Chapter 48 Jordan
Jordan
Now
Things are tense between Sam and me for the rest of the evening.
I make dinner and we eat in silence; then I leave him watching TV in the living room and return to my office to work on the coffee shop presentation for the Glendale’s board.
But I’m distracted. I can’t focus on anything except Kalina.
I don’t know what to do, or if I’m even being rational.
I keep telling myself that Sam is trustworthy, but after finding the two of them huddled in the laundry room, deep in conversation like that, I’m rattled.
She appears intent upon becoming my rival for Sam’s affections, even if I don’t have any proof that he’s reciprocated.
And that’s part of the problem. He’s such a nice guy that he never wants to cause trouble or offense.
He goes out of his way to be helpful. It’s an admirable trait, but one that a woman like Kalina can use to her advantage.
Eventually, after an hour staring at the mood board and getting nowhere, I throw in the towel and rise from my desk.
When I enter the living room, Sam isn’t there and the TV is off.
The room is dark except for a lamp in the corner that’s been dimmed to its lowest setting.
The only other light comes from the bedroom, which is where I assume Sam has gone, since it’s past ten o’clock and he has to be up early for work.
I go into the kitchen and make a cup of decaffeinated tea, then drink it at the island before heading into the bedroom.
Sam is sitting up with a pillow propped behind his back, reading a book.
He doesn’t look up, and I can tell that he’s still miffed because he has a habit of becoming noncommunicative when he feels aggrieved.
I ignore him and go into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, then undress, put on my warmest nightshirt, and climb into bed next to him.
Now he decides to speak up. “I’m sorry,” he says in a stiff voice.
As usual, his big brown eyes and puppy dog expression melt my icy demeanor. “I’m sorry, too.”
Sam lowers the book. “I shouldn’t have stayed down there talking to Kalina for so long. It’s just that I don’t like letting people down. I didn’t know what to say, how to tell her that I couldn’t help with the Wainwright Building anymore, so I sort of danced around it.”
“But you did tell her, right?”
He gives me a What do you think? look.
“Okay. I believe you.”
“Then we’re good?”
“We’re good.” I can tell that Sam wants to go to sleep—he’s already yawned twice—so I give him a kiss, say that I love him, and slip down under the covers.
Sam does the same, setting his book aside on the nightstand before turning off the light.
A few minutes later, he’s snoring. But not me.
Now that we’ve made up, my thoughts drift back to the mood board and the presentation I need to put together before Thursday.
I do my best to shut my mind off, but it simply won’t obey.
All the inspiration that wouldn’t come earlier in the evening now tumbles forth as if it had been trapped behind a dam that’s suddenly burst. I feel the weight of creativity pressing down upon me.
If I don’t do something about it right now, my ideas will slip back into the ether by morning, leaving me with only faint, tantalizing impressions.
With a groan, I swing my legs off the bed and quietly pad out of the room.
The apartment is silent and brooding. The light from the lamp in the corner of the living room, which I’d left on when I went to bed, seems dimmer than it did before.
The shadows feel longer. I scurry past the kitchen and living room to my office and sit down at the desk, turning the light on.
Outside my window, the city is sleeping.
I grab the rectangle of foam board and start rearranging the samples on it like I’m solving an abstract jigsaw puzzle.
On my computer, I start writing, jotting down my ideas and crafting them into a presentation to go along with the mood board, and the digital walk-through I’ve been putting together.
After an hour, the inspiration that came to me while I was trying to sleep is out of my head and taking shape.
Now I’m overcome by a deep weariness. I yawn and rise to my feet, turn the office light off.
Then I make my way back to the bedroom, ignoring the weird sense of unease that grips me as I cross the living room.
A strange sensation that I’m not alone, even though common sense tells me there’s no one here except me and Sam, who’s still asleep.
When I reach the bedroom, I climb back into bed, thankful to be near him again, and try not to think about the darkness beyond.