Page 9 of Somewhere Along The Line
“Piper!” he yells, with a measure of authority I’d expect from a man in such a nicely tailored suit. I swivel on my heels to face the direction of his voice. “You better keep taking this train so I can bring you your fare card.”
I smirk, rolling my lips between my teeth as I see his wager and decide to raise him one. “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it…hubby.”
If James reacts to this uncharacteristic burst of boldness, I don’t see it. I’m flying down the stairs, two at a time, before I have the chance to regret this morning and the delight that came with it.
There aren’t enough tasksin the world to distract me from the image of Piper standing across the platform and calling me “hubby.”
Hubby.
Lord knows I’m trying, sitting here at my desk as I plead with some assignment to steal my attention. It’s been three and a half hours since we parted ways at the station, and I can’t scrub that final picture from my mind.
Her one raised eyebrow over a mischievous brown eye. The singular twitch of her mouth as she spoke. The lightness in her voice before she skittered across the platform. The way her jeans, comfortably worn, hugged her hips and pulled tight across her ass as she walked away.
My stomach twists into a painful knot as I realize how screwed I am. What compelled me to make the Family Fares offer? Hell if I know. I’m not sure what made me able to talk to Piper in the first place. Maybe I had a contact high from all the Elvis-inspired hairspray floating through the car.
That’s the only plausible explanation because while I am many things—loyal, motivated, decent—I am not impulsive. Or rather, I’m usually not impulsive. Today, I guess I am.
I repeat to myself the words I managed to tell her so confidently, willing myself to believe them:
It doesn’t have to be a big deal.
I can count myself a Good Samaritan and we can exchange occasional pleasantries on the ride in. It’ll be just like any other business arrangement… except that the sight of her waist dipping in from her hips makes me sweat, and I want to wrap her hair around my palm and pull.
Except for that.
Kyle drums his fingers on the doorframe as he ducks his head to enter my office, breaking me out of the daydream. “Hey man, I’m thinking Sombreros for lunch, want to join?”
Every day he asks me, and every day I decline. One, Sombreros is disgusting, and two, taking forty-five minutes out of the middle of the day means adding forty-five minutes to the end. After weighing the very short list of pros and the very long list of cons, saying “yes” is never an option.
I’ve got to hand it to Kyle, though. The man is persistent.
He continues, “Listen, I know how you feel about lackluster Tex-Mex, and dude, you’re not going to offend me if you decide to bailagain, but you look like you could use a break.” Kyle says this with concern, his brown eyes narrowing as his fingers continue to drum on the metal frame. “Something is up with your face today and frankly, it’s not a good look.”
I rub my hand over the side of my cheek, pulling and pushing the skin as I weigh whether to scoff. I know he’s right, though I’d never admit it to him. If Kyle could sense something off about me after sixty seconds of standing in my doorway, it won’t take long for others to follow suit.
Maybe I should go out to lunch—I’m not getting anything done in the office anyway.
“Alright, alright, I’m in,” I reply, and I’ll be damned if Kyle doesn’t perform a touchdown dance as I gather my things. “But I’m not splitting the queso with you. Cheese shouldn’t congeal like that.”
We make our way to Kyle’s go-to hole-in-the-wall and slide into a booth that’s not meant for people over six feet. I scan the menu and settle on fajitas, trying to ignore the stickiness of the laminated page under my fingers. This lunch special offers me one crucial benefit—the ability to pick and choose what goes into the tortilla based on look and smell.
It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
“So, what’s your deal?” Kyle asks around a mouthful of chips from the bowl in front of us. I fiddle with my straw, trying to decide if it’s worth opening this particular can of worms when I’m not sure I’ll be able to get the squiggly suckers back in.
“Are you asking me to talk about my feelings, Kyle?” I deflect his question with my usual detachment. “Because if you brought me here so we canshare our hearts,you shouldknow I require a significantly nicer restaurant, not to mention a bottle of cab, before putting out.”
“Are you for real right now?” He flicks a chip into my chest with a glare. “Maybe this is foreign to you because you stay shut up in your office for fifteen hours a day, but there’s this thing some people have calledfriends.”
An exaggerated eye roll accompanies the taunt. “James, we’ve known each other for what, ten years off and on? I’ve always known you have a cold, dead heart, but I didn’t realize it was this bad. If you want to unload, feel free. If not, we can talk about statistical analysis and financial forecasting and pretend you’re not drinking a midday margarita to cope with whatever situation you have going. Your call, man.”
The realization that his perception is entirely, painfully true makes me wince. I tally another point in theeasy-to-readcolumn.
How have I gone two-and-oh in the span of five hours?
With nowhere else to hide, and no steaming platter of fajita veggies yet in front of me, I decide to risk sharing.
“Something happened on the train today.”
