But I’d look like a psycho if I texted him in the middle of his meeting. Like I was keeping tabs on him.
I set the phone down and took a bite of my sandwich. It tasted like cardboard.
The afternoon dragged. Every time I checked my phone, I told myself I was looking at the time or checking for work emails. But really, I was waiting to see if James would text me. Update me. Tell me something about his day.
He didn’t. Why would he?
By five-thirty, I was packing up my tools and heading to the grocery store like he’d asked. My phone finally buzzed as I pulled into the parking lot.
James: Here’s the list. Thanks for picking this up.
A screenshot followed. Organic vegetables. Almond milk. More of that fancy coffee. Protein powder. Greek yogurt. And at the bottom, almost like an afterthought he’d added “And whatever you want for yourself.”
I stared at that last line longer than I should have. It was a simple courtesy, but something about it made my chest feel tight.
I grabbed a cart and started working through the list, tossing in my own stuff as I went. Bacon. Real milk. Eggs. A case of beer almost went in, but I put it back, then grabbed a case of sodainstead. They were the kinds of things that would probably make James wrinkle his nose but were necessary for my survival.
As I turned down the produce aisle, I found myself actually looking at the organic options he’d requested. Checking to make sure I got the right brand of almond milk. Grabbing the specific type of Greek yogurt he preferred.
When the hell had I started caring about gettinghisgroceries right?
I loaded everything into the truck and sat there for a moment, engine idling, before pulling out my phone again.
Me: Got the groceries. Heading back now. How did the meeting go?
I sent it before I could overthink it. The response came almost immediately.
James: Good! Landed the client. Thanks for asking!
There was a smiley face emoji at the end. James used emojis. Of course he did.
Me: Nice. See you soon.
I put the truck in gear and headed back toward Capitol Hill, that same restless feeling churning in my gut. I told myself it was just hunger. Or stress about finding a new place. Or lingering frustration with Brittany.
It wasn’t about the fact that James had landed a new client and I wanted to know more. Or the fact that I wanted to know who the client was, what the project was, or if James had smiled at them the way he sometimes smiled when he was genuinely excited about something.
Fuck. I needed to get laid. That was the problem. I’d been living like a monk for the past few days, and it was messing with my head.
When I got back to the apartment, James was at his desk, typing away at his laptop. He glanced up when I came in, juggling grocery bags.
“Need help?” he asked, already standing.
“I got it.”
But he came over anyway, taking a few bags from my arms. Our fingers brushed, and I jerked back like I’d been burned.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes.
We unpacked in silence, moving around each other in the tiny kitchen. I was hyperaware of every time our bodies got close, every accidental touch. It was suffocating.
“So, the client,” I said, desperate to fill the silence. “What’s the project?”
James glanced at me, surprised. “It’s a rebrand for a small tech startup. Nothing huge, but it’ll pay well.”
“That’s good.” I shoved the almond milk into the fridge. “You meet them at that coffee shop?”
“Yeah.” He was organizing the vegetables in the crisper, his back to me. “Why?”
