Page 53 of Sweet Nothings

“Can I help you find something?” Ray asks, looking up from his laptop.

“Medicine. I need medicine. Preferably something that will numb whatever is going on up here.” I wave my hand over my face. “But not strong enough to cause me to pass out and wake up a week later. Please tell me my husband keeps medicine here. There was none in our bathroom.”

Ray slides off his stool and opens the cabinet to the right of the sink. He hands me a bottle of bright orange liquid.

“Thank you.” I sigh, sniffing again.

“Are you sure you want to go to work today, Mrs. Harding?” Ray asks. “Maybe it’s best you stay home.”

“I can’t.” Taking a swig of medicine, I walk over to the large dining room table and slide my laptop into my black leather work bag. “I have an important case that goes to trial in a few months, and I have a ton of paperwork I need to sift through.”

“Okay, but if you need to come home, just give me a call.”

A tickle reaches my nose, and I tilt my head back, preparing myself for a sneeze. The reaction causes me to squeeze my eyes shut, which only adds to the pulsating pressure in my head. I sneeze five times in a row while Ray watches on with a mixture of sympathy and disgust.

“I’m not sure Mr. Harding is going to be pleased when he finds out you went to work like this.”

I roll my eyes, waiting in front of the elevator doors. Ray presses the call button.

I cross my arms over my chest, grinding my teeth from the echo of pain vibrating in my bones. “If my husband can go to work as easily and early as he appears to daily, then there’s no reason I can’t as well.”

Ray presses his mouth into a tight line and nods once in understanding, dropping his argument. The elevator doors slide open, and he holds his arm out, allowing me to step in first. It’s strange having someone escort me everywhere. I’m no stranger to bodyguards. My parents used to have one: Lewis. We were close when I was growing up, and at times, I caught myself thinking of him as the cool uncle. But he was always more attentive to my parents than he was to me or my siblings.

But Ray is different. He is to me what Lewis was to my parents.

I let my bitterness for Lennon’s scarce presence fill the air in the elevator. I’m unsure whether Ray notices. If he does, he doesn’t tell me.

By the time I make it to my office, I’ve used nearly every tissue I shoved into my purse before leaving the apartment. I also have only one text from Lennon, letting me know he’s going to be in meetings all day, but he’ll call me after his first one ends. I haven’t responded. Mostly because doing anything involving moving my body is painful, and partly because I wouldn’t know what to tell him. It’s hard to know how much I’m able to open up to Lennon about when he keeps his feelings to himself. Sometimes at night, I lie in bed and watch him sleep, wondering what he’s dreaming or what his life looked like growing up. I want to know more about him and how his heart works, but I don’t want to push him, either.

He opened himself up to me the night of our wedding. Vulnerability filled his dark blue eyes as I traced my finger along his tattoo. But I’ve come to learn Lennon doesn’t allow his vulnerability to show for long. I’m hoping, with time, he’ll let me in. But until then, we’ll stay sitting in this limbo of sorts. Wavering back and forth of letting each other in just enough before shutting the door again.

I decide to leave his text unanswered, hoping to distract myself with work.

I fail miserably. An hour later, I’ve struggled to respond to even two of my emails. My fingers and bones hurt, and my eyes are fighting to stay open.

Three knocks on my office door pull me away from my computer screen.

“Busy?” Frederick asks, raising his eyebrows. The moment he catches sight of my appearance, he jerks back, scrunching his nose. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I brush him off. He sounds like Ray.

“You don’t sound it.”

I cut him a glare and click out of my emails, resting my head in my hands. After a few seconds of silence, I look up at myuncle. He’s still staring at me wide eyed. Only now, he’s standing noticeably farther away than when he first walked in here.

“Really.” I clear my stinging throat, crossing my arms on my desk. “I’m okay. I just have a little cold. I’m not even sure where it came from.”

“If you’re sick, you should have stayed home.”

Irritation pricks at my chest.

My uncle’s uncanny ability to flip between being boss on the verge of letting me go to a concerned father figure makes my head spin.

“It’s astonishing, Frederick,” I clip, my annoyance boiling over. “It’s astonishing that you beg me to land more clients and remind me on a daily basis how our firm is on the brink of collapse but complain when I actually come in and do the work.”

The wrinkles in his forehead deepen, and sadness fills his eyes as he frowns. “I’m sorry, Laurel. I never meant to place that much pressure on you.”

I suppress the mock laughter fighting to come out of me, but I hold it back, knowing it would only make my throat feel worse.

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