Chapter Eleven #2
“Don’t tell her this, but I’d have to consult my calendar for the exact date. It’s been a while now, though.” Technically, I’d been ‘with’ her in a professional capacity for years.
“My secretary is the one who remembers for me,” he freely admitted, like that wasn’t a pathetic thing to say. “I can’t help but notice Willa doesn’t have a ring on her finger.”
No wonder Willa looked stressed the hell out whenever her boss or coworkers were a topic of conversation. That was an invasive and inappropriate thing for a boss to say.
“It’s been taking longer than I expected to get a custom ring made. I’m sure Willa is wondering what I’m dragging my feet about.”
“So, you do plan to make an honest woman out of her.”
Wow.
I thought she was exaggerating about the misogyny. Apparently, she was playing it down. Who the hell said ‘make an honest woman out of her’ in this day and age?
Not trusting myself not to say something offensive, I sidestepped that. “I’d be a lucky man if she agrees to have me.”
Martin frowned. “Of course she’ll have you. She knows it’s not a good look to be an unmarried mother.”
My hand itched to knock that smug look off his face. I had to curl it into a fist to make sure I didn’t make that mistake.
Suddenly, a lot of things made sense.
The way Willa carefully edited every conversation at work. The way she’d smiled through comments about maternity leave. The way she’d insisted she was fine when it was obvious she was exhausted.
She wasn’t imagining the judgment or being oversensitive. She’d been protecting herself from people who were perfectly willing to make her motherhood into some sort of professional liability.
And she’d trusted me enough to bring me into that world. Her trust mattered. Maybe more than it should have.
“I’m sure she would be worried about that.
If it were still 1954. Luckily, the only metric she needs to measure how her parenting looks is how happy her daughter is.
And when it comes to that, believe me, she looks fantastic.
If you’ll excuse me, I need to give Chris a recommendation for a contractor. ”
I made a quick exit and disappeared down the same hallway Willa had. I leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath.
Just then, the door opened and a frazzled-looking Willa stopped short.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Your boss is an asshole.”
“Oh, God. Did he insult you?”
“He wanted to know when I’m going to make an honest woman out of you because it’s ‘not a good look’ to be an unwed mother.”
“What is this? The 1950s?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He always has a snide remark to make. Before Adelaide, it was about my hair, nails, clothes, how I styled my office. He’s just miserable and wants to make everyone else miserable too.”
“I’m shocked he has a wife who puts up with him.”
“Oh, she delights in making his life miserable. And he can’t divorce her.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was her money that built his company. He’d have to give her not only half of all his assets, but would need to buy her out of her shares of the company. And he can’t afford that.”
“That makes me feel a little better.”
“Right? Ready for some food to make all this worth it?” she asked.
I offered my arm and led her to our table where we sat with a few of her amiable clients who made the next hour or so the most pleasant of the evening.
That is until one of them pulled his wife out toward the makeshift dance floor and insisted I do the same with Willa.
“It’s okay if you don’t dance,” she whispered.
I wouldn’t know what the hell to do at a club, but I knew how to slow dance.
I stood, offered her my hand, and waited for her to place hers there before leading her onto the dance floor.
The appropriate thing would be to keep space between our bodies, like I’d been taught when I’d learned to dance.
That wasn’t what I did.
I pulled her flush against me, her soft curves melting into my hard lines.
For a brief moment, her gaze flicked up, her eyes soft, before she leaned in, resting her head against my chest instead.
Then we were swaying with the music.
For once, there was no pretending.
Not really.
We were supposed to be convincing everyone else, but there was no one to act for right then. No coworkers looking for a chance to show her up. No boss looking for some reason to write her up.
Just Willa in my arms.
Her cheek was warm against my chest, and one of her hands rested lightly against my shoulder. I could feel the slow rhythm of her breathing, the subtle movement of her body against mine every time we swayed.
I could have held her like that for hours.
That thought landed somewhere deep in my gut.
It wasn’t supposed to feel good. It was just meant to be a favor. A night out. A chance to help a woman I’d known for years avoid questions she didn’t want to answer.
Instead, I was standing in a library with her in my arms, wondering what it would feel like if I got to do this again tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the day after that.
“Where’d you learn to dance?” she asked.
A chuckle moved through me at that. “My grandmother insisted it was a vital life skill, along with cooking and washing dishes. My grandfather used to take her dancing every weekend.”
“That’s really sweet.”
“Yeah, they had an amazing marriage.”
“Something to aspire to,” Willa said, but there was a sad edge to her voice.
It wasn’t the first time I wanted to ask about that missing mug in the sink, about the man who helped create Adelaide, only to decide he wanted nothing to do with either of them.
It also wasn’t the first time I needed to remind myself that it wasn’t any of my business.
If Willa wanted to tell me that story, she would.
Until then, I wasn’t going to poke what had to be a sore spot.
So, instead, we danced.
The next thing I knew, I was walking her to her door.
“Thank you so much for—”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do. I was dreading this. But I somehow managed to have a pretty good time.”
“I’m glad. Me too. How about Tuesday?”
“Tuesday?”
“Brisket.”
“Yes!” she said, her smile huge. “Tuesday brisket. We will be there. With dessert.”