Tell him what? That I’m busy? That I don’t have time? That I can’t spare five minutes?
I picture him standing at the desk, tall and immovable, with his serious mustache, probably pretending not to notice Jenny’s performative smile.
“…Tell him he can come through,” I say, already regretting it.
Jenny’s satisfaction is audible. “Of course.”
The line clicks dead.
I stand, smoothing the front of my coat even though it doesn’t need it, then stop and sit back down again. Then I stand again, take the coat off and drape it over my chair, and sit again. Cross my legs. Uncross them.
When there’s a knock at my door, I look up too quickly.
Reid opens it without waiting for an invitation, his big frame blocking out half the hallway behind him. He doesn’t smile or frown, just looks at me with his steady blue eyes, taking me in with that quiet attentiveness that always makes me feel like he’s seeing right through me.
“Hi.”
“Hi back,” I reply, then clear my throat. “You don’t have an appointment.”
“I know.” His mustache twitches as he rolls his lips. “Was hoping to talk fundraiser stuff. Got a minute?”
I gesture toward the chair across from my desk. “I’ve got five.”
He steps inside, closing the door behind him with care, probably aware of how thin the walls are. But he doesn’t sit right away, instead letting his gaze drift around my space.
“Your fake plant count is up to what, five now?”
He reaches out and taps one of the plants on the shelf beside my desk, and the leaf bends unnaturally under his finger.
“Six, actually. But only because Fernanda the First finally gave up last week.”
His eyes flick to mine, amusement shining through despite the lack of a smile.
“Rest in peace, Fernanda.”
“They’re low maintenance,” I offer in explanation. “And they don’t die when I forget about them.”
“You, Ms. Controlled and Organized, forget about plants?”
“I’m a surgeon, not a gardener,” I say. “You should see my apartment. That’s where the real ones are, and half of them are clinging to life.”
That earns me a huff of soft, surprised laughter. Then, he finally sits, long legs stretching out in front of him, hands resting loosely on his thighs.
“You need succulents,” he says. “They thrive on neglect.”
I arch a brow. “Is that professional gardening advice?”
“Life advice,” he corrects. “My house is full of them. I’m away so much, they’ve learned to fend for themselves.”
We both seem to realize what he’s said at the same time, and the silence stretches. I watch as his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he shrugs it off.
Wasaway so much. Not anymore.
“They’re still alive,” he adds. “So. Proof of concept.”
I smile despite myself, the tension in my chest easing a notch. “I’ll add it to my list of failures to address.”
He leans back in the chair, watching me. “You look tired.”
