Page 23 of Time Stops With You

“There’s no track to get back to because I won’t be marrying you.” She pops to her feet, dusts her hands, and asks, “How long do you plan to stay? I left my pots outside and I need to soak them.”

“I…”

Before I can say a word, Nardi walks past me to open her front door. A moment later, she drags in a tower of heavy iron pots. They’re twice her size and I rush to my feet to help her.

“Let me.”

“It’s fine. You’re a patient. You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.”

I try to find a way to take the load from her, but she sidesteps me and expertly sets the pans on the counter.

Since I have no choice, I follow her to the kitchen. The room is small but well-kept and clean. Everything has its place.

She’s tidy. Nice.

The more I see of Nardi Davis, the more certain I am that marrying her wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Nardi begins to dump soap into the rice pots, keeping her back to me. I sense that she’s no longer interested in talking.

“I see that you’re busy,” I begin, watching as she fills the pots with water. “So I won’t keep you any longer, but here’s a card with my personal cell phone number.” I slide the embossed rectangle across the counter, being careful not to set it in the splash zone. “Call me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” she says decidedly.

“Tell Josiah he’s free to call or email me if he has any questions. I’d love to discuss the algorithms he used in the competition.”

She doesn’t answer that one and I can tell, again, that she’s extremely protective of her brother.

I take a step back. And another.

And then I stop.

Something keeps tugging on my heart. Something I’ve never felt before.

Like sadness but not exactly…

Is it reluctance?

Why would I feel so reluctant at this moment unless…

I don’t actually want to leave this tiny apartment.

“Goodbye, Mr. Cullen,” Nardi says pointedly, as if she can sense my desire to linger.

“Have a good evening, Ms. Davis.” With wooden movements, I approach the door.

Just as I’m about to slip outside, Nardi calls, “Mr. Cullen?”

My head whips up and I answer hopefully, “Yes?”

“Don’t skip your therapy sessions, alright?”

Mouth flattening into a thin line, I step into the hallway and pull the door shut.

The moment I get back to my car, I start making calls. The first is to my bank, warning them that I’m about to move a significant amount of money. The bank manager assigned to my account assures me that there won’t be any issues.

My next move is to email my virtual assistant, Sara, who liaisons with me over the internet.

A few texts back and forth and she, once again, shows off her efficiency.

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