Chapter 5—Christa
SIMON HAS ARRANGED the screws before I arrive Thursday.
I stop beside the worktable and stare at the tray.
Every label faces the same direction, and each screw sits beside its corresponding number with the head turned the same way.
Tuesday, I left them separated and labeled.
Apparently, Simon spent part of the intervening forty-eight hours improving my system.
Behind me, he clears his throat.
I turn slowly. “Did you do this?”
Simon looks toward the tray as if he’s never seen it before. He’s abandoned the dress shirt today for a charcoal sweater and dark trousers, which does nothing useful for my concentration. “Do what?”
“You reorganized the screws.”
“They were already organized.”
I tap the tray lightly. “They were separated. Now they’re preparing for inspection.”
His mouth twitches. “One was crooked.”
“One?” I fold my arms and look back at the tray. “How did you survive knowing the others weren’t aligned?”
“It was difficult, but I had support.”
I laugh. “Was Misty involved?”
“She refused to take the situation seriously.”
Another laugh escapes me as I put my case on the table. “I’m beginning to like her.”
“That makes one of us.”
I glance toward him. “You like her.”
“Unfortunately.” Simon picks up the folding work light before I can reach it. “She knows it too, which has damaged her character.”
The easy answer draws another laugh from me, and I have to turn toward the escritoire before I enjoy myself too openly.
This is only my second work session here.
I shouldn’t already know that Simon’s driest delivery usually means he’s trying to make me laugh, or that his dimple appears only when amusement gets past whatever serious expression he wears for the rest of the world.
Knowing those things isn’t a betrayal of Tate. Wanting to know more might become one if I let it. The petition isn’t filed yet.
I unpack my tools. “Light on the right side today, lower than Tuesday.”
Simon carries it over and adjusts the height. “Here?”
“A little higher.” He raises it an inch. I make him lower it half that distance, and he gives me a suspicious look. “Perfect.”
“You did that for entertainment.”
I keep from smiling but barely. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You’ve been talking to Misty.”
“She hasn’t given me her number yet.”
“She will.”
I grin and pull on my gloves. Simon takes the chair near the worktable without being told, his laptop open beside him. The arrangement should help. He can work while I do mine, which means I won’t spend the afternoon noticing him unnecessarily.
Ten minutes later, he closes the laptop the instant I ask him to support a drawer.
Apparently, the plan has weaknesses.
“I need you to keep the weight level while I remove the lower support.” I show him where to brace it and watch until he has the position right. “Don’t shift unless I tell you.”
Simon studies the drawer. “Your instructions become increasingly alarming once I’m holding something irreplaceable.”
“You’re doing fine.”
He feigns shock. “Was that praise?”
“It was an observation.”
“I’ll accept it.”
I crouch beside the escritoire and ease the support free.
Simon doesn’t move. His attention stays on the drawer, and he follows every instruction without trying to help more than I’ve asked.
Plenty of clients do the opposite. They pay for expertise, then spend the appointment proving they have their own.
Simon simply listens.
When the support is clear, I tell him where to set the drawer. He lowers it onto the padded surface, then steps away so I can inspect the old repair along the underside.
“That’s hide glue too,” he says.
I look up.
His expression becomes cautious. “Was I wrong?”
“No.” I return to the repair before my smile gets too obvious. “I’m deciding whether to be impressed or concerned.”
“Those seem unnecessarily close together.”
I shake my head. “You studied.”
“I was given homework.”
“I didn’t give you homework.”
“You talked for more than fifteen minutes.”
I laugh as I adjust the lamp. “You volunteered for that.”
He shifts from one foot to the other. “I know. I stand by the decision.”
That should sound like ordinary conversation and almost does. I concentrate on the adhesive line until my attention settles where it belongs.
For the next hour, we establish a rhythm that has already become too easy.
I work while Simon handles calls from the chair across the room.
He doesn’t transform when he talks business.
His voice stays calm, although the humor disappears and every sentence becomes shorter.
Twice he asks a question that makes the person on the other end retreat and start over. He never raises his voice.
When the second call ends, he looks toward me. “You’re staring.”
“I was observing.”
The dimple flashes briefly. “That sounds suspiciously like staring with professional credentials.”
I shrug. “I was curious.”
Simon sets the phone beside his laptop. “About?”
“You don’t sound like I expected.”
He looks wary suddenly. “How did you expect me to sound?”
I search for a diplomatic answer and fail to find one. “More billionaire.”
His eyebrows rise. “There’s a voice?”
