my job. Stupid Jules and her stupid innuendoes and blackmail. I knew Ian didn’t like me that way.
Turning the corner, I have to pause and catch my breath. Not due to my power walk or the heat, but because my eyes are filled with the ridiculously breathtaking sight of Flynn leaning against his car, arms across his chest, biceps bulging. The same pose I found him in the other night.
“Yo,” he calls out, making my smile widen.
“Hi, Flynn.” Sheesh. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes at how breathless I sound. Let’s hope Flynn chalks it up to my walk.
“Lookin’ good, darling.” He pushes off the side of his car and walks toward me. The smell of him surrounds me when he leans down to kiss my cheek.
The heat radiating from under my skin has nothing to do with the temperature, but I’m going to pretend.
I blame a lot on the weather in Texas. I’m also not sure if he’s making fun of me.
True, I traded in my usual T-shirt and jeans for a button-down and khakis, but it isn’t glamorous by any means.
I’m still sporting my well-loved Chucks.
He takes my bag from my hand, walks me around to the passenger side, and opens the door.
He waits until I’m situated before placing my bag at my feet, closing the door and rounding the car again to slide in behind the wheel.
I must be a pretty bad feminist, because I find his chivalry wildly attractive.
“You didn’t eat yet, did you?” he asks, hands on the wheel.
“No. I remembered.”
He nods, one hand drifting down to the ignition. The action has me sitting up straight, legs perfectly perpendicular to the seat, feet flat on the floor mat, palms resting on my thighs. The optimal position to make the most out of this moment.
This moment being when his hand cranks over the ignition, and the rumble from the engine filters through every point of contact I have with the car, sending chills and vibrations through me like the jet propulsion of the space shuttle in lift-off.
“You like sushi?”
“Hmm?” I blink, having to fidget on the seat to stop from coming right here in his car, parked at my work. Get it together, Jackie.
His lips do that twitching thing Ian’s had earlier when he fought a smile. Paranoia sets in. People are always doing this around me, and I am not that funny.
“I said, ‘you like sushi’?”
“Oh, ah, no.” Shoot. Maybe I should’ve said yes?
“Thank God.”
His response is so illogical that I can’t help but laugh. “Then why did you ask?”
He shrugs, looking sheepish. “I don’t know, the girls I knew usually liked sushi.”
“Oh.” Well, there go all the good feelings from the engine.
He clears his throat. “Never mind that, then. This is Houston, there are five restaurants on every corner. What would you like? French? Italian? We could go to Perry’s. It’s a Tuesday, pretty sure we won’t have trouble getting a table.”
I look down at my khakis. There is no way I want to go to the exclusive steakhouse in my work wear. Flynn’s in jeans and he doesn’t seem to care, but hello? Why would anyone object to him wearing jeans when he wears them the way he does? All sexy-like and stuff. Me in khakis? Not so much.
“What about Jimmy Johns?” I ask.
“Jimmy Johns,” he repeats slowly. “The sub shop?”
I warm up to the idea. “Yeah, they have a killer Italian Hoagie.” He just continues to look at me. Crapola. Now what did I do? “I mean, you did mention Italian,” I mumble to my lap, twisting my fingers together.
His chuckle has me looking up. His hand lifts off the gear shift and I watch it as it ascends, his long, masculine fingers grazing my cheek lightly before dropping back down.
“Italian hoagies it is.”
Flynn
“I’ll have the number eight please, with salt and vinegar chips and a small drink,” Jackie declares, bouncing on the toes of her sneakers.
It’s true I’ve never really dated. Never took the time to get to know someone and how we’d fit together.
Growing up, it was more like I’d hooked up with people in my social group, and some hookups lasted longer than others.
And the only requirements were each other’s family name and net worth.
But I would’ve thought that adult dating would at least mean a sit-down restaurant with waiters, not a chalkboard menu with a pimple-faced cashier.
Jackie glances down at the rack of chips before her, missing the way the teenage boy at the counter checks her out. She grabs the bag and turns to me.
“Did you want an Italian hoagie too, or did you see something else you like?”
She says this with a straight face, brow creasing at my answering smirk. I don’t think Jackie does innuendo. But it still makes me smile, because I do see something else I like— her. I don’t know much about her family, how much she makes, what she’ll inherit, and yet I like her.
“I’ll have a number eight too. Plain chips, large drink,” I tell the teenager, moving closer to Jackie so he can draw the correct conclusion that we’re on a date.
And that is when I know I have it bad, when I feel the need to broadcast the fact I’m on a date to a pubescent teenager with wisps for a mustache.