Page 11 of Almost Home
“You can go early today.”
Startled out of the electric moment, I sucked in a breath. “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’m happy to stay—”
“I’m closing up early. You’ll need to leave.” He shut his laptop, slipped it into a desk drawer, and stood.
“I’ll grab my stuff. Sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“I picked up a meeting. It’ll be like this—a little unpredictable. But you’ll be fine.” His eyes flicked to me, then jumped away. “You’ll be paid the whole day anyway. Next week, after you’ve finished training, I’ll have you keep the office open.”
He didn’t look at me for any of that last bit, so I moved to his door. The part about still getting paid had made shame paint my cheeks bright red because the comment was so pointed—like he knew I needed the money. But for someone whose work involved a lot of observation skills, he clearly knew that. I wasn’t destitute, but moving from job to job required me to pay attention, and I wasn’t about tochooseto get a smaller paycheck. “Sounds good. I’ll… get these to you first thing tomorrow.”
“Good. We can’t do much until you do.”
An edge in his voice had me speaking up before I left his office. “I really could do it today if—”
“It’s fine.”
My cheeks flamed anew at the words flung over his shoulder as he approached the exit of his office. “Okay. Sorry.”
I felt him pause, then take a breath. “Don’t apologize.”
“Right. Sorr—right.”
He nodded, like my catching the mistake had been the right thing, and then he turned back. “I’ll lock up after you.”
And that was my cue to get out. I hustled forward, grabbing my purse and water bottle and getting gone. My heart and mind rioted as I walk-jogged toward home, working on overdrive to understand what the heck the dynamic between us was. Me embarrassed and him curt, cutting me off when I talked… how was this going to work?
I’d apologize tomorrow. First thing. No time to lose, as soon as I got in, I’d do it, and maybe that would help. Maybe that’d make all this bearable.
CHAPTERSIX
Sarah
More nerves. More freaking nerves. I wasn’t proud to admit it, but there it was. And the admission? I’d spent extra time getting ready. I’d done so every day after that first one when I realized I’d be working at Wilder’s business, not just some random temp job. I both understood this impulse and found it annoying, because what did I expect?
Not that I would’ve looked like a slob at any other job, but did some part of me expect Wilder to fall to his knees and forgive me and ask for my hand in marriage if I got my eyeliner just right?
Well, no. Maybe notthat.But I had a good imagination, and I’d also had a long time to concoct scenarios where we repaired the damage done and found a way forward, and… a girl could dream, couldn’t she? Granted, until now, those dreams had been harmless. They didn’t interfere with my ability to concentrate or even walk without tripping.
Now?
Not so much.
I couldn’t even tell how the time passed last night. After reading the contracts as best I could, I understood enough to believe I was safe signing them without consulting a lawyer. Though fairly certain the Wallaces would take a look for a minimal fee, I didn’t have that kind of budgetary wiggle room and didn’t think I could just waltz in there asking for a consult anyway. Quinn had mentioned John Wallace still did some work for her even though he wasn’t practicing law full time anymore now that the brewery took up most of his life, but I didn’t want to impose. It’d be fine. The gist? Don’t blab about the clients. I could do that.
And today, as I walked to work in black pumps that’d lasted me longer than I ever imagined when I bought them a few years back, a pencil skirt, and a white blouse tucked in with a little black blazer over top, I felt kind of… good. Like, put together, professional, on top of it. And maybe it should embarrass me how infrequently I felt put together, but between general failure, working as a sub at schools where I didn’t dress this nicely, and so far, moving through the time at Saint Securities as though it all happened underwater, I had yet to feel truly confident.
But today, I had a file with signed documents to hand over to Wilder, and I’d rehearsed an apology—brief, accurate, sincere—that I would not fail to deliver. Before anything else happened.
As I rounded the corner and saw the lot, more than one car sat there.Odd.Normally, Wilder and I both walked. Or, rather, I walked and Wilder jogged the two miles from his house.Joggedthem. And he still strolled in smelling like soap and clean, fresh air and not of sweat and dirty man.Not that I’d been smelling him.
I shook off all those thoughts because that would not be a wise line of thinking and moved to open the door. Upon entering, I could hear voices down the hallway, either from Wilder’s office or the small conference room that sat across from it.
My pulse spiked. Was I late? The clock read eight o’clock on the dot as I dropped my purse in the drawer and ran on my toes to the door and peeked in. With his body positioned facing the door, Wilder’s eyes landed on me before I even leaned in all the way, as though he’d heard me coming.
He notched his chin up in that short, concise movement, and the two people sitting across from him glanced back toward me.
“Sarah. I hadn’t realized you were working here,” Julian Grenier said with no hint of confusion, though he likely felt some. Considering his fiancée was one of my best friends, he probably expected to know I was working here.
