24. Work Crashes In
Work Crashes In
Noah kicked the kitchen door closed behind him and let his laptop bag slide to the floor next to his breakfast table.
He threw his jacket over the back of a chair and hung his key ring in its usual spot.
He toed off his boots and left them by the table as well.
Normally after work, he'd put everything where it belonged right away, but all he could focus on right now was taking a hot shower to beat the stress out of his tired, aching muscles.
He trudged through the kitchen straight upstairs to his bedroom, peeling off layers of clothing as he went.
Noah turned on the shower to let the water heat and tossed his clothes into the overflowing wicker basket in the linen closet, giving it a dirty look as he mentally added another chore to his growing list. Laundry could wait.
The steam welcomed him as he stepped in and braced his hands on the tiled wall. He lowered his head and let the heat envelop him as it seeped into his hair, pummeled his shoulders, and radiated down his back.
Noah wasn't sure how long he stood under the spray, but the tension holding his body hostage slowly bled out of him.
He ran a hand over his face and back through his hair, counting backward.
It had only been four days since that heart-stopping emergency landing, but he'd been running on adrenaline the entire time and his body was crashing hard.
He threw his head back, flinging his hair off his forehead, and reached for the soap.
He hadn't mentioned it to Claire, but getting on the plane this morning had terrified him.
A flashback to when their plane had dropped had Noah breaking out in a sweat.
He'd trembled as he'd buckled his seat belt, missing the slot the first time.
When the plane sped up for takeoff, Claire had grabbed his hand and held on.
He'd pretended to comfort her, but inside, he'd been damn happy to cling to someone during that white-knuckled event.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since lunch. He finished washing the day away, then wrapped a towel around his hips and headed to the kitchen. Since he hadn't planned on being back here, he doubted he'd find anything viable to eat. Tonight might be a takeout delivery night.
When Noah opened the refrigerator, he found a lovely surprise. Centered on the middle shelf with a note attached was a warming dish containing his mum's meatloaf with two side dishes and a slice of pie covered with plastic wrap. He pulled out the dishes, then read the note.
Thought you'd be too tired to cook and dropped this off earlier in the day. Dishes work in the microwave or oven. Love, Mum.
Noah melted. He reread the note, then rubbed his eyes because they suddenly felt leaky or something. His mum was the best. She always knew what he needed. He flipped on the oven, fixed a glass of water, and called his mother to thank her.
"Oliver here." Noah smiled at the military-like precision with which his father answered the phone. It had taken his mother years to get him to use his first name instead of their surname.
"Hey, Pops."
"Noah! You made it back in one piece."
"It would seem so, yes."
"That bad, huh?"
Noah swallowed. He wasn't usually so transparent. He must be more tired than he realized. "Not really. But I've been on high alert for the last four days and can finally ratchet back down to normal."
"Yeah, it hits you that way. Food in your belly and a good night's sleep should help. How's your coworker lady? Did she survive?"
Noah heard his mum in the background asking who was on the phone and his dad's muffled answer. The oven's preheat warning beeped, and he put the phone on speaker so he could talk while he dealt with the food.
"She seems to be okay. I think it was all a grand adventure for her." He sat down at the kitchen table, nudging his discarded boots aside and stretching his legs underneath.
As his dad chuckled, a click announced his mother picking up the extension in the other room. His parents still had a landline in the house with two extensions. Calls home were usually group conversations.
"Noah, how are you, sweetie? Did you find your dinner? I brought it over this afternoon."
"Dee! Give the boy a chance to answer," his father said, laughing.
"Sorry, sorry! I've been so worried about you."
"It's not like he's a grown-ass man or anything, you know."
Noah waited for their squabbling to finish before greeting his mother. "Hey, Mum. Your delicious meatloaf warms in my oven as we speak. I was calling to say thank you. My cupboards were pretty empty, so you're a lifesaver."
"You're welcome, my sweet boy. I also stuck a couple of rolls in your breadbox, so heat those up and slap some butter on them."
Noah stood and walked to the counter, extracted the rolls, and tossed them onto the plate in the oven. "Got 'em. Thanks. I'm so tired, I might have missed them."
