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I wrench away from the photo before Mosely thinks I’ve gone crazy. But my assistant isn’t looking at me. He’s wringing his hands and staring off to the side.
“Something wrong?” I ask, noticing the extra wrinkles above his eyebrows.
“Everything’s fine.”
I rise steadily to my feet and look him over. “Mosely, do you know that sign language isn’t just about hand movements?” His mouth bunches into a confused pucker, but I keep walking toward him. “It’s also about body language. Your expressions. The ticks of your face. It’s all part of the language.”
His ‘everything is okay’ smile dissolves.
I sling an arm across his shoulders. “You have a woman, don’t you?”
He gapes. “What?”
“Good for you, man.”
Dad was always trying to set Mosely up with someone, but he kept refusing. Said his late wife was his soulmate and he wasn’t interested in anyone else. “Who is she? Someone you met on our business trip?”
“No, sir.” He coughs. “It’s not a woman.”
“Oh. Is it a—”
“It’s a cat.”
“A cat?” My eyebrows fly all the way up. “You have a cat?”
“It’s more like the cat has me.” He cracks a smile. “I found it slinking around my garden. It was the night before our trip. Since we didn’t have time to sort things out, I left it with a neighbor, but she’s complaining that the cat keeps hissing at her.”
“Huh.”
“It’s not an urgent issue.” Mosely shakes his head. “Work is more important.”
“For me,” I argue. “Not for you. You should head home. It’s been a long day.”
“What about you?”
“I still have some work to finish up.”
Translation: if I go home, I’ll miss Yaya to the point of physical agony. My thoughts will drive me crazy either way, so I’d rather be productive.
“You’re aware of the time, sir?”
I cringe when I check my watch. “I am. I should have sent you home a long time ago.”
Mosely has been up and working for as long as I have. And while my tumultuous emotions and giant worries can power me through another week without sleep, he’s a different story.
“Go.”
“I can’t. We still have to go over Cullen Tech’s,” the rest of his words disappear on a yawn, “latest data pull.”
“Go. Home.” I turn him around and give him a little shove out the door.
He doesn’t resist, thankfully.
Through my window, I see Mosely rummaging around his desk. I remember something and jog to my doorway. “Mosely?”
He turns with his book bag already slung over his shoulder.
“What’s the cat’s name?”