24. Chapter 24
Chapter 24
T he following Monday I’m in my office, working on some new hire paperwork. Chad has officially been replaced. I guess Dawson and I will have to find something new to talk about. Like the weather. Or even worse, politics. Gross.
Chad’s replacement was interviewed and hired last week, and today is his first day. I have a lovely stack of papers for him to fill out. Cooper’s is still old school when it comes to employee paperwork. Someday we’ll get with the times.
The new hire’s name is Mateo, and he’s got very dreamy eyes. I obviously didn’t tell him that when I interviewed him, because that wouldn’t be very HR of me. But I thought it in my head. They’re the darkest brown, like chocolate. And his eyelashes are every girl’s fantasy—for themselves, of course. It’s such a shame when men have beautiful, lush eyelashes. They don’t even appreciate them.
I’m feeling a little tired today since I spent the entire weekend with Chase. On Saturday we went indoor skydiving to help Chase prep for his big jump. That’s what he said anyway. I warned him that it’s not really like jumping out of a plane. Like, hardly at all. He didn’t seem to care. He loved it and it was another check mark on his adventure list.
Sunday, Chase invited me over to spend the afternoon at the park with my new boyfriend, Oscar. He didn’t actually call Oscar my boyfriend, and he did get slightly irritated when he threw out a Frisbee for Oscar to catch and Oscar kept bringing it back to me.
I so badly want to take him while Chase is in London, but his sister, Kenzie, has already volunteered for the job. My third-story apartment wouldn’t be all that fun for a big dog anyway.
“Mags,” I hear someone say from the doorway, and look up to see Chelsea standing there. She looks a little haggard—not like someone who just got back from vacation. If you can call visiting her in-laws in Fresno with two young children in tow a vacation.
“Hey, Chels,” I say, and give her a smile.
We haven’t talked—not since the Sunday before, when I told everyone who Chase really was. I’d thought maybe since she was leaving the next day that she’d take a week to forget or at least get over it.
But by the look on her face, I can tell she’s anxious to talk to me. Which means none of that happened. What probably did happen is that she thought about it a lot, got worked up, and is now here to lecture me. Can’t wait.
“How was your trip?” I ask, deciding that stalling is my best tactic.
“It was … okay,” she says. She walks into my office and takes a seat in the black mesh chair across from me.
“That fun, huh?” I say.
“Well, you know. It’s … Fresno.”
I chuckle. “Right.”
“How was your week?”
“It was good,” I say. “We hired someone to replace Chad.”
“Finally,” she says. “Do you know that he tried to wrap my car?”
“What? ”
“Yeah, one time Dawson told him to go get the next car from the lot and start on the door, and when Dawson came back my minivan was in the shop, and the driver’s side door was wrapped in hot pink.”
I snort laugh at that. It’s possible I might end up missing dear old Chad. At least he gave me something to laugh about—and something to talk with Dawson about.
She gets a serious look on her face. “Listen, Maggie, I’ve been thinking a lot this past week while I was gone and realized something.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ve been here for you enough. Since … since Mom died.”
My face falls. “Chels—”
She holds up a hand. “I was caught up in my own life, in my own grief, and I feel like I neglected you.”
“No way,” I say shaking my head. “Chelsea, making sure I’m fine is not your job.” Typical oldest sibling.
“I know that. I guess I just thought that since you felt the need to send those texts to Mom’s phone, maybe … I could have been more supportive. I wasn’t here for you enough, and I’m sorry.”
I’m at a loss for words. This wasn’t what I was expecting at all when she came in here. I was expecting a lecture or some sort of nudge toward therapy.
“Chels, I’ve never felt like you weren’t here for me,” I say. I let out a breath before continuing … before explaining. “Texting Mom’s phone was my thing. It wasn’t some outlet because I wasn’t getting what I needed from you or Dad or Devon. It was just … me working through my feelings. That’s all it was.”
She looks to the side, toward my wall of pictures. “Just so you know, I’m here. You can talk or text or whatever you need.”
I pull my lips upward. “I never once thought I couldn’t.”
She takes a big inhale and then gives me a few quick nods of her head. “Okay,” she says. “That makes me feel better. I just kept thinking about everything and I was … worried about you.”
I smile. “And I love you for it. I’m sorry if it ruined your trip.”
“No.” She waves my words away with her hand. “Mark’s mom had that job.”
“That bad?”
She blows air out of her cheeks and lets her head hang down slightly. “Worse than bad.”
“Tell me,” I say.
“I can’t right now, but I promise I will later. I have so much work to catch up on,” she says, standing up from the chair.
She says goodbye, looking much lighter than she did when she first came in, and walks out the door.
Thirty seconds later there’s a knock on the wall outside my door and I lift my head up, expecting to see Chelsea back again. But then I remember Chelsea never knocks.
