Page 12 of That Fake Feeling
“MissBellamore, good morning.”Hesteps aside and waves me in with his tablet. “Comein, come in.You’renot dressed for a downpour.Wedon’t want to start things off with a wetT-shirt competition, do we?”
No, we absolutely don’t.
Istep inside, turning my back to the man who must beSterlingsoIcan give my suitcase a good hard yank to get it over the ridge in the doorway.ButasIpull back, my broken flip-flop catches on the edge of the doormat.
“Whoa,”Sterlingshrieks, asIwindmill my non-suitcase holding arm to counterbalance myself.
Butthe weight of those textbooks is just too much, and, in a flash,Iland on my backside with anoomph, my legs spread-eagled on either side of the suitcase.
Bloodrushes to my cheeks in shock and embarrassment.
IfIhadn’t decided not to care about making a good first impression,I’dbe quite upset about now.
Ilook up, expecting to see a disapproving scowl, butSterlingsmiles down at me like aCheshireCatthat’s heard a good joke.
“Oh, goodness.Goodness,” he gushes as he picks his way around me and pushes the suitcase the rest of the way over the threshold with his foot, partially pinning me down, then pulls the door shut to stop the rain from blowing in.
Hehugs his tablet to his chest, rests his chin on it, and admires my suitcase-straddling form.
“Thisis perfect.Cuteand klutzy makes you even more adorable.”Hecould not be more delighted with how inelegant and embarrassedIam right now. “You’rebetter thanIever could have dreamed.”Hemakes a chef’s kiss. “Justperfect.”
Nicethat he cares whetherI’vebroken an ankle or dislocated my butt.Butperhaps that would be good for public sympathy and make me even more “adorable.”
“IthinkI’mfine—thanks for asking,”Isay pointedly.
Irub the base of my spine.Nothingseems to be damaged.ThankGodIdidn’t land on my laptop orI’dneed an advance on my paycheck.
Itry to lift the suitcase out from between my legs, butIcan’t get any purchase.
“Yes, yes.Great.Thisis all so great,”Sterlingsays as he grabs the handle and pulls it off me. “Upyou get.”
Istand up, dust myself off, and straighten the bag over my shoulder.
“I’mactually not klutzy at all.It’sthis.”Iyank off the offending flip-flop and hold it up. “Itsnapped on the way here.”Ihold out my other hand. “Oh, andI’mRose.”Ishrug. “ButIguess that’s obvious.”
Sterlingtakes just my fingers and gives them a wiggle rather than a shake, then wakes up his tablet and taps on it.
“Okay, let’s add shoes to the list.”
Ifinally take in my surroundings.
Thisis anything but the bachelor padIwas expecting.Thelong, gray hallway is lined with large pieces of art, some abstract, some more traditional.
“Leaveyour things here and follow me.”Sterlingpitter-patters off and through a doorway a few feet away.
Ipull the bag strap over my head and unstick my dampT-shirt from my body.Keepingthe bag with me, though,IfollowSterling.Suddenlyaware of my appearance,Ituck stray bits of hair behind my ears.IfI’dknown this place was so elegant,Imight have dressed in something better than shorts, aT-shirt, and malfunctioning footwear.
Thisroom, painted in a paler, bluer gray than the hall, stretches all the way from the front to the back of the house.Thewalls are covered with yet more, and equally varied, art.Atthe far end, two large, comfy-looking sofas sit on either side of a fireplace and in front of a row of windows that look out over trees in what must be the backyard.
Atthis end, overlooking the street,Sterlingsits at a large rectangular dining table.Infront of him are several piles of neatly stacked papers.
Hepoints at the chair opposite him.
“Takea seat,Rose.Let’sget the official stuff done, then you can meetConnor.”Hecoughs. “Well, re-meet him.Andyou can start to get to know each other.”
Mybare foot notices the transition from the cool wood floor to the soft, thick rug under the table asImake my lopsided way to the chair.Whythe hell amIstill holding this broken flip-flop?AsIsit,Iplace it alongside my bag at my feet.
“Isthis the contract you mentioned?”Iask asSterlingslides a few sheets of stapled paper toward me.
