My stomach twists again. I can’t believe Corwin just said that. Nobody ever talks to Ava like that. I look at her, and her eyes are squinting down at him.
“Why don’t you go play in the street, Corwin,” she says. Carlee and Matt laugh. Ryan and I look at each other, and this time I don’t look away and neither does he. Corwin wipes at his nose, then runs away from us and toward the classroom. I feel totally bad for him because I know what’s going to happen. Ava and Matt and Carlee are going to tell everyone what happened, and everyone is going to be laughing at him and making fun of him for the rest of the school year.
We all start shuffling toward class again, and I kind of slow my steps so that Carlee and Matt and Ava can go ahead. Ryan and I are walking side by side.
“What’s your favorite egg?” Ryan asks.
“Cookies-and-cream,” I tell him.
“Hey, mine, too. What’s your favorite kind of candy?” he asks, and now my stomach doesn’t feel bad—it just feels kind of fluttery because Ryan’s talking to me and asking me what I like.
I think about my favorite kind of candy, and I wonder which candy is Ryan’s favorite, and whether he’ll think my favorite candy is good or bad, or whether he likes it, too—wouldn’t that be cool if my favorite is his favorite, too?—but before I can answer him, Jonah knocks into me and throws his arms around me and starts babbling at me.
“I won, I won, I won!”
My friends make sounds of surprise as Jonah squeezes me and jumps up and down.
“How sweet,” I hear Ava say, but I can tell by the way she says it that she doesn’t think it’s sweet or nice or good at all. She starts to snicker while Jonah babbles on.
“Isn’t that great, Eden?” he says. “I get to bring home Marco, and I got so many cookies-and-cream eggs you’re not going to believe it!”
“Kindergartners are so lame,” Matt says.
“I know, right?” Carlee says. “I hate my little brother.”
I tear Jonah’s arms from my waist and step away from him. I look over at Ryan. He gives me a strange look, then trots to catch up with the others. I want to tell him what my favorite kind of candy is, Fun Dip, but now that Jonah interrupted us I won’t get to, probably not ever. Thanks a lot, Jonah! I glare down at my little brother. He looks so happy and excited, and I just want to smack him.
“I won,” he says again.
“That’s great, Jonah.” I turn away from his smiling face and follow my friends, hoping Ryan will slow down so we can finish our conversation.
He doesn’t.
FORTY
SAMUEL
I gather the blueprints and schematics from the conference table and roll them up, heaving an inward sigh of relief. The meeting with Greg Talbot and his partner, Bob Jacobs, went well. Better than expected. We have a few more details to iron out, but I’m fairly sure they’ll be signing contracts with us within the week. Carson will be elated. We’re a small, boutique firm—up till now, a two-architect operation with only a handful of employees—but recently we’ve discussed expanding, bringing in some twentysomethings to mentor. As soon as Talbot and Jacobs are a done deal, Carson and I will have to revisit that conversation.
My prospective clients stride from the small conference room. From the doorway, Greta gives me a covert thumbs-up and a closed-lip grin. She crosses to the table to clear away the coffee tray, the cups, and the plates of half-eaten scones. I glance at her as I secure the blueprints with a paper clip.
“Celebratory lunch?” she asks. Her hands are overfull, and I relieve her of three of the plates. “Thanks,” she says. She smiles warmly at me, causing a stirring that has become familiar, if not altogether comfortable, at the sight of her smile.
We head to the kitchenette at the end of the floor. She lowers the coffee tray into the sink then takes the plates from me, her fingers brushing against mine. She tosses her head, and I smell peaches and vanilla. I don’t know what the fragrance is—Rachel would probably know—but it’s soft and subtle and sexy.
“What do you think?” she asks as she turns on the faucet and rinses the dishes. “Orsini’s?”
Orsini’s is an Italian restaurant about four blocks from here. Pricey, delicious, and public. I took Greta to Orsini’s six months ago, the day I gave her a raise. Carson was with us. Greta is my assistant exclusively, but our employee, and he felt he should be part of the celebration. There was nothing untoward going on between Greta and me. And there still isn’t, not really. But the idea of taking Greta to Orsini’s today doesn’t feel right.
Things have shifted between us since that lunch. The occasional lingering stare, the accidental touch as we pass each other in the hall, the not-so-accidental neck rub at the end of a long day. I’m not certain what these things mean. I don’t want to assume or make too much out of what could merely be workplace-inspired flirting and faux intimacy. That happens all the time, right? But it doesn’t feel that way with Greta. And I need to find out. No. I want to find out. There’s a difference. The latter merely signifies curiosity, whereas the former suggests a foregone conclusion. I keep telling myself that, anyway.
“How about sandwiches from Capellini’s?” I propose, and she nods.
“Even better. I’ll order the usual.”
She turns her attention to her task, and I take a last look at her before heading to my office. I carry her image with me as I go. Young. God, she’s young. Twenty-three or -four. Long legs; high, ample breasts; full lips; and a lovely pert nose. And her eyes. Green with flecks of gold. Beautiful in and of themselves, but beguiling mostly because of how they look at me. With adoration. No one has looked at me that way for a very long time.
Not that Rachel doesn’t love me. But she doesn’t look at me the same way she once did. Marriage tears off the rose-colored glasses and forces us to look at each other for who we are rather than who we want each other to be. Rachel accepts me, warts and all. And I accept her for who she is. But I sometimes miss being adored. Which is why I can’t seem to stop thinking about Greta.
I am self-aware enough to understand that as I careen toward my golden years, I reminisce more often about my younger days, about the high school quarterback and cheerleader magnet I once was, when a forty-yard pass was all it took to fulfill me. I know it’s ridiculous and borderline pathetic, especially considering the life I have now. But despite the knowing, I find it impossible to bury my attraction—lust—for my assistant.