Mick’s back at the booth waiting for me, which gives me another few seconds to solidify my calm.
“I’m ready,” I announce, avoiding Mick’s eyes, and stuff my phone into my bag. “I just need to settle up with Jo-Jo,” I say, looking around for her.
Mick climbs to his feet and hooks his jacket over his finger behind him. “I’ve already taken care of it.”
“But this was a business meeting,” I protest, because it seems more important now than ever to establish that firmly.
“Regardless. I wanted to and it’s done.”
There’s no point in arguing, I thank him for dinner and hurry toward the door, eager to get home to safety, sanity, and sleep. After I lavish the chef with praise and make a promise to return with Mick—a promise I can’t keep—Arturo and Jo-Jo send us off with hugs.
We exit the restaurant into a mob of angry clouds and a vicious stream of rain. The awning offers little protection from the cold wind. It bites through my suit and causes me to tremble.
“Here.” Mick drapes his jacket around my shoulders and rubs my arms. “I’ll bring the car right up to the door.”
I start to protest, but change my mind to avoid an argument and being delayed. When another blast of wind hits, I snuggle into the warmth of his jacket, breathing in his scent, allowing myself one final fix of Mick.
Moments later, he pulls up in his Porsche, jumps out, and comes around to open my door. I scramble inside out of the rain while Mick dashes back around to his side of the car.
He slicks the wet waves off his forehead before fiddling with one of the many buttons lighting up the complicated dashboard.
“It should warm up in a minute,” he says and carefully steers the car onto the country road.
I feel the heat begin to blow and listen to the news report.
Thunderstorms are expected to turn severe, with damaging wind gusts. Localized heavy rainfall could lead to some pockets of flash flooding.
“Dee?” He says my name without shifting his eyes off the road. Despite the rapid cadence of the wipers, visibility is severely hindered by a virtual wall of water.
“Yes?”
“What happened at the restaurant?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” I ask retrieving the keys from out of my purse to give my nervous hands something to do.
“Pretend that you didn’t run off.”
“You were getting into some personal territory that I didn’t want to discuss.”
I hear his frustrated breath above the pummeling rain. But I tell myself,I’m doing the right thing. It’s better this way for both of us. I can’t handle talking about the past. And he wouldn’t want to know this secret.
The rest of the thirty-minute drive is slow and quiet, unlike our drive here. We exchange just a few words and the atmosphere is strained. The rain has turned into a torrent, and the news continues pumping out warnings.
When the city lights appear, I break the stretch of silence. “Would you mind dropping me off at my office? That’s where I left my car.”
NO WAY IN HELL AM I letting Dee drive home in this.
The roads into Chicago were obliterated by a pool of water so deep that several times I thought my Porsche might hydroplane. The police have already closed down lanes too flooded to travel. No one in her right mind would set off for Brockville with the obvious danger—unless she thought the danger of staying was even greater.
“You can’t drive home in this, Dee.”
“I’ve driven in the rain before,” she says in a tone that tells me she’s going to dig in her heels.
“Look outside,” I urge her, striving for reason. “You heard the reports. This isn’t exactly the pitter-patter of rain. I live just up ahead in that green glass building. You can stay there until the storm blows over.”
