Page 37 of Somewhere Along The Line
I don’t know who this man is, but he must know who I am… or at least he knows James is expecting someone. By the look on his face, the same subtle glee sweeping across it I recognize from Sami lately, James has told him plenty about me.
“I’m Piper,” I say with fake confidence, extending my hand which he shakes with a firm grasp.
“Oh, I know,” he says with a smirk before putting on a professional smile as James turns the corner. He punches James in the shoulder which prompts an immediate eye roll before he shoots me a look. “I’m Kyle, I work with this guy.”
“Kyle and I go way back,” James says apologetically. “We were in the same investment banking analyst class almost ten years ago.”
“And we had fun, didn’t we?” Kyle is ribbing on him and it’s making him flustered; I get the sense he wanted to sneak out unnoticed.
“Yeah… I wouldn’t call itfun,” he says with a sigh, rocking back on his heels, “but it was something.”
“That it was, my man. That. it. was.” Kyle turns back to me, leaning in like he has a secret, his hand cupping his mouth. “You see, Old James here,” he points at him with his thumb, “it might seem like he’s a hard-ass but I can tell you with confidence, he onlyhasa hard ass, he really isn’t one.”
With that, James grabs my arm and pushes past Kyle, shepherding us to the elevator and jamming the down button at least eight times.
“Have a great time! Make good choices!” Kyle taunts with a laugh as we wait for the doors to open. James slides his hand down his face and takes a deep breath before shaking out his arms.
“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly as we enter the elevator and head down to G. “Kyle is… he’s something else.”
“I gathered that.” My words come out with a lilt of amusement; I’m not bothered by the interaction with Kyle, even if he is.
“I should’ve met you in the lobby. Sorry, I lost track of time; I didn't realize it was already 5:20.” He shrugs with regret.
“James, I’m telling you, that conversation was the most fun I’ve had all day. Give Kyle my regards and thank him for the extra serotonin.” My shoulder nudges his side, and he ekes out a small smile. We walk through the lobby, and he waves at the guard before we enter the revolving door, both of us in the same bay.
It’s brief, of course, but it’s tight, his front against my back as he reaches around me to push the door forward.God, he smells good. It sends a shiver down the back of my neck to have him pressed against me, even for five seconds.
I let him lead the way to the station, and just like a week ago, there’s something lovely about boarding the train together, stepping into a space that is ours versus his or mine. We find our seats on the left and crash, my leg rolling into his as we settle. It stays there, my knee pressed against his thigh as we ride.
“So, tell me,” I turn toward him with a grin, “what do you have planned for this evening of ours? It can’t be murder because Sami is busy tonight.” Making a joke about homicide is not the right move, but my words spill out before my brain stops them. He already knows this about me.
“To be honest, murder sounds like way more of a mess than I could handle, and frankly, I’d miss you too much to go through with it.”
“Don’t lie, you’d just miss my sausage balls. The recipe is online and it’s literally four ingredients that you—”
James shoots me a look before cutting me off. “I’d miss a lot of things about you, Pipes. The sausage balls wouldn’t make the top ten.” He says this with a gruff laugh.
What wouldbe on his top ten list? I’m desperate to know, but I don’t push him.
“I don’t have anything planned, to be honest,” he says, both of us thankful to move away from murder talk. “I figured we’d talk through some questions, get to the bottom of what you’re nervous about, and sort through it.”
“I can do that,” I reply.
He slides his hand to my leg before adding, “I know you can.”
His fingers press into the fabric of my skirt, and it feels different after our kiss on Friday. Before, this touch felt friendly, comforting. Now, it’s a trap door, a pit of decisions we might regret lying below it.
The seven-minute walk from the station to James’s house goes by quickly. I follow him up the steps to the porch, James jostling the key in the lock as I wait behind him.
This is a bad idea, being together at his house, but I’m not sure where else we could do this—practice a cross-examination and allow me to work out my nerves. He holds the door open, ushering me in.
It’s shocking how sterile his home is, though perhaps it shouldn’t be. There are no signs of life other than the shoes James just kicked off behind me and the keys he hangs on a hook just above. I follow the hall until it drops into the main living area. Beautifully open concept, he has a white, modern kitchen with barstools lining a granite counter, an adjacent dining area, and a family room separated from the kitchen with a stand-alone, two-way fireplace.
I glance around, looking for crumbs (literally and figuratively) to inform who this man is and how he lives. Does he keep any food in the fridge? Probably not. There isn’t a single magnet on either door, no invitations or announcements covering the stainless steel like the patchwork of friends and family Sami and I display in our kitchen.
I can’t imagine what he’s paying each month to only sleep here.
My eyes catch a flier tucked near an empty fruit bowl on the counter and I recognize it instantly. Heat rises to my face, reddening the tips of my ears as I stare at the donation drive postcard Hope First mailed last month. Of course he received one; his address is well within our target region for promotions like this.
