Page 30 of That Reunited Feeling

“Yes.” I punch the air. “I mean, thank you so much. I appreciate it more than you can know. It’s very kind of you, Trigger.”

“My good friends call me Trig.”

After giving him my card number, I stay on the phone until the tickets drop into my inbox, just to be sure his middle name isn’t Fraudster, and smile at my victory and the sun glistening on the frost.

It might only be two tickets to a small gig by a band no one’s ever heard of, but I made it happen. Without a degree, without years of admin experience, without any qualification other than the cold hard lessons of having to make things happen with almost no resources other than what’s between my ears.

I sit back down at the desk with renewed purpose. Okay, now to find some other bands playing in or around Portsmouth on the same night to make Tom’s trip worthwhile.

And I’m going to keep at it until I find at least one that’s better than Divine Justice.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this fire in my belly. Or if I ever even have. But I’m going to make Tom realize that although he might have given me this not-real job because hewants to make himself feel better, or because he sees me as a charity case, I can actually produce results and he won’t have to lie in his reference letter.

And possibly because something deep inside me wants him to think I’m good at it. To see that while he was busy building his empire, my life wasn’t entirely wasted, that I have skills too. Maybe even some he doesn’t have.

If anyone had told me two weeks ago that I’d care what Tom Dashwood thinks of my organizational skills, I would have laughed them down the street, but apparently I do.

And I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him about the evening I’ve organized for him. To watch those brown eyes light up with surprise, that slightly flirtatious smile grow on his lips, and his ring-covered fingers push through that sexy-as-hell hair as he looks at me.

I’m suddenly aware of a dampness in my underwear. Christ, he can’t still have that effect on me from just thinking about him. Not after all these years. And definitely not after how he disappeared like that.

But I guess it’s almost impossible not to have a biological reaction to a handsome, talented man. I mean, he’s objectively attractive—that’s just science. And he’s indisputably a brilliant businessman. That’s all it is.

And he’s going to be fucking impressed with me when he sees I’ve shown initiative and planned a whole thing he didn’t even ask for.

Professional respect is all I’m after. Pure and simple.

As I hit return on my search for “up and coming bands Portsmouth New Hampshire,” my phone pings with a text.

RACHEL (11:37 AM)

Check your email!!!

I switch tabs on the laptop browser and there, above the tickets Trig sent me, is a forwarded message from Rachel with the subject, “Marina Del Ray Children’s Hospital: Clinical Trial Approval.”

My heart, already pumped from the ticket-purchasing victory, reacts even harder to the thing I’ve been counting on for months, had sleepless nights over for months.

I open the email that has multiple attachments to see Rachel’s short message at the top in all caps. “HE’S IN!”

We really are moving to LA then.

9

TOM

“Y

ou don’t have plans for next Saturday evening, do you?” asks a voice from the kitchen doorway.

I look up from my phone to see Hannah, hands clasped in front of her chest, shoulders back, hair pulled forward over one shoulder. Her eyes are bright, face glowing, exactly like they were the day she raced to our apartment clutching the Bob Dylan album she’d picked up at the thrift store for two dollars—a liveMTV Unpluggedsession from the nineties. She couldn’t have been more excited or proud to show me her find.

A flutter scuttles around my lower chest at the memory…as well as at the sight of her in black skinny jeans that cling to her thighs and the long-sleeve fitted white T-shirt with the coffee stain right between her boobs. Almost every inch of her body is covered—just her hands and her head exposed—yet somehow she’s sexier than any naked woman I’ve ever set eyes on.

But those are thoughts I need to snap out of, and fast.

I look down at my brother’s face on my phone. “Got to go, Walk. I’ll call you back.”

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Hannah moves toward where I’m sitting on the sofa at the opposite end of the room from the kitchen—the end my aunt refers to as the snug—with my feet up on a stool in front of the crackling fireplace. “I didn’t realize you were talking to Walker. I thought you were just listening to music.”

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