Begonia: But people like to feel appreciated.
Hayes: The people at the craft brewery like to feel appreciated too.
Begonia: So we have to do both. I didn’t pack my Thanksgiving pants. This could get uglier than me on three glasses of wine.
Hayes: You’re oddly adorable on three glasses of wine. I’ve honestly never had a woman in my bedroom confess to wanting to lick the frost off of windows, and it was more charming than I thought it would be. Especially since there wasn’t any frost on the windows. Not in late June.
Begonia: I said I wanted to do that WHEN I WAS SIX, and ONLY on Christmas morning, because MAGIC.
Hayes: You’re thirty-two and you still believe in magic.
Begonia: I believe in making magic.
Hayes: And you’re quite good at it.
Begonia: You didn’t tell me how breakfast went with Merriweather and Winnie.
Hayes: Terrible. They told me what to order, didn’t listen to a word I said, sent the tabloids a picture of my left shoe, and stiffed the server.
Begonia: picture of herself making a horrified face
Hayes: Teasing, Bluebell. They’re perfect, both starting later this week, hence a celebratory dinner OUT instead of in with my nosy family, whom I’ll be relocating back to their own houses posthaste.
Begonia: HAYES RUTHERFORD, YOU MADE ANOTHER JOKE. And it was a bad joke at that. Also, who says POSTHASTE? Seriously?
Hayes: I’ll have to buy you diamonds to make up for the error in my judgment.
Begonia: I demand a poem in recompense. Recompense. Ha. That’s a fancy word. Don’t use it in the poem you write me.
Hayes: I saw an article about you in your hometown paper. You didn’t mention you love clay pottery.
Begonia: That article is ancient. You were googling me!
Hayes: Yes, and enjoying it so very immensely that we nearly burned the house down.
Begonia: I’m sitting with YOUR MOTHER and she just asked me why I suddenly went red as an overripe beet. Warn a girl before you say things like that.
Hayes: Begonia, I’m about to say something highly improper and scandalous and it would horrify my mother and will probably make you want to board a helicopter to get to me as soon as humanly possible.
Begonia: I’m turning my phone off until I’m alone.
Hayes: There’s a delivery truck on the way to the house right now with a pottery wheel, an industrial-size block of clay, and every clay modeling instrument that the internet insisted you needed to spend an afternoon getting filthy. Perhaps you can give me lessons later.
Begonia: selfie of herself with her eyes bugging out and a little shiny
Hayes: You’re enjoying the weather. Looks lovely.
Begonia: I make AWFUL pottery.
Hayes: But you enjoy the process.
Begonia: OMG, the truck is pulling up. You weren’t joking.
Hayes: You didn’t want diamonds or pearls. I had to get creative.
Begonia: I don’t know what to say. Thank you feels so very inadequate.
Hayes: Say you’ll do dinner with me at the brewery.
Begonia: Of course. Yes. Happily. Can I be coated in clay when we go?
Hayes: I would expect nothing less.
25
Begonia
It’s almost nine thirty before Hayes gets home, and I’m about to crawl out of my skin by the time he walks in the door.
I leap off the stairs, where I’m waiting, the minute the door opens, but he hustles in with his head down, phone against his ear. “No, Dexter, if you want approval, you’ll need to send it through the proper channels. I’m not interested in acting as your shortcut. No. No. No. Do I need to say no once more? Call my office and make an appointment if you want to discuss this further. We’re done for now. Good night.”
He hangs up, drops the phone into a potted plant, and loosens his tie, and all of my own frustrations and worries fade away as concern for him takes hold.
I want to be mad. I want to remind myself that I deserve better than this, but I can’t.
For one, this is all pretend.
For two, his profile is etched with weariness, his shoulders are drooping, and the sigh that leaks out of him is like an overstretched balloon finally giving up the last that it has to give.
When he turns his head and spots me, guilt flashes across his features. “Begonia. Apologies. This afternoon turned into one crisis after another, and I lost track of time.”
It’s so damn familiar.
I’m working late, Begonia. Eat without me.
Sorry I forgot to call. I was tied up.
The boss needed me. You know how it goes.
I know better.
I do.
I know better than to pretend everything’s fine and I can roll with this and I wasn’t worried he’d died in a helicopter accident, but my indignation is warring with knowing that Hayes Rutherford is a million times the man Chad was, and I’m not talking about his bank account.