Chapter 15 #2
“Ah,” the woman says, her smile sly. “Kind of an assistant, then? Daniel, we should really think about hiring a secretary too.”
Winnie’s nails dig into me, and I’m thankful I’ve got on long sleeves.
The guy on Winnie’s other side, who must be Daniel, says, “I think technically, that all falls under my task list. Are you saying I’m slacking at my job?”
The other guys laugh, but Winnie and Pleather or whatever her name is kind of just bare their teeth in poor attempts at smiles. The server arrives with our sandwiches and I miss the opportunity to say something— anything —to defend Winnie, to say how necessary she is to Dark Horse.
What would I say? Because she isn’t necessary. I don’t need her. A glorified assistant is pretty much what she is. Taking notes doesn’t really fall too far outside the role of an assistant, after all.
When her hand falls away from my arm, I tell myself it’s because Winnie needs to eat, not because she’s upset I didn’t stand up for her. I also tell myself I don’t miss her touch on my arm.
But the same stupid part of my subconscious that keeps calling me out whispers that I’m bluffing.
* * *
As we eat, I settle into a silence just broody enough to keep people from shooting questions my way.
Pleather finally gives up. I half listen as the conversation hovers around the morning sessions, different kinds of beer (which has Winnie looking like she wants to pull out her notebook), and the rooftop party tonight, which I totally forgot about, since I wasn’t planning on attending.
That’s my general stance on parties: NO.
“Are you going tonight?” I realize Daniel has asked this question of Winnie. And only to Winnie.
My back stiffens. I ball up the napkin in my lap, waiting for her answer. Winnie’s eyes dart my way, then back to Daniel. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on—it’ll be fun.”
He bumps his shoulder into hers, and she shifts closer to me.
Without giving myself time to think about how stupid this is, I stretch my arm over the back of the bench, my fingertips resting lightly on Winnie’s upper arm.
She tenses under my touch, and I curl my hand more firmly around her shoulder, massaging gently.
She releases a breath and relaxes against my arm.
“We’ll be there,” I find myself saying.
Because I really want to attend a party … with Winnie, of all people.
Now I’m the one acting jealous, staking a claim. And because I tend to go all in whether I’m playing a game or making a mistake, I don’t remove my arm.
Daniel scoots a little farther away from Winnie. “Cool. Yeah, we’ll probably see you guys there.”
When our table mates get up to leave a few minutes later, my arm is still behind Winnie’s back, my fingers still cupping her shoulder.
My fingertips are tingling, because my hand fell asleep a few minutes ago.
The moment Daniel and his ponytail are out the door, I remove my arm, shaking out my hand.
Winnie scoots down the bench and crosses her arms. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
“How what’s going to be?”
“This whole possessive thing?”
“You started it with Pleather.”
Winnie blinks at me for a second, then laughs, muttering, “Pleather.” She digs in her pocket, pulling out a balled-up napkin and tries to hand it to me. I just shake my head. With a roll of her eyes, she opens it to reveal a scrawled name and number.
“I intercepted this, but it’s none of my business. Heatherette, aka Pleather , tried to slip you her number.”
Heatherette. I was sort of close.
“Take it,” Winnie says.
“No.”
“James.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Winnie balls up the napkin and drops it in her empty beer glass.
“You want to know why I was acting possessive? Before you got here, Pleather was already asking tons of questions about you and the famous Graham family. Apparently, she saw me with you earlier and was trying to make an inroad. I thought I’d save you from someone just interested in your name.
Seems like the kind of thing you’d hate. ”
I do hate that. I really, really do. Still, I can’t seem to find it in me to thank Winnie.
“So, what’s your excuse? What were you protecting me from just now?”
I have no idea what possessed me to scare Daniel off … or don’t want to admit it. I shrug. “A man who doesn’t know when to get a haircut.”
Winnie stares for a moment, then laughs, sliding down in her seat, wiping her eyes underneath her glasses. “Classic. Are you going to tell me next to stay away from guys with beards? Because that would be half the conference.”
“Guys with mustaches too.”
“Good thing I came here to work, not meet some mustachioed man to sweep me off my feet,” Winnie says, and even the idea of her meeting a man has the back of my neck getting hot.
She slumps even farther down in the booth. “Too many fries,” she says, groaning. “Why didn’t you help me eat them?”
“You didn’t ask.” And I probably wouldn’t have anyway, just out of principle. I’m uncomfortably full, and Winnie ate at least as much as I did.
I almost jump out of my seat when Winnie’s hands deftly click open the button of her jeans. Immediately I avert my gaze. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
From my periphery, I see Winnie untuck her tank, covering the top of her unbuttoned jeans. “Relax. This is a common practice among women, James. Eat too much, unbutton your pants after a meal.”
“No.”
She laughs. “No, it’s not a common practice, or no, I can’t do it?”
“The second one.”
“You may be my boss, but you’re not the man in charge of my buttons.”
The man in charge of her buttons . I’m on my feet instantly. My brain is filled with images of buttons, followed by zippers and—I need to instantly bleach this idea from my brain—being the one in charge of them all.
Just to note: Her shirt is all buttons, all the way down.
“No,” I say again, thankful I’ve spent years working on my poker face. “Just … no.”
As Winnie slides out of the booth, I manage to corral my thoughts into a place where buttons do not exist. I keep my eyes averted still as I grab my jacket.
“Sheesh, sorry. I figured with a sister, this kind of thing would be old news. I didn’t mean to scandalize your poor, innocent brain.”
“Harper is very particular about her clothing choices,” I say. We head outside and start on the quick walk to the hotel.
Winnie groans again, patting her stomach. “I may go upstairs and change. Though I think the only thing I have more comfortable than jeans is pajamas. And I’m not wearing those.”
“You’re in luck,” I tell her, holding open the lobby door, the same way I would for anyone else. “I think there are leggings for sale on the third floor.”
Winnie turns around, walking backward and barely missing a young clown passing by on a hoverboard. “Why, James,” she says, grinning and fluttering her lashes in an exaggerated way. “Did you just make a joke?”
I did, and like so many other things I’ve done today, it disturbs me. Because I don’t make jokes. I also don’t get jealous and act the way I’ve been acting. I most especially shouldn’t be doing it with Winnie.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I say, hopping on the escalator just before a group of women in matching purple zebra-striped leggings.
I don’t see Winnie for the rest of the afternoon, but that doesn’t stop me from constantly looking for her.