Page 20 of Wild Card
“It was definitely that.” His eyes drift over me again.
“I don’t think we should tell Xander and Harper that you came back here.”
“No?”
“No. Harper is in matchmaker mode for me, and I worry she’ll read into this and think it’s an opportunity. She’s so happy with him and now she wants everyone around her to be as happy as she is, you know?”
“Right.” He doesn’t argue but something about the set of his jaw as he says it makes me think he doesn’t like it.
“Is that a problem for you? I mean I’m not embarrassed or trying to keep it a secret necessarily. I just think she’ll make it awkward for us anytime we’re around each other again or try to set us up and… Yeah…” I shrug. Not knowing what else to say.
He looks down at his coffee cup, frowning for a moment before he looks up at me again and his expression clears.
“Nah, Spitfire. It’s smart. Can’t disagree with you there.” Another flash of the genuine smile has me smiling again and turning my attention to the coffee before I start looking like a crushing teenage girl.
“You saved the day though. Seriously, I owe you. For the double rescue.” I pour the coffee over the ice and add some of the milk and vanilla, putting the lid on and shaking it a bit before I pop the straw in to take a sip.
“You don’t owe me. Minus having to chase you down the side of the road and tackle you, it was a really fucking good night.”
“Oh god. Yeah. Let’s never talk about that part again.” I cringe. I’d blocked that part out temporarily.
“I don’t know. I didn’t hate it. Ending was pretty good.” He grins and then takes a sip of his coffee.
“Well, again. Thank you.”
“All right.” He stands. “I’m getting out of here before you thank me again. But make sure you eat some donuts and drink some water, yeah?”
“Will do. Have fun at practice.” I walk him toward the door and lean against it as he walks out. He looks back at me one last time and then disappears down the stairs.
Maybe my thirties were going to be better after all. A little bad luck followed by a lot of good luck. It could happen.
TWELVE
Scarlett
I’m overseeingthe last of the boxes being moved onto trucks and heading off to go to storage, thanks to dozens of volunteers. Because it’s been a massive undertaking that we’ve had to move up as the museum can no longer continue to pay the bills. The final exhibit we’d planned to put on has been moved online, and now I’m trying to figure out where I’m going to go in the meantime while I wait for the new museum to open.
It’ll be months before the new building, that Harper and Joss’s nonprofit has helped fund, is completely remodeled which means all of our staff are busy looking for temporary work. Most of the senior staff have found positions at other museums or universities nearby, but I’ve been struggling.
I’m starting to think I might need to return to waiting tables or working in retail in order to make sure I can continue paying my rent. The only upside is that I might actually make a little more money every month doing that than what I’m currently being paid by the museum. Silver linings, I guess.
I sigh when I get back to my office, seriously looking forward to the drinks I’m having with the girls tonight. I hang my coat up and make my way down the hall when Allison, our registrar, stops me in the hall.
“Hey. A messenger was just here a bit ago and had a package for you. I put it on your desk because I didn’t know where to find you.”
“Thanks. I was out with the trucks. Back and forth. Did you text?”
“Yeah. But I know it’s hard to hear over all the noise and stuff. Anyway, just wanted to tell you, so you don’t miss it before you leave for the day.”
“Thanks.”
I head back to my office wondering what would be so important it needed to be sent by messenger. I can’t think of anything, but it’s possible there was some paperwork or something that needed to be signed off on in a hurry. I feel like that’s all I do most days right now—either for my own job applications or on behalf of collections.
So I’m puzzled when instead of a manila envelope, there’s a small box sitting in the middle of my desk. I grab the letter opener to break the seal on the tape and pull out the small card that’s sitting on top. There’s a handwritten note scrawled on it, and I have to look at it for a moment before I can read the writing.
Thoughts on another truce? Text me.
A number’s scrawled underneath the note, and I raise a brow. I can only think of one person who it could be from, and I feel the little wingbeats of excitement in my chest. Ones that are entirely involuntary because I’m levelheaded. Sensible. I don’t fall for this kind of charm.
