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“Then why are you all jumpy?” He reaches forward and pokes my shoulder, my body automatically springing back in nervousness.
“I’m not jumpy. You’re jumpy.”
He casually slides his hands in his pockets, patiently waiting for me to explain.
“It’s so stupid,” I sigh, reaching in my bag to pull my planner out. “I had a dream is all.”
“About me?” he grins in apparent delight.
“Now why would you assume you were in it?”
“Because you won’t look at me. So what happened?”
I open my laptop, typing in the new password I set up to unlock it. “None of your business.”
“Hmm,” he strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Won’t meet my eye, won’t tell me about it. Seemingly embarrassed and flustered… it can only be one kind of dream.” I finally fully look at him, watching his face transform into a mischievous grin. “A sexy one.”
I stare at him open-mouthed. How the hell does he deduce this stuff?
I turn my attention back to my computer, not bothering to deny it. His powers of perception are apparently too strong to get anything past him. I navigate to the site of the most promising wedding photographer candidate, simply trying to focus on my task, when he asks, “What? You won’t tell me about it?”
“Tell you about it?” I splutter. “You want me to describe my sex dream to you?”
“Ha,” he slaps his leg, coming over to sit in one of the paisley chairs in front of my desk. “So I was right.”
Damn it. I can’t believe he got me to confirm it. Why can’t my mouth ever work properly around him?
“Well, now I have to know. Come on, spill.”
“Gabriel,” I whisper, glancing toward the door as if his father will barge in any second. “That wouldn’t be very professional.”
“We’re past all that,” he waves off, unconcerned. “Just please don’t tell me Serena was in the dream,” he begs, faux serious.
I crack a smile, unable to help myself. “No, it was-” I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye, my armpits instantly perspiring. “My mom.”
“Your mom was in your sex dream? Gotta admit, that’s a little weird.”
“No,” I shake my head. “Um, nothing. Never mind.”
I do my best to pretend I don’t see Gary and Theresa Sweet directly outside my window, waving and smiling at me. What the hell are they doing here in New York? They’re supposed to be tucked away back home in Granville, not here.
I love my parents, but they’re not meant for city life.
“Do you know those people?” he asks after a knocking at the glass gets his attention.
“Um, yes,” I admit, wiping my palms on my skirt. How did they even find my office? They think I’m still uptown.
“Do you need to speak with them?” He looks at me with concern, probably assuming they’re clients. And I would never in my right mind ignore potential money.
“They’re my parents,” I whisper.
“Well, invite them in.”
“I’m working. I can’t drop everything I’m doing just because they show up unannounced.” I turn back to the screen, barely seeing the photographer’s portfolio.
He eyes me carefully, then turns to the window, holding up a finger to signal that we’ll be a moment. “Why did they come here?”
I shrug, half ashamed, half guilty. “To visit me, I guess.”