“Apparently not.”
He waits, clearly expecting more.
I sit back on my heels. “Charla talks about you like you spend your days acquiring companies, refusing invitations, and staring out windows while other people tremble.”
Simon considers that description with more seriousness than it deserves. “I do own windows.”
I laugh. “I knew one part had to be true.”
“Charla has a dramatic relationship with rejection.”
That makes me grin. “You’re being very diplomatic.”
“I’ve worked hard at it.”
That answer is probably carrying several years of history he’s chosen not to unload on me. I appreciate the restraint, especially since Charla has offered him far less.
I return to the repair. “She thinks persistence is romantic.”
“Persistence can be romantic.”
The change in his tone makes me glance up.
Simon leans back in the chair, watching me. “It requires encouragement from the other person.”
“Ah.”
“That’s the part she occasionally skips.”
I bite back a laugh. “Occasionally?”
“Still diplomatic.”
“Very.”
He picks up his laptop again, and I smile at the escritoire like an idiot.
My phone vibrates on the worktable a few minutes later. Tate’s name fills the screen. I almost leave it there. Then it buzzes again.
Simon keeps his attention on his computer, giving me privacy without making a production of it. I strip off one glove and answer. “Hi.”
Tate doesn’t bother with a greeting. “Are you at work?”
“I’m with a client.”
“Can you pick up my tuxedo on your way home?”
I stare at the escritoire. “Your tuxedo?”
“From Carver’s. They close at six.”
The clock on the mantel reads two-forty.
“I’m scheduled here until four.”
There’s a pause long enough to make clear this is inconvenient for him. “Can’t you leave early?”
“No.”
He sighs impatiently. “Christa, it takes ten minutes.”
I frown. “Then you should have time.”
Simon looks down at his keyboard. He isn’t typing.
Tate exhales into the phone. “I have calls until five-thirty.”
“I have work until four, then I’m going back to the studio.”
“For what?”
The question annoys me more than the tuxedo. “For work.”
“I thought you were with a client.”
“I am. Then I’m going to the studio because I own a business, Tate.”
Simon stands and carries his laptop toward the windows, putting more distance between us without looking over.
Tate lowers his voice as though I’m the one making this conversation embarrassing. “You don’t need to get defensive. I asked you to pick something up.”
“You asked me to leave a client early because you forgot your dry cleaning.”
“I didn’t forget. I’ve been busy.”
I close my eyes for a second. “Carver’s has delivery.”
“They charge seventy-five dollars.”
I stare at the phone. My husband, who spent more than that on lunch yesterday, wants me to abandon a paid appointment to save seventy-five dollars. “Have them deliver it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Then pick it up yourself.”
Tate goes quiet for two seconds. “What is wrong with you lately?”
I turn away from Simon even though he’s across the room. “Nothing is wrong with me.”
“You’ve been impossible since the fertility appointment.”
I straighten. “I’m working. I’m not discussing this now.”
“Fine. Do whatever you want.”
The call ends. I lower the phone and look at the blank screen.
A few months ago, I would’ve called Carver’s myself, paid the delivery fee, and made sure the tuxedo reached the house before Tate did. I probably would’ve reminded him which shirt he wanted with it.
Today, I put my phone down and pull on a fresh glove. He won’t be my responsibility much longer, and I shouldn’t feel bad for acting like it.
Simon gives me another minute before returning to the worktable. He doesn’t ask what happened. He simply looks toward the drawer. “Do you still need me to hold that when you turn it?”
The normal question helps more than sympathy would. “Yes.” I point to the opposite side. “Here.”
He takes the position I show him. We rotate the drawer together, and I spend the next few minutes examining the joinery while my irritation fades enough that I can trust myself to speak.
“He wanted me to leave early and pick up his tuxedo.”
Simon keeps his attention on the drawer. “I gathered there was a tuxedo emergency.”
I laugh despite myself. “Apparently.”
“Those can be serious.”
“Seventy-five dollars serious.”
He looks over.
“Delivery fee.”
Understanding arrives, followed immediately by disbelief. “He wanted you to leave a job to save seventy-five dollars?”
“Yes.”
Simon opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever he planned to say, and looks back at the drawer.
I know that expression now. “You may say it.”
“I’ve already used my one insulting-your-husband allowance.”
I’m curious. “Who gave you an allowance?”
He looks sheepish. “I did. It seemed prudent.”
That gets me again. “Very ethical.”
“I’m trying.”
His answer loses some of the humor, and I look at him.
Simon is serious now.