Instead, Dawson is in my doorway, in black coveralls, his dark-blond hair styled just perfectly. He looks rather delicious, even if my heart doesn’t speed up all that much in his presence. My pits seem completely dry right now too. My palms are slightly sweaty, though. I may never not have a reaction to him.
“Hey there,” I say, feeling the words roll off my tongue. I haven’t felt tongue-tied around Dawson in a while. Maybe it’s because I haven’t even tried to make a move in a long time. It doesn’t feel like something I want to do right now. I’m not saying it’s off the table completely, but I’ve set that thought on the back burner.
“Hey,” he says in response. “You got that paperwork for Mateo?”
“Yep, right here,” I say, tapping on the neat stack of papers on my desk. I grab a manila folder from the bottom drawer and place the paperwork inside of it.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward the folder.
It’s funny, now that I’m not so caught up in making my feelings known to him, I’m noticing new things about Dawson. Like how sort of shy he is. Especially around me. His cheeks turn a light shade of pink, just on the apples, nearly every time we have a conversation. I don’t know if this is a new development or I’m just noticing now because I can take note of such things without the distraction of my erratically beating heart and my sweaty palms and pits.
I give him a nod and he walks up to grab the paperwork. I push the folder toward the other side of my desk to make it easy for him to grab, and maybe I pushed too far, or Dawson didn’t get a good hold on the folder, because somehow it ends up falling off my desk and all of the papers fall out and fly around, landing in all directions on the floor.
Dawson swears under his breath.
“So sorry,” I say, and stand up from my chair. I move around to the other side of my desk where Dawson is already on hands and knees trying to gather up all the paperwork. I get down on the ground and help him.
“No, I’m the one that’s sorry,” he says as he’s trying to gather everything. There are probably only about twenty sheets, but they’re spread out around us and hard to pick up off the epoxy flooring. There’s no give between the paper and the floor, making it hard to get a finger underneath.
We end up sort of brushing them into a pile with our hands, which makes it easier to pick up. We’re also laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing: both of us on the floor, trying like mad to pick up all these papers.
Once we get it all somewhat together, we’re both still chuckling, and we sit back on our heels, so close that I can feel his shoulder touching mine. I turn my head to find Dawson watching me, and something shifts in his expression. He’s not smiling anymore and his eyes have taken on a more serious look—almost like he’s determined to do something. Before I can think of what that might be, he leans his face in and presses his lips against mine.
His lips are warm and full, and my eyes flutter shut at the contact. The kiss probably only lasts a few seconds before he pulls away. I keep my eyes closed, feeling so many things right now. So many thoughts running through my mind. When I open my eyes he’s looking at me, his cheeks red, his eyes curious.
I touch my fingers to my lips, not entirely sure what just transpired.
“Was that … did I …” he says, not completing a sentence.
My body, working on its own, stands up from the floor. It’s an instinctive response, like a fight-or-flight thing.
Dawson jumps up to his feet as well. He swipes a hand down his face. “I’m … so sorry, Maggie. Did I … did I get that wrong?”
“What?”
He closes his eyes for just a second and then opens them. “It seemed like … I thought that …” he stops himself, looking frustrated by his inability to form a full sentence.
I let out a breath. “You didn’t get that wrong, Dawson,” I say, and he does a whole upper-body sagging thing, in relief.
He then stands up straight and walks toward me, this time with a more definitive expression. A man on a mission.
I hold out a hand to stop him. “You didn’t get that wrong, but … I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“Oh,” he says, his face falling a little.
“It’s not that … I just …” I let out a breath, not sure what to say or how to say it. Maybe I should just go with the truth. If only I could pinpoint exactly what that is.
“Is it that Chase guy?” Dawson asks.
“What?” I feel my eyes widen. “No … Chase … I—”
“Sorry,” he interrupts. “It just seemed like maybe something could be happening between you.”
I look to the ground, my brain firing off again. Is my change in feelings toward Dawson because of … Chase? I try the thought on for a second but end up feeling even more confused.
“So then … what?” he asks.
I let out a breath. “If you had done that like … two weeks ago?” I say. “I would have been so thrilled. Like, jumping for joy, thrilled.”
“Ah, okay. But … not now.”
“Now,” I say, and then nibble on my bottom lip while I think. “Now, I’m just … not sure.”
“Got it. I missed my chance.” He rubs a hand down his face again.
“No,” I say. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Right,” he says. “So maybe think on it?”
I smile. “I can do that. ”
“Okay.” He echoes my smile. “Then I can wait.”
He comes closer to me and leans in, and for a second, I wonder if he understands the concept of waiting. But all he does is brush his lips on my cheek. And then, with a soft smile, he walks out of my office.