“Don’t get defensive with me, Canon. You know how much I like and respect Neevah. The interview was everywhere today, and I’m sure that was disruptive. Not trying to be all up in your shit. Just trying to be sensitive.”
“I don’t need you to be sensitive. I need those revisions, like, yesterday.”
“Why you gotta be a dick?” A bit of laughter eases the bite of her words.
“Occupational hazard,” I say, allowing myself to relax the smallest bit.
“Can I just say I’m happy for you?”
I don’t discuss my personal life freely. I haven’t known Verity long and I don’t know her as well as I do Jill or Kenneth or Evan, who have worked with me for years. Verity, though, is good people. I’m not sure what went down with her and Monk, but for some reason, I think I can trust her.
“Thank you.”
“She’s amazing.”
“I’m aware,” I say, an unstoppable grin taking over my mouth.
“Much too good for you.”
“Also, very aware of that fact and agreed. Now can we please talk through these line edits so I can check you off my list and maybe have half an hour to eat uninterrupted with my girlfriend?”
The word lands between us like a rock for a moment before it starts to float. It’s the first time I’ve called Neevah that even to myself, much less aloud to someone I work with. I expect it to feel like a shirt that’s one size too small—tight, restrictive, choking at the collar. Instead, it’s the opposite. It feels the wayshefeels—tailor-made for me.
“Girlfriend, huh?” Verity chuckles. “Alright. I see you, Canon. All booed up.”
“The edits,” I remind her. “We need to tweak that dialogue with Cal and Dessi in France after she receives Tilda’s letter.”
That refocuses her, and we talk through how she might approach retooling some of that scene. After promising to send revisions before morning, she disconnects. Perfect timing because I pull up to Neevah’s place. She hasn’t stirred the whole drive home, and without the heavy makeup, the shadows under her eyes are much more evident. She’s wearing one of the head wraps she often puts on when she sheds Dessi’s wig for the day. The tempting fullness of her lips is unpainted, unadorned. Her arms are folded at her waist. Is that rash she had in Santa Barbara worse?
“Why are you frowning at me?” she asks, her voice drowsy.
I glance from her arm to her bleary-eyed expression. “Your arm. The rash seems to be getting worse.”
“Oh.” She rubs the discolorations, looking down and clearing her throat. “Yeah, we should get the results of all the tests they ran any day now. I think it’ll be fine.”
She reaches for the door handle. “I’m exhausted and starving. You coming in or you need to go?”
“I have some stuff to sort through before we leave tomorrow, and I still have to pack.”
“Okay.” Her smile looks a little forced, and like most of the emotions that cross her face, I can easily read the disappointment. “I understand. I’ll see you in Santa Barbara, then.”
When she gets out, so do I, alarming the car and following her to the front door.
“Oh.” She turns to face me, her gaze flitting from me to my car parked on the street. “I thought you had things to do.”
“I do, but a man’s gotta eat.”
She grins and retrieves her keys, opening the front door. “Well, I hope you don’t expectmeto cook. I’m ordering takeout and calling it a night.”
“Sounds great, but let the record show Ididcook for you.”
“Not after a twelve-hour workday you didn’t.”
The house is dark and quiet, and as soon as the door closes behind us, the stress drains from my shoulders. She walks ahead, but I catch her from behind by her waist, pulling her into me.
“Hi,” I say, dusting kisses along the curve of her neck.
She tilts her head, offering me more of her satiny skin like a cat who wants to be stroked. “Hi.”
