Page 36 of Somewhere Along The Line
I forgot all about that. Piper’s going to be at my house on Monday.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you Monday morning on the train too, but also Monday after work.” She steps out of the car, smoothing her pants and brushing a rogue curl behind her ear. She gives her usual wave before turning and scampering to the coach house without looking back.
When she’s gone, I rest my head on the steering wheel to collect myself before putting the car in drive and starting down the street.
I have no idea what I’m doing with Piper, and it’s reckless in a way that should feel scary. Except this time, it doesn’t, not the possibility of being with her; only the possibility I may not get the chance.
I need to get my head on straight before Monday. I drive to the office to pour myself into work—even though I’m supposed to be off today—because it’s the only thing that will help.
I close the doorbehind me and turn to collapse against it, sliding down until my butt is on the floor and my head is between my knees. My brain is a jumble of questions, my heart a tangle of emotions.
I don’t know how to make sense of this morning, of James opening up, existing outside of the parameters I’d created for him, kissing me like a man who wants something.
Even more, how do I process the fact that I liked it? And not just the kiss, although it was a hell of a kiss, the best kiss of my life… but also his hand on my leg, his playfulness, and the way he looked at me while talking about his mom?
A few weeks ago, I would’ve sworn I knew the kind of guy he must be. I was certain James Newhouse was a means to an end, a way to Robin Hood from Big Finance for the sake of my budget. The plan was to save a little money and make the morning commute more fun.
It wasn’t to end up in a legal proceeding and then start falling for a guy who is exactly the type I swore I’d stay away from.
Except maybe James isn’t that type, and the possibility is scaring the shit out of me. I grab my phone and open my text thread with Sami.
God, I love her and hate her.
I won’t mention I might have if I’d let him come inside. Shit—there’s another phrase, “come inside,” I need tonot thinkwhile thinking about him.
I take a breath, her words settling into my bones as I read them. Then the three dots appear: Sami’s still typing.
I’m back at my desk, typing up an event flow to stay busy while I wait for five o’clock. I’ve gotta give it to James for one thing—I’ve never been as productive in my life as I have these past few days, if only to keep my brain from lingering on our kiss.
If this event is a success, he’ll be responsible for most of it and Sami for the rest. We spent the weekend making table cards and centerpieces, incorporating prints of her watercolors throughout the decor. The ballroom will be stunning when the place is decorated.
My fingers tap fervently on my keyboard while I work myself up for what’s coming next. The gala, of course, but not until Saturday. I need to make it through the practice session with James first.
Which happens tonight.
At his house.
Just the two of us.
Alone.
The clock strikes five. I slam my computer shut and retrieve the pieces of myself that I’ve scattered across my desk. My water bottle, my notebook, my collection of rollerball pens, and the remains of my half-eaten snacks. I don’t think we’re getting dinner tonight, James and I, so I might need those snacks later.
I stop by Sadye’s desk on my way out to check on the gala’s setlist, pleased with myself for assigning the task to our Gen Z intern who knows the current songs from TikTok. I couldn’t name them if you paid me.
It’s not too far of a walk from my office to James’s, which makes sense given that we get off at the same train stop even though we work in opposite directions. Unease creeps into my throat as I enter the financial district. It’s a lingering side effect of my past that I typically avoid by never coming down here.
I slip through the revolving door of James’s building and am dropped into the lobby like an alien to Planet Corporate, complete with a band tee and pleated skirt.
“I’m here for James Newhouse at Trion.”
The security guard at the desk waves me through quickly without stopping to question what I’m doing here. The elevator opens on the twelfth floor, directly into Trion’s office space.
Turns out finance has a smell, and it greets me immediately as I step into the foyer. It’s something like printers burning through paper mixed with cologne and the high-end leather of conference room chairs.
It’s achingly familiar.
A man strides around the corner and stops, taking me in and trying to place why I’m here. A smile creeps up his face. “Yo, Newhouse!” He swings his head around with a shout, “I think someone’s here for you.”
