I have to say, if Alyssa keeps this up, she’s headed for a massive pay rise.
“Please, Becks, please. Wha…Who’s going to chair the meeting?”
I spin around as an idea takes hold. “You know what you should do? You should get hold of Jill. Jillian de Lange. Get hold of her and tell her I said she should run the meeting.”
“But she’s…that’s not her job.”
“Tell her I say thank you and tell her I have theutmostconfidence in her abilities.”
With that Alyssa seems to accept she’s flogging a dead horse. She turns round and closes in on the person nearest to her. “You!Get Jillian de Lange on the linenow!”
Her voice is far from soothing. There’s nothing calm about it at all. In fact, right now, her voice is a good deal more banshee, than it is human.
Beside me, I feel Saint trying not to laugh.
We get into the elevator and stand side by side. As the doors close, he brushes his pinkie finger against mine. At first, the touch is so soft, I think it might have been an accident, but he does it again. It sends a deep tremor through me. It runs up my arm and floods my chest. He traces my knuckles and runs the tips of his fingers down my palm, lacing his fingers between mine and squeezing hard.
We both look straight ahead, but I can feel that he’s still smiling. He’s smiling broadly, but nowhere near as broadly as I am. I’m smiling at the thought of the havoc we’ve just caused, and I’m smiling because I’m in an enclosed space with the buffoon of my dreams and he’s holding my hand. Most of all, I’m smiling because I distinctly remember him saying hewasn’tthe only thing I’ve ever wanted, and I remember him telling me hewasthe one thing I couldn’t have.
Dumbass was wrong on both counts.
Chapter 32
Saint
Theseaofpeoplein front of us parts as we walk. I don’t know if it’s because they recognize Damon, or because I’m at his side. Maybe it’s because our hands are locked together and the strangers around us correctly assess that they’d have to knock me out cold to get me to let go of his hand.
He chatters animatedly as we walk. Something about the meeting he’s skipping and how boring the guy in the interview was. I’m having trouble following what he’s saying because every time we stop at a red light, he twists his arm back, placing both our hands at the small of his back. Then he leans in, closer and closer, until I can’t breathe, and his head is resting against my chest. As soon as the light changes, we’re off. We start walking again, but each time it happens it takes me longer to recover.
“Ooh,” he says, when he recognizes our surroundings, “I know a great place around here. Seriously, it’s amazing.”
“Hmm?”
“Yeah, I’m telling you, Joey, this place makes the best sandwiches in the whole city. Maybe even the whole country. You have to try it. It’s calledSamichand it’s just up ahead. Have you been?”
“Nah,” I lie.
“We should totally go there. You know what, we should go there right now.”
“Okay, why not. It’s your date.”
“There’s usually a line all the way to the street, but we can cut in. They know me there.”
It’s one of those places that looks like nothing from the outside. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk past it a hundred times without going in. There’s no line today. The place is deserted. There’s no one around, just a small hand-written note on the door that says, “Closed.”
“What?” he wails. “This place is always open. I once sent my chef down here on Thanksgiving, after he over-cooked the turkey, and they were open. What the hell is going on?” I give the door a shove and it opens. “What are you doing? Are you out of your mind? You can’t just break in.”
Interestingly enough, that doesn’t stop him. He follows me in. The room is dimly lit. The blinds are half-drawn. All the tables and chairs have been pushed to the side of the room, except for one. It has a red and white checked tablecloth on it, a single candle flickering brightly on the center of the table, and place settings for two. It’s perfect. Just what I asked for.
Mavis, the owner, comes out from the kitchen and serves us our sandwiches. Ham, cheese and tomato for me, and smoked salmon and avocado with extra capers on crusty bread that isn’t too crusty for him. She sets our plates down without fanfare, but there’s a tiny glimmer of mischief in her eyes. I suspect she’s enjoying seeing Damon speechless almost as much as I am. She opens the bottle of wine I specifically requested and pours us each a glass. She heads back into the kitchen, but not before hitting play on the old stereo in the corner.
Please Don’t Goby KC and The Sunshine Band, begins to play. Synth bleeps, house piano and a steadytsk tskbeat fills the room. The sound goes through me, setting a new tempo for my heartbeat. KC’s voice is soft. Hoarse. Desperate. It’s beautiful. It’s a heart’s deepest yearning set to music.
I relate. Hard.
Damon’s eyes soften and his lips part, “I love this…” his eyes change, a quick flash of knowing, followed by a subtle eye roll. “You hacked my playlists, didn’t you?”
“’Course.” I smile. “You know, Demon, for a guy who’s mocked me more than once for reading romance, you sure do listen to a lot of sappy old love songs.”
