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“And next week, after Vivian comes back…” I started to ask her on Saturday, and we got interrupted. “Would you want more?”
She studies me, her face uncharacteristically serious, enough that I began to sweat. What is she contemplating? “I don’t know what next week will hold,” she finally says. “But yes, I want more.”
I should be happy. She agreed to continue this relationship after she leaves here. But there’s something in her tone that’s worrying. “What’s happening next week?”
Those calloused fingers of hers twist in her lap, tugging on that loose thread again. “It’s nothing.” She says the words, but so unconvincingly, I’m not sure how she can utter them with a straight face.
“You were off about something this morning too. You said it was about your dad?”
One corner of her mouth tips up reluctantly. “What guy actually listens?” She looks down, watching her fingers twist repeatedly. “He was supposed to help us out with the mortgage this month and he didn’t. That’s all. But I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
“If you need—”
“No. It’s not anything for you to worry about.” She stands, brushing off her skirt. “I better get back downstairs, though. I have to fend off all those people who want meetings with you.”
She smiles again, more genuinely this time, and leaves me, the room empty without her in it.
I have to return to my office too. If I’m attending this event tonight, I’ll need to get everything done before then. And before that, I have to figure out a way to help Emma. She shouldn’t be worrying about money. Not when I have more than I could ever use in a lifetime.
And after that, she’ll be in my bed tomorrow night. The thought alone has my heart racing.
And this time, there’s no holding back.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emma
Irub at my temples, trying to ward off the forming headache. My eyes skim the page in front of me, words jumping out at me.
Carla Shepherd. Thirteen thousand dollars. Fourteen days.
I ignored the first bill that came in a couple of months ago for Mom’s hospital stay in January. And then the second. And the third. They’re obviously not forgetting. But I can’t show this to Mom. She’s been doing better the past few days trying out some of the doctor’s recommendations. This will only set her back.
It already cost me an arm and a leg to transfer the utilities to my name, especially after I found out Dad hadn’t paid the last two months and our power and water were about to be shut off soon. How am I going to pay for this too?
“Everything okay?”
I fold the bill in my hand, stuffing it in my desk drawer, and turn to Connor. “Yeah, of course.”
He eyes me carefully but takes me at my word, even as his gaze shifts to the drawer I just obviously hid something in. “I’ve got an errand for you.”
“Great.” Maybe my headache will retreat if I escape for a minute.
He hands me a slip of paper with an address on it, but I’m still not familiar enough with Manhattan addresses to recognize exactly where it is. “I need something picked up here. You can take my car.”
He can’t have it delivered? You know what? It’s fine. I’m paid either way.
He steps back as I stand, being careful not to get too close, my chest aching briefly having to stay this far away from him. I respected his wishes yesterday in his apartment when he said there can’t be anything between us at work anymore. I understand, I really do.
I just hate it.
He gives me a secretive smile as I round the desk, but stays silent as he returns to his office and shuts the door. What was that about?
Connor’s town car is waiting for me at the curb when I exit the building, and I sink into the buttery soft leather seats as the driver pulls into traffic. Closing my eyes, I take a moment to just relax, letting the worry about Mom’s hospital bills, about our home, about what I’m going to do for money in less than two weeks now when Vivian comes back all fade away. Let me not stress about it for however long this errand takes me, at least.
When the car stops, I find myself outside a boutique, and I have to make sure I’m at the right address before I step out. What would Connor need from here? There are only women’s dresses in the storefront window.
The bell dings over the door as I enter, and like a shark circling her prey, a sales assistant approaches me, ready for her commission. “Miss Shepherd?” she asks.