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I catch the way he’s looking at me as he speaks and take in the words. He’s silently asking for something else. Referring back to our conversation in his office when I subtly asked to step away. He wants to know, it seems, if I’m okay with stepping back in.
My smile deepens, giving the answer in full by expression alone. But just to be clear, I say, “That’s perfectly okay with me.” I pause, then add, “Your coffee sucks.”
His eyes momentarily widen, and then he picks up the coffeepot. “Is that so? I’ll have you know these are the finest coffee grounds three-fifty a bag can buy.”
I watch with amusement as he takes a sip, then holds the coffee in his mouth before taking an inordinately long period of time to swallow.
“Missing that espresso machine now, aren’t we?” I tease.
He drops his cup into the trash can, and the coffee splashes along the plastic lining on the way down. “Fine. I concede. I’ll bring back the espresso machine. No absurdly priced espresso beans from Fazatti’s, though. And no syrup station.”
“Bulk espresso beans from the Bean Station,” I counter, “and we’ll contribute our own syrups to share among the group.”
Will eyes me for a long moment, then puts out his hand. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Happy to represent the group,” I reply, shaking firmly.
“The Pennington spokesperson,” Will says, smiling as his hand holds mine. “You know, I may just take you up on that offer.”
“I’m sure we’ll have plenty to talk about,” I reply. And in more ways than one, I mean it. The idea sends electricity through my veins, all the way down the palm of my hand sitting warmly in his.
It’s funny. You never quite realize that you have expectations for how someone’s hand will feel. It’s not like I had consciously ever wondered before. I just expected it to be smooth, probably because a part of me also expects that his life up north was full of gripping portfolios and opening sleek taxi cabs instead of operating heavy machinery. Why would his hand be calloused, the muscles beneath his palm strong, when his life is one of facts and numbers? And yet . . . I bite the inside bottom of my lip, forcing myself to stop thinking about it. I don’t actually have the heart to let go, but I at least force myself to stop looking at his strong hand all but enveloping mine.
“So, how did things turn out for Lyla the other evening?” Will says, breaking his grip at last.
I take a breath. Put my hand quickly at my side.
“Pretty good. She got a call from that agent after all.” There’s a pause, and I add quickly, “Not that she’s planning to leave Pennington. She loves it here.”
“Yes, so I’ve gathered,” he says, his eyes moving pointedly to where Lyla stands in a cluster of coworkers, looking bored out of her mind. Her AirPods peek out clearly from her ears.
When he sees my wide eyes he adds, “Don’t worry. I’ve already come to realize she’s an eccentric best left to her own devices.” He pauses. “Well, most of the time. We may need to take away her phone privileges.”
I laugh. “You’ve been getting complaints about her?”
“Half of my calls are about her.” He shrugs. “But she’s the most talented person in this publishing house, and I’m including myself in that statement. I’m not going to lose her over a temper. Besides, everything she says is dead on, and if I’m honest, part of me likes to see her tell it to them like it truly is.”
My grin widens. “That’s not very publisher of you, Will Pennington.”
His eyes twinkle. “Then I trust you can keep that little secret between you and me.”
* * *
And I do tuck that little secret away.
Deep away in my thoughts all the way on my freezing walk home.
All the way up the three flights of stairs.
All the way to my door.
The thought—the whole conversation, in fact—takes up residence full time, setting out a love seat in the living room of my mind. Will Pennington sidling up to me, not anyone else, after the meeting adjourns. Will Pennington’s playful smile. Will Pennington’s resilient, authoritative air when he makes decisions for the greater good. Will Pennington’s banter.
And his words.
I walk through the living room in a rosy haze, laptop bag over my shoulder, feeling light as a feather despite the blocks and blocks of trudging through freezing rain. I leave damp footprints as I step along the hallway toward my room, and I hear Ferris and Olivia talking in faint, disagreeable tones as they sit at the kitchen table, poring over some wedding document.
Everything feels okay. Better than okay.
