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I holdmy phone up and press the Facetime button on her contact info. Moments later, the call connects, and her screen was dark. I can barely make out her face until she turns on the light. She’s lying in bed, with her hair mussed and her voice is thick with sleep.
I look at my watch and note that it’s late.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” I say, “I lost track of time. I didn’t know how late it was. Go back to bed, we can talk tomorrow. At a more reasonable hour.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m up now.”
“I promise next time to pay attention to the time.”
“What are you doing awake?” she asks.
“I have a weird schedule most nights. I lose track of time when I’m working.”
“Did you make any amazing tech breakthroughs tonight?” her hair fans out on her pillow and she smiles.
“We did. I helped with a bunch of troubleshooting, and after a few hours, we fixed it, and now one of our clients will have a new microchip for one of their programs, which will help in tracking down bad guys.”
“Oh, that sounds intriguing. Tell me more.”
“I can’t. We signed an NDA. But I can tell you it’s government focused and will be used for good, not evil.”
“No terminator shit? I don’t need any T-1000’s taking over the world.”
“I cannot confirm, nor deny.”
“That isn’t too comforting.” She laughs.
“How was your day? How was your exam? I feel like a dick that I didn’t check in earlier.”
“Hey, don’t feel bad about that. You’re good. The day was good. The exam was good.”
“Good?”
“Okay, it was great. I feel pretty good about it. Your optimism is rubbing off on me.”
“Really? What’s your day look like tomorrow?”
Denise
There area few things that I would die for.
Front-row tickets to go see my favorite band, Knights Honor.
And the eggs benedict with cherry tomato hollandaise over a brioche bun with some of the most delicious bacon that I’ve ever seen.
And the food is what’s in front of me.
I’m making noises that could be private for the bedroom, and my eyes keep rolling in delight.
I’m taking small bites, savoring every morsel that I can with Miller sitting across from me with an amused look on his face.
“Well, I don’t need to ask if your food is good. I think the entire restaurant knows how much you like your meal.” He takes a sip of his sunrise mimosa.
“I think the chef would appreciate how much I like his dish,” I reply.
“I appreciate how much you like the dish.” He winks.
I take another bite. I fight the groan, but my eyes still roll. And then I cut a glance to Miller, who has his hand over his mouth, covering his smile.
