I want so badly for the time to reassure me that this darkness is a sign of early morning, that the rare surge of rested energy coursing through me is a fluke, but I know it’s not. It’s the deep velvet darkness of an autumn evening, and I couldn’t possibly feel this good after only a few hours of sleep.
“Fuck,” I groan as my phone screen reveals the time: 5:45 PM.
And then I see the email notification, its sender and subject. My heart starts to pound.
I tap on the notification and open the email, eyes scanning the text, dread knotting my stomach:
Dear Mr. Petruchio,
Please see the attached link to your team’s headshots. This link is private and accessible only to employees of Verona Capital. Both color as well as black and white high resolution files are available for download, per our agreement. If you or your employees notice anything minor that you’d like edited in any photo, please note that Photoshop enables me to erase zits and stray hairs, but it does not make me God or a plastic surgeon—there are limits to what can be done.
Regards,
Kate Wilmot
Oh God. This is bad. Not only did she Mr. Petruchio me, she used Regards, the corporate email equivalent of a big old “up yours.”
She’s angry.
She’s hurt, a quiet, wise voice inside me says.
I can’t honestly imagine what Kate thinks, waking up to me gone after what we did last night. She’s probably drawn the worst possible conclusion, and to be fair, I’ve never done anything to make her think I’m more than an unapologetic one-and-done seducer. To her, I got what I wanted, and then I left.
“Shit.” I kick away the blankets and stand from my bed, scrubbing my face. I have to find Kate and explain myself. I have to make this right.
“Shower,” I tell myself, getting a whiff of how ripe I am. “Shower first, then . . .”
Meow.
I glance toward my doorway, where the Wilmots’ cat, Puck, slinks across the threshold, deceptively smooth for such an old, cantankerous animal.
“Puck. You can’t keep doing this, man, escaping and sneaking over here. It stresses them out when they can’t find you.”
Meow, he says, stretching lazily, then sauntering toward the foot of my bed and jumping up.
“I know you like my treats better, but that’s no excuse for sneaking out. We have our scheduled visits when I bring you home and you get to enjoy them. I always bring some to Sunday dinner, too . . .” My eyes widen. Relief whooshes through me.
Sunday dinner. Today is Sunday. And Sunday dinner starts fifteen minutes from now. Kate will be there. Jamie said she’s come to every Sunday dinner that I’ve missed, trying to keep my space while she was here. I start frantically stripping off my clothes, tripping over them on my way to the shower.
This is one Sunday dinner I’m not going to miss.
? TWENTY-SEVEN ?
Kate
Hopping down the main stairs of my parents’ house, I pass the coffin-sized storage bins labeled christmas in the hallway and spin into the kitchen, where Dad stands stirring something that smells so mouthwateringly good, it makes my stomach growl.
Which reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day. I spent it lost in editing photos and sending Christopher a terse professional email, trying not to think about how empty my bed felt when I woke up, even though I told myself not to hope he would be there in the morning, even though I told myself not to expect another generous pastry or gorgeous flower delivery, another one of his little scribbly notes, anything indicating that what we did meant to him anything close to what it meant to me.
Foolish, foolish Kate.
“Katie-bird,” Dad says, opening an arm to me.
I slip inside the crook of his arm. “Hey, Daddy. What’s for dinner?”
“Creamy potato with facon bits. No animals were harmed in the making of this soup.”
I smile and give him a squeeze around the middle that makes him groan. “Sounds perfect, thank you. Where’s Mom?”
Dad adjusts his glasses, which have steamed up over the soup. “On the lookout for Puck. He’s made a jailbreak again.”
“That little master of feline mischief,” I say proudly. “I raised him right.”
Dad chuckles. “He certainly keeps us on our toes.” As he glances my way, my dad’s expression changes. “You weren’t wearing that when you got here, were you?”
“Oh.” I step back and peer down at myself. “No. I was in a questionably stained Tweety Bird sweatshirt and leggings with holes in unmentionable places. ‘Not exactly Sunday dinner attire,’ Mom said. I raided my closet upstairs and changed for her sake.”