Page 6 of Story Of My Heart

I tap my foot on the hardwood floor. “Oh, I know, I know. It’s me.”

“You live within a reasonable distance. You rarely see your family. You can make this work,” Ledger insists, with a slight plea in his voice. I get it. He’s stressed. As the oldest son, he’s always been the de facto leader. That can take a toll on a guy. Then the resort got sold, and everything felt significantly less… stable. I’m sure if he knew the truth about the new owners, he could relax a little. But that’s not a step I’m ready to take any time soon. For now, we have to stick with the status quo. Which means I have to swallow my pride, and smooth this over.

“What if I hire someone to work a few shifts? Take the load off you and Fallon?” Surely, I can solve this problem with my usual solution. I can just throw money at it. There must be loads of kids running around Sunset Lake who need a job a few hours a week.

Ledger sighs, and I can see in my mind that crease that forms between his eyebrows when he’s hitting a wall, just like Mom always did. I brace myself for the oncoming lecture.

“Tate, you’ve always been lousy with money. Put in the time so you don’t go broke. I can give you some tips when you get here, suggest some retirement investments, that kind of thing.”

Hearing my older brother trying to help me in the midst of his own personal stress meltdown, as unnecessary as it may be, does something to me. Dare I say, it warms something in my cold, dead heart. I’m going to regret this, but I can’t turn my back on him, as much as I want to. It’s just like when Mom called me all those months ago and talked me into buying the business so her and Dad could go travel before they died. Why do I feel that damn tug toward home at the worst possible times? Like when I really need to tell my brother to fuck right off.

“You’re very helpful,” I offer with as much kindness as I can muster. Warmth isn’t something I do very often. “I’m sure I’ll be able to get to Sunset Lake.”

“When?” There’s so much hope in his question that I consider getting in the car right now. But there’s certain arrangements that need to be seen to first.

“Soon.” I end the call with a touch of my finger against the earpiece before things have a chance to turn sappy, leaning back in my chair with a heavy breath.

The reality of what I just agreed to sets in, and I start to pace around the apartment. I can’t do this. No. Scratch that. I can do this, just not alone. All I have to do is bring Piper with me. She anticipates all the things that annoy me and gets out in front of them so I never have to feel that pesky emotion.

I race back to the desk, and dial her cell. It rings three times. Then four. Then goes to voicemail. Remember when I said I would probably call the police after ring #4? Panic starts to set in. That never happens. Piper always answers for me. I got her kicked out of a movie theater once because she took a call during a special screening of His Girl Friday. I threatened to buy the theater when I found out, but she talked me out of it. Said they weren’t a good investment in the current market.

I call again. It rings, and then goes to voicemail. Okay, okay. Deep breaths. No problem. I’ll just go down there and see what’s up. It’s a short elevator ride, and I’m sure whatever’s going on isn’t a big deal, and we’ll laugh it off together. What if she’s injured? What if she’s dead? God, there’s no way I could get through more than a single day without the woman. My mind races and my heart threatens to explode as I enter the passcode to the elevator, and try not to escalate waiting for the doors to slide open. Using the mirror inside, I straighten my hair with my hands and make sure that there aren’t any visible candy corn crumbs in my trimmed beard. Satisfied with my appearance, I take a deep breath as the elevator comes to a stop, and brace myself for whatever is waiting for me in Piper’s apartment.

Chapter Four

Piper

If I burn my ear with the curling iron one more time, I’m going to come completely unglued. Staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I have to wonder if all of this effort is even doing anything. The first few sections that I curled already seem to be going limp around my shoulders, no matter how much hairspray I coat them in. Now that I’m looking, I can see why I keep burning the tips of my ears. My hands are trembling as I wrap my hair around the barrel. It could be low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten a good meal in—well. When did I start working for Tate? Has it been that long since I sat down and spent some time to myself? The question supports my hypothesis as to the real reason for my shaky hands.

Nerves. I’m absolutely, totally nervous. I shouldn’t be. Elijah is a very nice guy, someone that Annabeth, the girl at the coffee shop in the lobby of the building, has been trying to set me up with for months now. He’s a personal assistant too, to some big name Twin Cities criminal defense attorney he can’t disclose the identity of. I’m sure we’d get along swimmingly on that factor alone. It’s just a first date. The stakes aren’t that high. If we don’t click, then we get to part as friends and I make Annabeth happy, which in turn gets me the occasional extra shot of espresso gratis. Which I need when dealing with Tate Story on the daily.

I still can’t shake the feeling that tonight is important somehow. As I’m struggling to get my bangs to swoop just right, I realize that it’s because tonight is the first time in months that I’ve gotten to do something for myself. Almost every other time I’ve left the apartment in just about forever has been to accomplish something for my demanding, oblivious, and slightly neurotic boss. The idea that I get to go somewhere just because I want to and not because it’s on my never ending list of things to do is so alien that it’s leaving me flustered. I don’t know when I’m going to get an opportunity like this again.

As I critically assess my reflection, fixing a stubborn curl, I can’t help but downplay the image staring back at me. Sure, I guess I’m arranged well enough—curvy frame softened by an almost deliberate grace, eyes perhaps too striking a shade of blue against the ever-present, slightly oversized glasses slipping down my nose. Yet, it’s always been easier to credit my successes to persistence or intellect, rather than the fact it’s hard to find a bra that compresses the girls enough to stop all the leering gazes.

A part of me staunchly resists the idea that appearance could open doors that my mind alone couldn’t barge through. Tonight, as I get ready, wrestling with my own reflection, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—I’ve underestimated the power of simply being seen as myself, not as Tate’s unflappable assistant and someone I don’t think he even notices as being female, but just as Piper, perhaps as captivating in her own right as she is clever.

A noise from somewhere inside the apartment startles me. If I’m not mistaken, it sounds like someone opening the door to my fridge. Only one person has the ability to enter my apartment while locked from the outside, and it’s the same person who would feel comfortable enough to waltz in and ransack my kitchen.

“I’m in the bathroom,” I call out with a long-suffering sigh, rolling my eyes at my own reflection. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There’s some more clanking around from the kitchen, then I hear him starting his usual pacing around my living room. I try not to rush myself through the final primping stages, taking my time as I line my lips. Tonight is supposed to be about me.

“Are you okay in there? You’re not having any trouble breathing are you? No noticeable injuries?” Tate asks, growing impatient. The man started pacing the second he learned how to walk, I’m sure of it. “Oh, no! You’re taking way too long. Do you need Imodium? I have some upstairs. The fast acting kind. I can be right back.”

It takes everything I have not to rub my eyes in frustration. I just got my eyelashes glued on symmetrically, and I’d hate to see all my work ruined.

“Seriously? God, you’re the worst. Go away.” Beyond my offense at the insinuation, I’m more than a little wigged out that he would continue to stand there if that was the issue. Like if I really needed Imodium what would he do by lurking outside the bathroom door?

“I need to talk to you though,” he whines. I wonder if this is what mothers of toddlers feel like all the time. “About something really, really important.”

“Okay,” I concede in an attempt to placate him. “But I’m busy. Can’t you tell? Go home. I’ll call you later.”

“Piper, I need you now.” I could be mistaken, but his voice sounds closer to the door when it should be getting farther away. “You know I’m lost without you.”

I lean against the bathroom counter, resting my face in my hands.

“You need therapy. I can recommend someone. In fact, go upstairs and I’ll text you the info.” Tate is a genius. An honest to God, literal genius. One would think, then, that he could understand the value of personal space and take a hint.

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