Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Give me that code again,” Finnegan says.
“Me too,” Jude adds.
“Same,” Ignacio says with a wide smile.
Chapter 18
Archer
“I mean, the woman actually thought she’d convince us it was real,” Brooks says, his back to me as he presses start on the espresso machine. “Can you believe that?”
His smile is radiant when he turns back around, and it has been for weeks.
We don’t talk about the elevator kiss. We don’t mention the look in either of our eyes the night I rode away in the cab.
It’s like it never happened. We’ve avoided it so efficiently, if it weren’t for the picture of us kissing in the elevator that hit the tabloids making it real, I’d be able to convince myself I dreamed it up.
“What I can’t believe,” I begin, “is how fucking cavalier you’re being about a woman walking into your place of business with a bomb.”
“Fake bomb,” he clarifies. “Empty baking soda boxes and a painted roll of Lifesavers, remember?”
“Just how dangerous is your job, Brooks?”
He turns back to the machine, pulling the tiny cup of espresso from under the machine before turning back to look at me.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the cup bumping the side of the machine and making the contents splash on his hand. “Pretty dangerous. I just burned the hell out of my hand.”
Princess yips likes she’s excited that he’s in pain.
“You’re joking about it? When was the last time you were evaluated by a professional?”
Wiping his hand on a paper towel, he turns back to face me.
“Every year in November,” he answers.
“Really?”
“Seasonal depression is a real thing, Archer. Deacon takes our mental health very seriously.”
“As he should,” I snap. “Considering you could be blown to pieces any given day of the damn week.”
“Aww. Are you worried about me?”
His face is playful, and I know I have to keep in line with that, but shit, the man just said some crazy woman came to the office and threatened to kill everyone in it. Who gives a shit if she wasn’t carrying a real bomb?
I want to tell him yes, I’m worried for him, but I can’t.
“Do you know how hard it is to find good help these days?”
He chuckles, and the sound aids in helping my concern fade, but it doesn’t fully go away.
“Even Pam knew it was fake. I was mildly concerned for Leighton because she couldn’t tell.”
“Can we talk about something else?” I mutter.
He stiffens, his body tightening just a hair. If I weren’t always so attuned to him, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. He’s worried I’m going to bring up that night. I don’t know his reasons for avoiding it, but I’m terrified he’s going to get upset and leave again. I may not get to press my lips to his and feel the warmth of his chest against mine, but I’m also not going to do something that will force him to walk away. Having a little of him is better than having nothing, even though it kills me inside most days that we talk and chat and laugh and joke, and yet we never touch.
“I was thinking about getting out of the city this weekend,” I hedge, watching his face to gauge his reaction, wondering if being in St. Louis, the city that dictates who we are, is the reason he hasn’t made any overtures. “Maybe you’d like to come with me?”
He shakes his head, his response so immediate it makes my stomach turn. So much for thinking that.
“I have Kit’s sister’s wedding this weekend.” He’s mentioned his best friend Kit more than once in passing, but a wedding hasn’t come up. “I’ll be at the hotel, engaged in events from Thursday to Sunday, so I’m not working this weekend.”
“Four days?”
He frowns, and I know he must see the desperation in my eyes.
He’s here constantly, and somehow, I allowed his presence to, in my mind, morph into friendship. The reminder that he still sees me as a job hits me hard.
Our friendship here in this house is as much pretend as our public intimate relationship. Anything more is something I’ve built up in my head.
“What if I need you?” I ask, knowing the question is stupid because I need him every single fucking day. Brooks Morgan has easily replaced my obsession with both Hot Wheels and vintage bottle caps. He’s what I get excited for these days.
“I’m just a phone call away,” he says, taking a sip of his espresso. “You know that.”
I nod because what else can I do? I can’t beg the man to be with me. I can’t smack him in the face and demand that he open his fucking eyes and see what’s standing right in front of him. Doing so would open up his chance to reject me once again. I already misread the look in his eyes that night he put me in a cab, thinking it was the beginning of something, when in fact it was a goodbye. The end of whatever I let myself imagine was just getting started.