Page 14 of Second to None
Chapter 6
The next morning, Emily sat down in her office and jiggled the mouse to wake up her computer. First, she sent out an e-mail to the board of directors, inviting them to a special meeting at her home at seven o’clock. She wanted to serve champagne to celebrate, but alcohol was forbidden at the center, so the meeting had to be off the premises.
Next, she called the branch manager at the center’s bank to alert her to the incoming influx of cash. The manager—the same one who had regretfully relayed the news about the cancellation of their mortgage—congratulated her on the center’s good fortune.
Emily pushed her chair back from the desk and stared out the window at the cold, gray street.
After he’d accepted her invitation to dinner on Saturday, Max had released her hand. The only other times he’d touched her were to help her in and out of the limousine.
The truth was that she’d wanted him to kiss her. Just a brush of his lips on hers, to see what it would feel like. Because she’d been imagining it through the whole dinner. She had thought he was imagining it, too, because his gaze would occasionally drift to her mouth.
“Maybe he just liked watching me eat the food he was paying for,” she muttered.
He unbalanced her. She was happy with the life she had built, but when he touched her, she wanted more.
“It’s just sex,” she muttered again. “I’m having a normal reaction to a good-looking man.”
Except she’d met other good-looking men without fantasizing about them kissing her. Even after she’d gone home and gotten into bed, the fantasy of Max touching his lips to hers had been vivid in her mind.
He was interested in her personally. He had made that clear when he’d taken the donation out of the equation.
“But he didn’t kiss me.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m so confused.” She was also exhilarated, her blood fizzing in her veins every time she thought of Max.
Her cell phone pinged with an incoming text message.
I’ll bring wine on Saturday.
She gasped. Had he somehow felt her thinking about him? She pulled herself together and typed back,Don’t you need to know what I’m making? I’m just as picky as the chef at Laurent, you know.
I’ll cover all bases. Thanks again for inviting me.
He still sounded surprised that she’d asked him to her home for dinner.Just don’t expect oysters and caviar.
May I make a request?
Nowshewas surprised. He hadn’t been the demanding sort in the past.Sure, but I can’t guarantee I can make it.
You told me it was your specialty: macaroni and cheese deluxe.
Gratification warmed her. He remembered a dish she had cooked seven years ago.I’m always up for comfort food, she typed.
I found it very comforting.
She’d suspected he was lonely back then. Fresh out of graduate school, thrown into a culture alien to him, single and with no family, and under pressure to produce a miracle fabric. That’s why she’d encouraged Jake to bring him home for dinner frequently.
“Hey, Emily, I’m here to take a look at the boiler.” Coleman Young’s raspy voice interrupted her reverie. She looked up to see the HVAC repairman standing in the doorway, dressed in his standard green coveralls with a giant wooden toolbox in his knobby hand.
“Go ahead. I’ll be right down,” Emily said, giving him a warm smile. Coleman was worth his weight in gold, since he could keep the ancient iron behemoth in the basement spewing out heat. She went back to her cell phone’s screen.
Duty calls. See you at six on Saturday.
Count on it.
Slipping her phone into her pocket, she found herself practically floating down the steps at the prospect of seeing Max in three days. She stopped halfway down the basement stairs to tamp down her excitement. She should be focusing on how to get the K-9 Angelz project up and running as soon as possible. Instead, she was spinning giddy, unrealistic daydreams around the center’s gorgeous patron.
Emily made a quick detour to the utility room that now served as Diego’s bedroom to make sure there was no sign of the boy living there. They had a deal: Diego folded up the cot and stashed it in the closet every morning, just in case anyone wandered into the basement. The room revealed nothing but stacks of cleaning-supply boxes and paper products. That some of the boxes held Diego’s clothes and few possessions was a well-kept secret.
In the furnace room, Coleman stood with his hands on his hips and shook his grizzled gray head as he eyed the cast-iron boiler hulking in its cobwebby lair. “I told you before that this thing is on its last legs. Hell, it’s older than I am. Pardon my language.” He nodded toward it. “Seems to be working now, though.”
