Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wade
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I search my briefcase again. Then my pockets. Then the middle console of my SUV for my office keys.
No luck.
“What the fuck?”
I always, without fail, toss them into my briefcase at the end of the day. I really only need them to get into the side door. Otherwise, I have to walk in the front and parade through the lobby on my way to my office.
People are very chatty in the mornings.
Since I have no clue where they might be and really no other choice, I gather my things and head for the main entrance.
The lights are already on, thanks to the cleaning crew that arrives as early as I do on specific days. It saves me from going back home and getting my spare set of keys.
I yank on the door handle and step inside. And then stop.
Eliza is sitting at her desk looking as bewildered to see me as I am too.
My brows shoot to the ceiling as the door swings shut with a pop behind me.
“Oh! Good morning, Mr. Mason.” She withdraws her hands from her keyboard and stiffens. “I didn’t expect to see you so early.”
“I’m here every day at this hour. But why are you here?”
A vacuum roars to life somewhere in the building.
“This is going to sound … a little obnoxious,” she says, glancing briefly at her computer screen.
“But the files Stephanie left for me were a mess. And I can’t work efficiently when I have to spend five minutes finding a phone number or a project number or where to buy your Keurig pods. It’s really ridiculous.”
I regrip my briefcase and look at her with surprise—a gesture she must misinterpret.
“Don’t worry,” she says in a rush. “I didn’t clock in. I won’t clock in until six thirty like I’m supposed to. After yesterday, I knew I had to find time to get things in order, and I couldn’t do that during normal business hours. I … I hope you understand.”
Wow.
“I appreciate your effort,” I say. “It’s nice to see someone take such responsibility for their work.”
She smiles.
“Make sure you clock in. Now. You’re working. You should be compensated,” I tell her.
“Are you sure?”
There’s a hint of friendly conversation in her tone, as if this exchange somehow demonstrates a desire on my part to now discuss the weather when I arrive.
I start to walk away but then Dara’s voice trickles through my mind. Compliment her. I can almost see Dara give me the look that says—Don’t ignore me.
So I stop. But I’m not happy about it.
“Eliza?”
“Yes?”
I clear my throat. “I love what you’ve done with your …” I glance quickly around the room.
Do I say something nice about her hair? Her outfit? The red jacket hanging on the back of her chair?
Eliza watches me expectantly.
“With your desk,” I say, giving her a quick nod and tight smile before retreating to the safety of my office.
I plop my briefcase on my desk and tug at my collar. Damn this day already. I glance at the calendar and see it’s already Wednesday. Damn this entire week.
I have rested on my discipline for my entire life. While everyone around me hopped, skipped, and jumped with emotional reactions, I did not.
Logic has always been king, and I’ve always worn the crown. Calm, cool, and collected. I act with prudence.
And it’s almost killed me for days.
I sink into my chair and don’t even bother with the computer. The aroma of coffee drifts through the air from the Keurig in the break room, but even that isn’t enough to lure me out of my reverie.
It’s been a couple of days since I saw Dara. Long, frustrating, hard days—hard in so many ways. I keep thinking the need to see her will subside. It’s what I always told my brothers when they acted like this. Give it time. You’ll get over it. But I’m not getting over it.
I pick up my phone and pull up her number, just like I have a hundred times this week.
Should I reach out to her? No. She would likely assume I’m interested in her—interested in something more—if I call to say hello every day or send her a text to say good night or ask her to come by the office so I can see her smile.
I scroll down the one break in my restraint on Sunday night.
Me: How did your photo shoot go?
Dara: Great! They weren’t weirdos after all.
Me: That’s great.
Dara: Wade Mason—were you worried about me?
Me: I was concerned for your safety.
Dara: Well, thanks. I guess.
Me: I found an earring in the bathroom.
Dara: I’ve been looking everywhere. It must’ve fallen out when my face was pressed against the counter.
Me: Should I apologize?
Dara: Only apologize for never doing it again.
Me: I need to get back to work.
Dara: Same. Night, Wade.
Me: Night, Dara. Sleep well.
My cock gets hard just thinking about her bent over my bathroom vanity. And my heart softens just thinking about her asleep in my bed.
I growl into the room. “I can’t do this. I can’t get all fucked up like this.”
But what if I already am?
My insides twist so tight that I grimace. I close my eyes.
I drift back to that day over ten years ago. I know it’s coming, but I can’t stop it. Since I met Dara, I’ve thought about it so much more.
Her face was distorted from crying so much. Tears stained her cheeks, and I wondered if there would be permanent rivers in her skin when she stopped crying. If she stopped crying.
Bile rises in my throat, catching just before it spills into my mouth.
My helplessness. The cold sweat running down my back. The deep canyon of loneliness among faces that judged me in that brisk, acrid room.
I grip the edges of my chair.
Her heart bled on the hospital floor. But it wasn’t just her heart. It was her body, her spirit—our life together—that was battered and bruised, and she sat in the middle of it all.
Because of me.
My mouth goes dry as I snap out of my memories. Each breath is quick but not deep enough.
I get to my feet and bow my head, willing myself to calm down. I try to remember that was ten years ago. She’s not broken anymore. She’s better without you. She healed as much as a person could.
Maybe I’ve healed as much as I can too.
And maybe that’s why Dara has me all fucked up. Because I am. And it’s just getting worse.
The sun is still an hour from rising, but I don’t wait. I can’t. I reach for my phone.
Me: I have some ideas to run by you if you’re available today.
I set the phone down. There’s no way she’s up at this hour. But almost immediately, my phone dings with an incoming text.
Dara: Hey, you. Yeah, I can come by whenever. I have something to run by you too.
Relief rushes through me. I sigh.
Me: How does nine this morning sound?
Dara: Well, I’m up now, so how about eight?
Me: Perfect.
Dara: See you soon. I have to get out of bed now.
There’s an opening to continue the conversation, but I don’t take it.
That’s how it’s done. That’s what I know how to do.
Do not ask questions that you don’t need or want answered.
Now, all I need is to brainstorm the something to run by her.