Page 38 of Poetry By Dead Men
I rub my forehead, considering. “No, I’ll take a cab. I’m not leaving for a bit. Your driver would just be waiting around for me.”
Harrison nods, taking another bite of his bagel. “Thank you for doing this, Elizabeth. Really. Robert sent over the signed contracts late last night. I can’t wait to see everyone’s faces when I submit them,” he says through a mouthful of bread.
“Congratulations,” I say. I might be frustrated with the circumstances of how this deal came to be, but today will be a big one for Harrison at the office, and I want him to enjoy it.
“I need to run, but I love you.” He presses his forehead against mine, then leans in for a long, lingering kiss, and another thick layer of my anger melts. “Oh! I booked a massage for you next week when you're in Texas. I’ll send you the details. Text me when you’re on the road, okay?” he says, grabbing his suitcase and giving me one last peck.
“Thank you!” I call out after him as he disappears through the door.
I finally take a sip of my latte, and the heightened emotions from last night ease further, the lavender chasing away my worries like they were only a nightmare. Harrison can be thoughtful—isthoughtful most of the time.In the light of day, I feel a little silly for being afraid of him. He never even left his side of the table, never got close to me. He was angry, and that’s a side I knew he had. Work is the most important thing to him.
Maybe he reallywasjust upset he might lose Bobby as a client.
And after him admitting he lost a big contract recently, I can even kind of understand why he was so frustrated last night.
It doesn’t excuse him throwing a glass at the wall, but he was right. Idowant to write again. I used to talk about it all the time. Harrison’s always dissuaded me, saying we don’t need the money, and it’s a waste of time and energy, but now he’s encouraging me to do it, and suddenly I don’t want to write anymore? Even if it would help him? I can see why that would be confusing.
I sigh, not allowing my fingers to trail along the small line of sliced skin on the back of my arm.
It was an accident, I remind myself. He’d neveractuallyhurt me.
Right?
I rub at the headache forming between my eyes.
I glance at the clock, not sure what time the bus is leaving or how long the cab will take, so I grab my things. My arms are overflowing, but I don’t want to take two trips to the curb. I open the door, hoping to see a long line of cabs just waiting on the street and a very nice driver who might help me with my luggage, but instead, there’s Bobby, leaning against a black Explorer.
His arms are crossed, and his sunglasses and hat hide most of his face, but it’s definitely him. His muscular arms and strong jaw are unmistakable, as is the buzz of electricity tingling across my skin and the way my stomach squeezes when I see him.
Somehow, we match.
Well, almost.
His jeans aren’t as tight as mine, and his black T-shirt isn’t cropped, but it definitely looks as if we coordinated. Apparently, Bobby notices as well, because his lips tip up into a wry smile as he takes in my appearance.
“You look great. Ready to go?” He walks straight to me and takes the luggage teetering in my arms as if they’re a couple grocery bags.
“Sure,” I say, slightly confused and annoyingly impressed. “I could’ve taken a cab, you know.”
He mumbles something I can’t hear—some sort of grunt combined with what sounds vaguely like words before dropping my bags in and doubling back to open the passenger door for me. I don’t miss the way he examines my face, then my arms, and I know that he’s searching for the reason my voice was so shaky last night.
I ignore his concern,andthe nerves pinging through my chest as I press my arm against my side so he won’t see the cut.
I overreacted.
We all do it from time to time.
"Thank you," I say with forced cheeriness, climbing in and closing the door myself. He walks around to get in the driver's side, then hands me a coffee. I pull down the cardboard sleeve, smiling when I see the familiar Joe’s logo on the side.
“Hot latte with lavender,” he says. “Two of them, actually.” He dips his chin and looks at me pointedly, and I realize he’s making a point.Does anything escape his notice?
I ignore him and take a sip, holding back a groan as the familiar flavors dance along my tongue. Nothing beats Joe's. It’s the best coffee I’ve had in months, but I’ll be damned if I let Bobby know that.
It takes about forty-five minutes to get to where the tour bus is parked. Actually, tourbuses. There are three of them, and so many freight trucks, I can’t even begin to count them all.
Bobby parks the car and opens my door for me, then walks toward the blue bus at the front of the line. He’s friendly with everyone we pass, hugging and shaking hands, calling each person by name, and I get the sense that his crew members are more like family to him than employees.
My stomach twists. Maybe this was a mistake. I’ve only been with him for an hour, and already I’m dissecting how great he is.