"He's on the comedown," Oliver said. Being a military wife and married to an adrenaline junkie, Noah's mum would understand the slang.
With his phone still on speaker, Noah walked back to his bedroom, tossed the towel in the wicker hamper, then threw on a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt as he listened.
"Oh, well, then we won't keep you long so you can get some sleep, but I did want to talk to you about having dinner with us this week.
We want to invite you and your workmate—what's her name again, sweetie?
—to dinner one night before she goes back home.
I'm sure the girl could use a home-cooked meal. "
Wait a minute. His brain blipped, trying to wake him up. "Claire. Her name is Claire. I don't know, Mum. That feels too personal. It might be awkward."
"Oh, please. You've just spent three days crammed together in some isolated Scottish village. You two are beyond the personal at this point."
What the hell? There were many times growing up he and his brothers discussed the possibility their mother might have witchy powers, and this was a prime example of her knowing more than she should. Before he could speak, she continued.
"How about tomorrow night?"
"Um, we have plans tomorrow evening. Work plans," he clarified before his mum got the wrong idea.
Although, their plans weren't work-related at all.
Claire had cornered him at lunch today and demanded he fulfill his promise to let her cook in his kitchen.
They'd settled on tomorrow night for the date.
And he intended to make it a date. He wanted to recapture those warm, fuzzy feelings he'd experienced when they were alone in Scotland.
"And she's flying back Saturday?—"
"Friday is perfect." His mum cut him off before he could argue further. "We'll see you Friday here at our house for dinner. Don't worry, I'll cook something she'll like."
He opened his mouth to protest, but realized he'd already lost the battle.
He ran his free hand through his hair and sighed.
"Claire's also a cook, Mum. She'll probably be interested in anything you make.
" He walked back to the kitchen, where delicious smells escaped from the oven and permeated the air.
Now that his mother had gotten what she wanted, she moved on to family updates and other local events she felt he should know. His dad stayed on the line, occasionally adding in a word here or there, but mostly kept quiet.
The beeper on the oven went off and Noah interrupted his mother's monologue. "Hey, my food's ready. Can I catch you guys later?"
"Sure, sweetie. Enjoy. We'll see you and Claire on Friday."
His dad chimed in. "Get some rest, son. As soon as you eat, you're going to crash out. You'll want to be in your rack for that."
"Thanks, Pops. Mum, thanks again for dinner. It looks lovely. Love you guys."
He hung up and pulled the dishes from the oven.
His stomach rumbled, and he settled at the table.
Mum's comfort food was exactly what he needed right now.
One hot meal, then a bed with clean sheets waiting to embrace him.
The Claire situation could wait until he was better rested and thinking clearly again.
Claire had scoped out the small first-floor conference room when she and Noah first arrived this morning, so she'd know exactly where to go for the nine-thirty meeting.
Nothing screamed you're new like being walked to the room—or worse, arriving late because you couldn't find it.
Voices drifted down the hall as she approached.
Good. She wouldn't be the first to arrive. Another awkward moment avoided.
She stepped into the room and looked around. The rectangular table seated six comfortably, and a projection screen hung at one end. Ben was fiddling with the projector remote. A man and a woman were at the table, chatting quietly over mugs of tea.
"Good morning," Claire said with a polite smile.
The pair stood. "Good morning," the man said. "I'm Paul and this is Florence. I'm the plant controller and Florence works with Ben on regional reporting."
"Nice to meet you both," Claire replied, shaking their hands.
Ben gave a triumphant little noise as the projector flickered to life—only to reveal a sprawling decision tree diagram that looked like it had been designed by a caffeinated spider.
The branches stretched across the entire screen, some looping back on themselves, others ending in tiny, cryptic labels.
Claire blinked. "Wow. That's… thorough."
Ben chuckled. "That's one word for it."
Before she could ask what it was supposed to represent, the door opened and a tall man entered, his suit crisp and tie neatly in place. Despite the formal attire, he had a calm confidence that came from years of not needing to prove himself.
"Morning, all. Apologies for the delay," he said, then turned to Claire with a polite smile. "You must be Claire. Matthew Richards. Nice to meet you."