Page 32 of Somewhere Along The Line
“Thank you for listening,” I reply.
We ride in comfortable silence, the heaviness dissipating just like Piper knew it would until we pull up to the address on Piper’s list. I can’t say I’ve been to a place like Shindigs before, but now’s as good a time as any.
“What are we picking up, P?” I ask, though it’s obvious from the window display that the answer is party supplies. She circles the front of the car before throwing open the shop door, too excited to answer my question.
“Mr. Ellis!” She squeals as an elderly man peeks up from behind the balloon counter, smiling like he’s won the lottery.
“Piper! How are you, darlin’?” The man comes around the corner and gives her a hug, her head towering over his—a wild sight since she can’t be more than five foot four. “And who might this young man be?”
He wiggles a finger in my direction before looking at Piper with curious eyes.
“This is James. He’s my muscle for the day.” She nudges me in the ribs before looping her arm through mine as we follow Mr. Ellis to the back room.
Her phrase, “my muscle,” has me tripping over my feet. I like the sound of beinghers. I think I’d like to be hers in any way she’d have me.
Mr. Ellis points us to a stack of boxes piled neatly in the corner and we scoop them up, Piper carrying two boxes and me with the last three. We load them in the backseat of my car before waving goodbye and backing out of the parking lot.
The whole thing took three minutes tops, and I have no idea how Piper would have managed to haul five boxes by herself on a multi-stop train ride.
“So, I’m the muscle?” I glance at her slyly as I steer the car toward the highway ramp to head back to her house.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she replies, pushing at my shoulder with a gentle shove. “What was I supposed to say, that you’re my fake husband? I suppose I could have called you my partner-in-crime, though that might’ve invited just as many questions.”
“I’m happy to do the heavy lifting. So tell me, what’s the story with Mr. Ellis? He seemed excited to see you.”
“Ooooh, he’s just the best. I used to visit his store each week to pick up stuff for my mom when I was unemployed.” Piper shifts uncomfortably like she’s worried I’ll think less of her after this story. I can’t imagine I will.
“Last year, I, um, spent a few months living at home, and I filled my time helping my mom with materials for her classroom. She’s been teaching first grade for twenty-three years. As a consolation when I moved back to the city, I’d get trinkets and craft supplies from Shindigs to send her for the kids. You’d be surprised by how much crossover exists between party favors and craft project materials.”
She beams as she continues like the memories of those days are warm and sunny.
“After I got my job, I had to tell Mr. Ellis I wouldn’t be coming in as much. He acted as proud as my own parents and made me promise to call him if I ever needed anything. When I started planning the fundraising gala and securing in-kind donations, I called him first. He was elated to donate all the stuff in the back.”
I steal a glance to take her in, all wild hair and tucked-up limbs in my passenger seat. Piper is the kind of woman who gets what she wants—not because she’s demanding or entitled, but because she’s so goddamn sweet no one would think to say no to her.
It’s a special kind of gift, this ability to disarm people and make them comfortable enough to engage deeply. She’s certainly had that effect on me.
“Can I ask you about living at home?” I’m curious, of course, but I want to be respectful if she doesn’t want to talk about it. “How’d you end up back there?”
I glance over to her but she’s staring ahead, her right hand resting on her chin as she picks at a fray on her pants with the left. She briefly catches my gaze before turning back to her jeans.
“You can ask as long as you’re okay with making things heavy again.”
She forces a laugh, but it’s guarded, like she could share more but is worried about my reaction. I stretch a hand to her thigh and linger, my signal to her that she’s safe with me. It’s becoming habitual, this casual gesture, and far too comfortable.
Piper relaxes under the pressure. The way she responds so physically to so little of my touch is exhilarating. I push down the desire for more—to inch my hand higher, to keep drifting up her thigh until her breath catches, to watch her arch into my seat and grip the armrest, her head falling languidly against the window.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I can’t continue the thought. It takes every ounce of strength to pull my thoughts back in the right direction, to win the tug-of-war between my head and my dick.
“I’m okay with that,” I reply, prompting her to continue.
“I used to work at a bank downtown. I was part of their internal accounting department, which, admittedly, wasn’t the dream, but Kent helped me get a foot in the door. The salary was great too.”
She sucks in a breath, miffed at the memory of making a livable wage for a job she didn’t like.
“For four years I did the whole corporate thing—long hours and designer shoes and constant crises that didn’t have to be crises.”
