Page 106 of In Sheets of Rain

I wrapped my fingers around it and held it close to my chest.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”

“You’re crazy,” I pointed out.

“Crazy hungry,” he said.

I blinked.

“Fancy some morning tea?” he asked. “I’ll even let you take me to Starbucks. You can pay,” he added. “You’re the one with a pen, after all.”

I stared down at the pen in my hand.

He stared down at me.

“OK,” he murmured after a while. “Next time.”

* * *

Idropped my keys, and when I bent down to pick them up, I dropped the file I’d been holding. Papers flew out in all manner of directions — some of them under the car.

“Damn it,” I said, fumbling with the handle on the car’s door.

I shoved what was left in my hands into the vehicle and then slammed the door shut. Putting my hands on my hips, I stared down at the tender submission.

Fifty tightly worded pages. Five hours of hard labour. One forgotten staple.

I made a growling sound and went down on my knees, stretching my hand out under the car, slapping around in God alone knows what, trying to reach the last sheet.

It was only as I backed out, butt in the air, hair messed up and falling out of my ponytail, that I realised a pair of very shiny, very nice shoes were standing right next to me.

“If you wanted my attention, Trolley Girl,” Michael said, “there are easier ways to get it.”

I scrambled to my feet and righted myself, the tender in my hands forgotten.

“How long have you been standing there?” I demanded.

“How long are you going to keep rejecting me?” he said.

“You might have to wait a while.”

“I can wait,” he said. “This is me waiting. See?” He indicated where he was standing, right beside my car. Right beside me.

I stared at him. He stared at me.

“OK?” he finally asked.

“OK,” I said and got in my car, smiling.

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