Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
James
In the end, I decide I don’t need Pat’s help.
Apologizing is something I can do on my own.
Because, despite the popular opinion about me, I am not an unfeeling, grouchy caveman.
(At least, that’s not all I am.) I am definitely guilty, however, of being an idiot with a short fuse and a lot of pressure stacked on my shoulders.
And maybe some slightly personal qualms with my employee. Ex-employee.
Look, I’m not dumb enough to think these qualms have to do with Winnie. Nope. This is a ME issue.
See? See how capable I am of taking responsibility when I need to? I’ve got this.
At least, that’s what I tell myself all the way up until I knock on the front door.
Chevy opens it, takes one look at me, and steps outside, closing the door behind him. I hear Winnie calling, “Who dares knock before coffee?”
Is it that early? I’ve been up for hours, but I guess it is barely seven.
Is Winnie not a morning person?
Who cares? I don’t. I’m here for business. To hire her back, not to learn her sleeping schedule.
Chevy crosses his arms, leaning against the door in a pose that would look casual if not for the tension in his neck. “To what do I owe the honor?” His voice is laced with sarcasm.
“I screwed up. Massively. I’m here to apologize to you and to Winnie.”
Good start. No hesitation, no minimizing. My tone of voice could use a little work, but since I basically have two tones—angry and not angry but still sounding slightly angry—I’d give this an eight-point-five out of ten.
Based on Chevy’s unchanging expression, his ratings are much lower. “And?”
I clear my throat, sifting through my thoughts and possible additions to my concise yet arguably on point apology. Oh, wait. I said I was here to apologize. I didn’t actually make an apology.
“I’m sorry.”
Chevy stares at me for a long moment and then bursts out laughing. “Man,” he says finally, through tears, “you’re really bad at this. Like, terrible.”
“I said sorry .”
“Like a robot. Or a slab of granite. You know what? Forget it. I accept.” Chevy is still chuckling.
“O-kay?” There is clearly a trick I am missing here.
Throwing open the door, Chevy steps aside, waving me through. “Have at it. And good luck.”
He’s still laughing as he walks down the front steps. I pause on the porch for another minute before I enter his house. The place is neat as a pin, and considering I've been bouncing back and forth between Pat’s barely lived in loft and Tank’s rarely there place, that’s saying something.
The messiest thing in the whole place is Winnie, and I stop just inside the door when I see her curled up on the couch with a blanket over her feet. Her knees are pulled to her chest, and she’s clutching a mug of coffee to her face like she’s Gollum and it’s the ring of power.
I barely slept last night, but when I did, I apparently dreamed, because that dream suddenly floods my brain.
I’m watching Winnie shuffle an endless deck of cards.
The image is gauzy and soft, just her hands, her deep blue eyes, and red lips, curved up in a sardonic smile.
Those hands . The movement of her fingers over the cards is the hottest thing I’ve ever dreamed.
It’s as strong as a sense of deja vu, a total contrast to the ruffled, glasses-free version of Winnie in front of me. Yet somehow, they combine into a vision that has my fists clenching and my throat swallowing reflexively.
I focus, narrowing my gaze on this Winnie in front of me.
She’s sleep rumpled, hair mussed, no glasses.
One strap of her tank top slides off her shoulder as I watch.
Her eyes glitter with anger, even as she yawns so huge I can see her tonsils.
It’s hard to tell if she’s glaring at me or squinting to see. I think a little of both.
“What?” she snaps when the yawn subsides. “Do whatever you came to do so I can tell you I don’t forgive you and kick you out.”
Winnie takes a sip of coffee, glaring over the mug at me. She’s clearly not very awake. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles. I wonder if she slept as poorly as I did last night.
She yawns again, coffee spilling down the side of her mug. When she notices, she licks right up the side of the white ceramic. My blood goes molten.
So far, this is not going according to plan.
“Stop staring,” Winnie says. “You’ll make a woman self-conscious.”
She should feel anything but self-conscious. If she could only see inside my brain right now…
If she could see inside your brain, she’d probably slap you.
That sobering thought has me slumping in a chair across from the couch and looking at the floor, where not even a hint of a dust bunny lives.
“I saw your website mock-up,” I say finally. “The real one.”
“And?”
