Page 58 of Almost Home
I waved her silly glare away and turned to get the pile of books. “Time for you to find your comfort read. I’ll go check out and—”
“And call—”
“Wilder.” We both said it at the same time.
It wasn’t like she had to talk me into it. I didn’t need convincing. I’d spent the morning trying not to call him and seem overly eager. I wanted to see him again and I’d been daydreaming about sneaking in one more interaction this weekend before we returned to the office tomorrow and everything had to fit within the propriety of the workplace. We probably needed to talk about that, too, I supposed, though as his only in-house employee, maybe not. It might make me a fool to ignore the warning in the back of my mind, that reminder that I’d never planned to stay here for good, but I couldn’t find it in me to heed that. Not right now.
Either way, I needed no encouragement from Jane, but I’d take hers and run.
“Have a good day, Jane. And thanks again.”
She blew me a kiss and winked. “You have a good day, too, Sarah dear.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Wilder
Sarah’s laugh rang out, a grand prize for the efforts of my storytelling.
“I cannot picture this. I might need you to reenact it for me,” she said, wiping a laughter-induced tear from one eye.
“I will not.”
She beamed. “I think you have to. There’s only so much you can tell me about your life and work, right? I think, in this case, you’ll need to go all in.”
I chuckled, enjoying her delight at the story of my ill-timed car sickness on a mission almost a decade ago that resulted in a black eye for meandBruce. “I will not.”
She shook her head. “Maybe I’ll ask Bruce and get his perspective.”
I shut my eyes in feigned regret. “I knew you two knowing each other would come to haunt me. What have I done?”
She grinned again, then ducked her head to sip some water.
I’d honed my observational skills, among many others, to a sharp point over my time in special operations, and sometimes found it difficult to fully engage in a moment because I was caught up in taking in the details. The rustle of the spring breeze in the newly budded leaves on branches above our heads. The clatter of silverware at nearby tables. A motorcycle zipping down Elk Street, a truck idling on Main. The low hum of conversations, occasional words jumping out at me.
And then, of course, there was Sarah herself. The way her hair slipped over her shoulder when she leaned forward. The darkness under her eyes she hadn’t covered up as well today, and I wondered if it was new. The earrings that hung down a half inch and drew my eyes to her neck.
Heat shot through me for the nth time in the last hour. I’d kissed that neck, just there behind her ear, not twenty-four hours ago. The memory of her scent had paled compared to reality. I’d savored our short embrace when we met today and the excuse to kiss her cheek, to get close enough to recapture the essence of her.
All of these things could put me in a posture of gathering data and evidence rather than living in the moment, but whenever my senses tended to tug at me and raise alarm, to sayHey, something might be wrong here, her smile, her laugh, that way she bit her lip and then stopped herself like it was a habit she was trying to break, all brought me back.
“He seems like a good guy and a good partner for you. Do you think he’ll like Silverton?” She nudged her plate an inch or two away from the edge of the table and sat back in her seat with a little sigh.
I blinked away from a vision of Sarah laying back, replete and satisfied, but not from French toast and fruit. And then I cleared my throat because that was not a smart train of thought, and I had to get my mind under control. “Uh, yeah. Yes. He will. And so will Kiley.”
“She’s how old?”
I signed the bill on autopilot, refusing to let my mind return to the too-delicious image that’d shot through it moments ago. “Uh, twelve.”
“Oh, wow. Yeah, that’s a lot of transition for her, right?” Her brows dipped to a concerned vee.
A familiar flood of fondness rushed in. Her concern for a kid she’d never met was one of a thousand reasons I liked her. Not just the memory of her, but Sarahnow.“You must be a very good teacher.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re so thoughtful. I think kids need that.”
I had, certainly. I would’ve failed English if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Wallace’s patience. There was more than one teacher who’d ignored what everyone knew was going on in my life when Sarah left, but most of them had cared. They’d done whatever they could to talk me into still going to college, trying to convince me that was the best. But by then, I’d signed a contract, and I couldn’t imagine going to college without Sarah. That’d always been the plan.
