Page 30 of The Persistence of Thornes
“An assistant?” I fiddle with the cupcake wrapper while the thought settles in. But in seconds, my shoulders droop, and I shake my head. “I can’t travel into Boston. The commute would be too long.”
“No, you’d work from here.” He straightens on his side of the island. “Answer emails, phone calls, keep up with my schedule. Things like that. I don’t see any reason you’d need to come to Boston. You can use my home office. The computer is secure.”
I press my lips together. Another remote position. It’s tempting, but it feels like charity. Like he doesn’t really need an assistant. He’s just making this up because he’s a fixer. And after what a disaster the coffee shop turned out to be, I can’t help but doubt myself.
Caleb splays his hands on the marble countertop and ducks so we’re eye to eye. “How about a trial run? That way we can make sure the situation works for both of us before I hire you on part time.”
I twist the ring on my thumb. It’s nothing special, a flea market find, but it’s one of very few items my mom evergave me just because. Maybe it’s stupid to cherish it, but I do.
Lips pressed together, I nod. “A trial run would be good.”
He pushes his hair off his forehead for what has to be the third or fourth time tonight, his focus fixed on me. “I’ll be home until Sunday night. What day works best for you?”
“Tomorrow?” The sooner I know whether this will work, the better. “Around two?”
He picks up his phone, taps at the screen, and nods. “Works for me.” After a few more taps, he slips his phone into his pocket. Then, without a word, he pulls plastic wrap out of a drawer and tears off a piece.
“Thanks for this. It did make me feel better.” I wad up the cupcake liner and stand, and before I can ask where I should dispose of it, he pulls out a cabinet with a hidden trashcan. “Fancy,” I mutter, tossing the wrapper in. “I better get going.” I shuffle to the back door and peer back at him. “Make sure my brothers haven’t killed each other.”
He nods once. “I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s literally next door. I’ll be fine.”
But Caleb can’t be persuaded. He follows me outside, carrying the plate holding my brothers’ cupcakes, only handing it to me when I’ve pulled the back door open.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, carefully stepping off the porch. He eyes the foundation like he, too, worries the whole thing might fall apart.
“See you,” I agree.
I lock up behind me, scared to admit to myself that maybe Caleb really is my guardian angel.
CHAPTER 8
HALLE
As I take in Caleb’s front yard from up close, it’s obvious he’s put a great deal of time and energy into it. New pavers make up the walkway to the porch steps, and the front of the house is lined with bushes and wispy yellow flowers.
The siding is a warm gray blue that complements the brick on the foundation. My house looks positively pitiful next to this one, but with enough time and money, I’m hopeful I can change that.
The front door is a muted shade of orange—I’ve never been a fan of the color, but somehow it works—and the doorknocker is shaped like a dragonfly. It makes me thinkhis daughter picked it out. Based on the little herb garden in the back, Caleb seems like the type to let his little girl have a say in things like that.
There’s no doorbell, so I use the knocker to signal my arrival. When he doesn’t answer, I try again, knocking harder this time.
When the door swings open, my breath catches at the sight I’m confronted with.
A shirtless, sweaty Caleb stands in front of me, wiping his face with a towel.
“Sorry about that.” Smiling, he lowers the towel. “I was in the gym, and time got away from me. I’ll shower really quick, then I’ll be down.”
Would it be wrong to ask him to stay like this? I’ll gladly ogle him in all his gloriously sculpted, sweaty perfection. He’s a slim guy, so I wasn’t expecting so many muscles. I have to squeeze my hands into fists to resist the urge to poke his abs to see if they’re real or a figment of my overactive imagination.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He smiles, that dimple appearing again. The dimple in combination with his current state of undress is almost too much. “Make yourself at home.”
It’s a throwaway sentiment, in most cases an empty offer. But I have a feeling that with Caleb, I could take over his kitchen and make myself a late lunch, then get into his liquor cabinet for a drink, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye.
Caleb jogs up the stairs, and when a door shuts a moment later, I take a deep breath and slip my shoes off. I’m not a nosy person, but I can’t help myself. I’m drawn tothe sideboard on the left of the foyer and the photos hanging on the wall above it.