The feisty side of Winnie, or maybe the morning Winnie or barely-had-coffee Winnie, makes me want to smile. Which would be the very wrong thing to do at this moment.
“How did you do it?” I ask.
Winnie blinks, takes a sip of coffee, blinks again. “How’d I design the site? It’s a simple Wordpress theme, pretty much just—”
I shake my head, and the motion alone stops her words. “No. How did you know what I wanted?”
Winnie tries to take another swallow, but I can tell that the mug is empty by how far she tilts it back and by the way she whimpers a little, staring down into the mug wistfully.
I’m on my feet, snatching the mug from her hand before I can think about it. “How do you take it?”
“Black.”
She pauses as I step inside the connected kitchen and pour. This is the last of the pot, so I turn the machine off and set the glass carafe on the stove to cool.
Winnie shifts on the couch. “Um, black with a little splash of heavy whipping cream.”
I manage to hold back a laugh. The carton of whipping cream is in the door of the fridge and I pour a little of it into the mug, raising an eyebrow and meeting her gaze, the carton still poised in my hand.
“A little bit bigger splash.”
I pour until she nods, her coffee now the color of golden sand.
“One black coffee.” I hand her the mug and somehow manage to keep a straight face.
Her hands circle around it, and she smiles before remembering she’s mad at me. I sink back down in the chair.
“Are we at the part where you grovel and beg me to come back to work for you?” she asks.
“Not yet. You were going to tell me how you knew what I wanted for the site.”
“Ah.” She takes another sip of coffee. “It was close to what you were looking for? You didn’t give me a lot to work with, so I was guessing.”
“You guessed well.”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re very good.”
She smiles wide at the compliment. “Thank you. Some might even say I’m an asset to a business.”
“Some would.”
“They might find me indispensable.”
“They might.”
“I believe there would even be negotiations made in order to secure my loyalty. To the company, of course,” she says.
“Of course.”
Winnie waits. I also wait. Because to be honest, I’m not sure what she’ll say next, but letting her steer the conversation has worked better so far than what I planned to say.
“So?” She raises her eyebrows, but the look is less intimidating because then she squints to read my expression. “James. Come on. What are you prepared to offer to woo me back to work?”
There will absolutely be no wooing involved. But I am prepared to negotiate terms.
“Do you want to come back?”
She thinks about this. “I am perhaps … willing. But willing and wanting are two different things.”
That’s a good distinction. But her nonanswer also frustrates me. A strange feeling swirls in my chest, dipping into my gut. I wish she were both willing and wanting. And maybe not just for business purposes.
Bad idea, James. Pick one: professional or personal.
Not a hard choice. There is only one answer.
Personal is off the table. I’m floundering with Dark Horse, struggling to get everything done.
Even without the tight timeline, trying to open for the Sheet Cake Festival, it’s almost an impossible task.
Having a romantic relationship with my one employee—assuming she’ll come back—is unacceptable.
And that’s if I wanted a romantic relationship.
Which, to be clear, I don’t. I had a front row seat to real love with my parents and the pain of its loss.
The idiots saying it’s better to have loved and lost didn’t watch their mom die of cancer and their dad fall completely and utterly apart from the grief of it.
Definitely keep things professional.
“I’m prepared to negotiate,” I say. “Give me your terms.”
“I want to be brought on in a more permanent capacity. Not just contract labor and hourly wages.”
“So, not a temp?”
Winnie hesitates, staring down into her mug like she’ll find the answer there. “A less temporary temp?” she says, finally, a question in her voice.
Pat told me her main gig is app development, and that she’s poised to sell Neighborly. I assume after that, she won’t have a need for this job anymore. So, still temporary.
“And a raise.”
“Okay.”
She eyes me carefully, like she’s wondering why this is so easy. “I don’t just want money. I’d like more … say .”
I shift in the chair, which suddenly feels too small. “You want a say in how I run my business?”
My words practically send icicles shooting through the room. Now it’s Winnie’s turn to wiggle in her spot. But she doesn’t back down, and the seed of admiration I have for her grows, despite the bad soil and my resistance to watering it.
“I’m not talking like a partner or some official title. More like … if I have suggestions or ideas or feedback, you’ll listen.”
“I listen.”
She rolls her eyes. “Let me clarify. I want you not just to audibly hear me, but to consider what I’m suggesting.”
I grunt, which is my version of a response.