Page 38 of Handle with Care
All I need to do is keep conversations to work, and everything will be fine. I’m competent. More than. Except life isn’t a meritocracy. It’s about connections, and Will’s all over that scene.
By the time 10:00 a.m. rolls around, there’s no Will anywhere to be seen. I stare across the shiny boardroom table athis empty spot. He has his laptop with him and my books. If Will has any faults, aside from privilege, it’s not being late to things. By 10:30 a.m., I’m officially panicking.
“Dylan?”
I practically jump out of my seat at the sound of Lily’s voice. Instead, I manage somehow to stay seated, but I whirl around in my chair, looking more wild-eyed than I want. “Yeah?”
“I’m popping by to say Will’s called in ill today. Would you be alright to do a quick collection today on your own?”
“Yes, fine. Absolutely.” I nod emphatically.
Lily nods back, and she’s gone before I can ask anything else. I mean, there’s no point in asking if he’s alright because he’s obviously not. Is he coming back? God, now the question is: is he truly still sick from his migraine, or is he avoiding me because he’s too embarrassed about Saturday morning?
Shit.
Neither is a good scenario. Which is worse, I can’t quite say. He looked so awful when I left him. Yet, the idea of him being that upset about me makes me wilt inside. Beyond embarrassing, really. The last thing I want is to make things worse.
Get out of your head and get moving.
So, I do that, heading out to do a collection from an emergent designer in London. It’s something small again, so I’m off on public transport. I even miss fighting with Will about the tube.
Not a helpful thought.
The collection goes smoothly, a small box relayed to me in an efficient exchange of a package and a flurry of paperwork. By the time I get back to the museum for a late lunch, I still haven’t successfully managed to shut down the occasional wayward thought of Will.
Like the reassuring weight of his arm across my chest when I woke up on Saturday morning. Or the drive up north in his Land Rover in easy company.
What if he doesn’t come back?
I have no idea where he actually lives. Or what his mobile is because we haven’t exchanged phone numbers yet. Which is probably for the best because I’d probably be having a meltdown via text, judging by my brain today, and nobody wants a transcript of that.
It’s all I can do to make myself focus on work in the afternoon, occasionally looking up across the empty table, an unescapable void.
On Tuesday morning, when I walk into the boardroom, Will’s head is down, busy working away on his laptop. His dark hair has fallen over his brow.
“Oh, thank God,” I burst out at the sight of him, then quickly lower my voice and shut the boardroom door after me. “I mean, I’m glad you’re back,” I say gruffly. “I’d hate to do all of this work by myself.”
Will chuckles, lifting his head to peer at me. Not squinting and looking a lot more like his usual self. “Here I am. I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”
“Hell no.” I put my stuff down on the table and sit down, taking in the sight of him in a cream linen shirt. “How are you feeling? I was worried I killed you. Or, er, something.”
“Don’t worry, I’m okay now. None of it was your fault or anything you did, alright? Sometimes I have migraines. And it was one of those times.”
I relent, gazing at him, still worried. “Yeah, but?—”
“No buts. Honestly, I’m fine. I took another day to get over the tail end of the migraine and then to get home again. Usually after a migraine, I still feel a little unwell, and it makes sense to rest, otherwise it draws everything out longer.”
“’Kay,” I relent at last. “If you insist. I still feel bad.”
To my surprise, Will rolls his eyes with a playful smile. It’s dramatic, and my breath catches. “Yes, you were positively dreadful, Dylan.”
Our gazes meet, and it’s everything I can do to keep my cool. God, this is going to be a problem. I’m the problem. He’s acting perfectly normal, like nothing happened. Pretend I’m in a play, acting a part. A part of someone way more chill than me.
“Definitely.” My voice breaks slightly.
If I dare let myself think about it, I can still feel the sear of his mouth on mine, the weight of his body on me, the heat of us in that too-small bed?—
Fuck, I’m a terrible actor.
