Page 45 of Due South

But Evans—this warmth that’s blooming in my chest is unqualified. He’s saying thank you for a nice thing I did that he genuinely appreciates, and it has nothing to do with my looks, nothing to do with wanting to get in my pants. Because he’s already done that, and he hasn’t made me feel lousy about that either. His gratefulness is sincere, and that’s a pretty wonderful feeling.

What is not a great feeling is the panic that floods me when I hear my boss’s voice. “What are you two doing in here, having a slumber party?”

Oh shit.

India’s standing in the doorway, her bag slung over her shoulder and a paper sack in her hand. I’m surprised she’s here this early, but maybe Cris has gone back to Hawaii? She’s wearing jeans and a beaten-to-hell Stanford sweatshirt with her hair piled on top of her head, and I almost don’t recognize her.

“No!”

Oh god, surely a chorus of denials is way more suspicious than just one of us explaining…and explaining what exactly? Her black eyebrow’s arch becomes more severe as she looks between the two of us.

“I slept here last night, and I must’ve forgotten I was on your couch instead of in my bed because I rolled off. Evans heard the thump and came to see what was wrong.”

That’s almost what happened, so it’s not really a lie, right?

India looks back and forth between the two of us, and I get that eerie sensation that with those two different-colored eyes of hers, she can see things that aren’t actually there. Like infrared or ultraviolet or traces of touches or sexual tension arcing between people.

“Then help her up and get out of my office. We’ve got some serious work to do, and Cris is going to be here in…” Her eyes flick to the clock on the wall. “…a little under fourteen hours. Because apparently he’s decided that’s a long enough work day.”

She rolls her eyes as if that’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard, but it makes sense to me. I wonder, if Cris weren’t around, if India would’ve ended up having a heart attack right alongside Jack. It’s not impossible. She’s like a human pressure cooker. I’m glad he seems to be able to help her let off some steam, no matter how much it may annoy her. But it’s possible she’s genuinely grateful and has a weird way of showing it. Evans seems to find her more sympathetic than I do, but maybe he has information I don’t. Or maybe he’s a more generous person.

That’s when I notice the hand in front of my face, so I reach to grab it. Evans has nice hands. Dry and warm, almost but not quite soft, and strong. Yep, even though you wouldn’t think it to look at him, he’s got that wiry, unexpected strength and I like the way it doesn’t seem to take much effort for him to help me off the floor.

I try to get the pillows and blanket back onto India’s couch in some sort of order, but quickly, because she’s strode to her desk and is setting her stuff up. When I’ve tossed the throw over the back of the couch and am about to leave, I’m stopped by her voice again.

“Hey, Lucy?”

“Yes, Ms. Burke?”

She looks up from the pile of papers she’s started shuffling through, and as soon as our eyes meet, I know. “Coffee’s coming right up.”

She smiles, a brief but satisfying reward, and then shoos me away with a flick of her wrist. “Thanks, Lucy. And keep them coming. It’s going to be a long day. No calls, from anyone.”

“Yes, Ms. Burke.”

*

Lucy

After I getIndia the first of many cups of coffee, I head back to my desk and try to get a handle on the next piece of this report. It looks as if I’m going to have to learn how to use yet another website. This one’s named EMMA, though, which at least sounds friendly. I suspect EMMA and I will be spending more time together in the next year than I will be with my actual friend Emma, who’s still in LA, still waitressing, still trying to make it big.

I’m about to format a chart for assigning responsibilities for various pieces of the required reporting when the phone rings. Would India be mad if I shut the damn thing off? Who’s calling now anyway? All the workaholics I know like working on or near the holidays because they can actually get things done since no one’s calling them. Who is this person not honoring the pact?

“Good morning, Burke Consulting Group. This is Lucy.”

“Hi, Lucy, it’s Greg.”

I can practically hear him choke on the “Wu, from Phoenix” that wants to come spilling out of his mouth, but he swallows it down, with a “Just Greg.”

“Hi, just Greg. What are you doing in the office? Shouldn’t you be in Minnesota?”

“Flight leaves this afternoon. Until then, I’m trying to catch up on some things so I won’t be facing a piled-high desk when I get back in the New Year. I could ask you the same thing.”

“Ditto.” I don’t bother explaining the current disaster we’re dealing with and that I won’t be heading home for the holidays at all. That doesn’t explain why he’s calling us, though. Unless—“Did we owe you something and I forgot to send it?”

I start flipping through the notepad I keep on my desk. I try to keep neatly organized lists to help me stay on top of my workload, but this week it’s dissolved into cat doodles, scribbles, and word salad. I’m this close to launching into my profuse and professional apologies, but Greg cuts me off.

“No, you don’t owe me anything.”

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