Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
Maggie fortunately had enough on her mind Monday to keep from worrying about that night.
She and Cora started their day with James, who gave Cora a crash course on their financial status and brought her in on all the reports.
She took to it well, as Maggie should have known; she was a scientist with a head for numbers.
By the time their meeting was over, Maggie felt clear about what their finances would look like if the worst should happen.
It wouldn’t be easy, but they could get by.
After Cora headed to the lab, Maggie talked with Wiggins, approved his draft notice of contract termination, and sent it off to Chauvel. She was sitting down to lunch when her phone rang.
Of course it was Chauvel. She considered letting it go to voicemail, but she might as well get this over with. She signaled to the server and took the call outside.
“I bet you’re pretty proud of yourself.” Chauvel’s irritated voice came through the line. “Taking the high road to protect him? Do you even care about your future? Your sister’s future? I can make your lives a living hell.”
“Thank you for your concern,” she said, trying to sound calm. “I wish you luck on your future endeavors.”
“Fuck you,” he spat back. “I know you know who he is. And I’m going to find out. Are you out with him right now? Is that it? Are you two off having lunch together? Or are you saving it for your date tonight?”
“Goodbye, Arnold,” she said, and hung up without another word. Her hands were shaking, and she wiped her palms off on her jeans before reentering the restaurant. When her phone rang again, she blocked the number.
She wasn’t finished with Chauvel. He would surely do everything he could to make her life miserable. But ultimately, she could only control what she could control.
She had bigger things to worry about … like tonight.
The expression was about being a bundle of nerves, but that felt inaccurate to Maggie as she stared at her closet again, trying to figure out what to wear.
She wasn’t a bundle of nerves as much as one nerve: one giant, vibrating nerve that made her entire body feel like it was shaking apart from the inside out.
She’d spent Monday afternoon burying herself in her work, trying not to think about the date at all.
She’d done some writing, some marketing, and some cold emailing, pushing everything non-work-related out of her mind for as long as possible.
All in all, she’d managed to pass the time effectively …
until about 5 p.m., when she could no longer ignore the ticking clock in her head, and she’d turned all her nervous energy to the impending date.
A knock at her bedroom door made her turn. “Come in,” she said, then added, “I’m in my underwear,” as an afterthought as Blake pushed the door halfway open.
He froze, eyes widening at the sight of her in her bra and panties. “Your warning was a little late.”
She looked down at herself. “You’ve seen it before.”
Blake gave a small cough that turned into a laugh. “I guess so.” He gestured to the door. “I’m going out tonight. I’m … meeting up with a friend. I’m not sure how late we’ll be out, and I didn’t want you to worry.”
He looked good, in one of his adorable sweater vests—argyle this time—and some dark jeans.
She felt a pang of regret. Maybe she should have pushed him to talk last night, when she’d come home worried and he’d reminded her that they’d agreed sleeping together doesn’t have to mean anything.
But she hadn’t pushed. And she couldn’t think of anything other than the Pimpernel.
She couldn’t let herself worry about Blake right now, not when she had this monumental Pimpernel-shaped question mark hanging in front of her.
“Have fun,” she said. “I’m going out, too, so I’m not sure which of us will be home first.”
“Oh, nice.” He nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something then, too, but he only smiled. “Have fun.” He turned to go, then paused and turned back. “You should wear the yellow dress. It looks nice on you.” Then he was gone, the condo door closing behind him.
Maggie watched him go, surprised into silence.
The festive gourd dress, he’d called it that one time.
With a smile, she fished it out of her closet and pulled it over her head.
She felt cute in that dress. She paired it with leggings, then stared at herself in the mirror from a few different angles. Blake had good taste.
Her phone buzzed with a message, this time from Cora. Where’d you say you were going?
The Docksider, she answered. She’d told both Cora and Phoebe where she was headed and asked each of them to do an escape call with her—one at seven thirty, one at eight. A person could never be too careful.
Maggie finished her primping, spending far longer staring at her reflection than normal, but this was a special occasion.
More than a special occasion. This was a pivotal moment, and if she couldn’t control the Pimpernel or how he was going to react, she could at least control how she presented herself.
And her space. She couldn’t imagine coming back here with him after—that would feel cruel to Blake; she hadn’t even been able to bring herself to tell him she had a date—but she itched to straighten up.
It was too soon to leave, anyway. She made her bed, arranging her pillows, then picked up loose clothes and papers.
She brought leftover water glasses to the dishwasher.
There, that was better. With the room clean, she could think.
Blake’s cufflinks still lay on her nightstand.
She sat down on the bed and studied them in her palm.
She’d helped him put these on, and then later that night, he’d taken them off and set them on her nightstand before giving her the best sex of her life.
And here she was, three days later, going to meet someone else for a date.
Of course she felt unsettled about it all.
Maggie closed her hand around the cufflinks and went down the hall to Blake’s room.
His door was ajar, as it frequently was.
She knew he wasn’t here but still had to resist the urge to knock.
He had a small dish on his bureau for loose change, and she set the cufflinks in it.
Then she took another moment to look around his room.
Blake was a fastidious person, and his room was impeccably clean.
It smelled fresh, too. She trailed a hand across his desk, eyes flicking between the calendar on his wall, and the art, and the plants lining his desk.
His favorites, clearly. They had the nicest plant pots.
The middle one was vaguely familiar. She didn’t know houseplants at all, except the basic ones, so there was no reason for her to feel this sense of something.
There weren’t even any flowers on it, just small green leaves, lush and vibrant.
The plant filled a spherical, orange-red glazed clay pot and spilled over the edges, and she could not stop staring.
Finally, she broke away with a shrug. She’d have to ask Blake about it sometime.
For now, she had a more important destination than the plant binder.
The night was growing colder fast, and Maggie was glad for the warmth of her sweater dress as she walked to the T.
It was getting dark, too, the sun dipping below the skyline, and the streetlamps dotted the sidewalk in golden rings of light as day gave way to dusk.
Maggie focused on the sights to ground herself, not wanting to let her bubbling anxiety take over.
She made her way through the T turnstile into the station proper. Her track was underground. Before hitting the stairs and leaving cell service forever, she did a quick check of her phone. One new email popped up.
A reply from Giselda Shaw.
Maggie had to grab the handrail for balance. She looked around her, then at her watch. She had to catch this next train if she was going to be on time. She opened the email, then hurried down the stairs to wait for the train and read.
Dear Maggie,
Sorry for my delay in writing back to you.
I received your email last night and I’ve been thinking about how to respond.
I wasn’t surprised by what you said about Arnold and the Pimpernel.
I wish I was surprised, but it’s textbook Arnold Chauvel.
If you’re interested in the Pimpernel yourself, you should have the whole story and not whatever Arnold told you.
The train roared up, sending hot exhaust fumes into the platform, and Maggie paused to board, phone in hand and heart in throat. She found a seat near the corner, checked the number of stops she had to go—three—and kept reading.
I was engaged to Arnold for only a few months.
He’s wealthy and charming and we’d been dating for about six months when he proposed.
It was fast, but we were in love. There were red flags: men with money are usually accustomed to getting their own way.
I was generally happy, though. But as time went on, I wanted more independence, and he resisted.
One significant sticking point was sexuality.
I wanted to explore more. He didn’t make me feel good about that.
When I was particularly upset, I secretly went to a play party, and there I met your Pimpernel.