My day with Javier was easier. And harder. It was easier because I worked for fifteen hours straight and came up with a formula for nontoxic paint. So now I’m finally exhausted, and exhaustion is what I need tonight to be able to sleep.
But it was harder because no matter what I did, a small voice repeated in the back of my head like a broken vinyl record, Aiden Hale. Aiden Hale. Aiden Hale. He called Feign to cancel the painting—which made it final—but he still paid Feign his full commission, which made it worse. How can I get over a man who keeps saving me in every way?
“So the sale is supposed to be tomorrow?” Javier confirms as he pulls up in front of my apartment to drop me off.
“I think so. We’ll see if he has called.” My stomach starts knotting. I had the brilliant idea of leaving my phone behind to avoid conversation. So, of course, all day I’ve been nervous about what sort of message is waiting for me at home, or worse, that there will be no message at all.
Javier clutches my shoulder. “It’ll be fine. You’re doing the right thing.”
I nod, envious of his conviction. “I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks for today.”
I give him a hug and get out of the car. Calico is lounging in his spot on the sidewalk, waiting for his daily scratch. I wave at Javier and snap a picture of his Honda Civic as it clunks away past a shiny, black sedan.
Inside, Reagan is on the couch watching Chatty Man in her KISS ME, I’M BRITISH T-shirt. She is absorbed in Alan Carr’s Britishisms for drunk, giggling and trying to imitate them.
“Pissed up and off the face,” she annunciates at the TV but when she sees me, she mutes her phonetics practice. “Hey, luv. How was your day with Javier?”
“It was good. We worked a lot. Hopefully I won’t get him fired with my painting job.” I yawn. Yes, physical labor is working.
“Did you tell Denton about your million-dollar sale?”
“Yes, I called him from Javier’s phone. He’s beside himself. He demanded to come with me to the sale.”
“That’s great!” Reagan claps. “You’ll have a buffer from the dragon. Speaking of which, I’ve been fielding calls from that asshole all afternoon. Thanks so much for leaving your cell behind.”
I hate the relief and terror I feel at her words. “Sorry, Reg. What did he say?” I wheeze.
Reagan snorts. “Well, the first time was around two, and he asked for you to give him a call. I said ‘fine, whatever’ and hung up.” She sounds disgusted that Aiden had the nerve to call our apartment. “The second time was in the middle of dinner and when I said you weren’t here, he demanded to know when you would be back. I told him I had no idea when your date would be over.” Her green eyes glow in a way that rivals Calico’s.
I sink in the couch, my hand flying to my mouth. “You told him I was on a date?” I whisper through my fingers, horrified.
“Yes. And don’t give me that look. If you ask me, you deserve a real date after that stunt Aiden Hale pulled yesterday.” She looks like she is ready for the boxing ring. The only things missing are the gloves.
“Reagan, why did you do that?” I wail, but my voice is drowned by our phone ringing. I whimper and jump up.
“I bet that’s him again.” Reagan purses her lips like she is eating a lemon. “You want me to get it and say you’re spending the night?”
“No. I’ll get it,” I call as I sprint to the kitchen.
She is right behind me, looking very much like a bodyguard. I open the recipe drawer and turn it inside out digging for a paperclip. I find two. Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring, ring. Deep breath. Oxygen, 15.999.
“Hello?” I answer. Thanks to the paperclip and a massive internal effort, I sound normal even though I’m a bigger mess than the immigration system. Reagan gives me the thumbs-up.
“Elisa.” Aiden’s voice is quiet, yet every cell in my body responds instantly. I’m ready to run to him and from him at the same time. I sink on the kitchen chair.
“Hello, Mr. Hale.” The formal address burns my tongue but Aiden would be more painful.
Reagan gives me another thumbs-up.
There is a long pause. My paperclip is now a straight wire.
“How was your day?” he asks after a few moments, his deep voice even.
“It was good, thank you. Reagan said you called.” My voice is even too. I should get an Oscar for this. Reagan’s raising-the-roof gesture confirms that my performance is solid.
He pauses again and clears his throat once. “Yes, I drafted the agreement with standard terms, but we can change it if you wish. Does tomorrow still work for you?” For the first time, his voice wavers but it’s so brief that I can’t be sure if it’s bad reception, static or something else.
“Yes, it does. By the way, Professor Denton is beyond himself with excitement and has asked, or rather begged, that he comes tomorrow. He has been there from the beginning, and I’d like to give him that opportunity. Is that all right with you?”