Me
Everything alright?
My Wombat
Brilliant.
I’m confused when his reply comes right away. Why didn’t he text me sooner if he was already up?
Me
Are you at the airport?
My Wombat
No.
Now, I’m beyond confused. I’m worried. The one-word replies aren’t like him at all. Maybe he’s in a rush and doesn’t have time to talk. That would make sense, given how LA is a nightmare when it comes to traffic.
I still haven’t accomplished anything around twenty minutes later because of the anxiousness twisting my insides. I need to know what’s up before he gets on a five-and-a-half-hour flight, or the rest of my day will be ruined.
My unsteady fingers are typing when I get a text from him.
My Wombat
That color looks incredible on you.
The first reflex I have is to look down at my peacock-blue dress, frowning. Then my brain clicks and my head whips up to scan what’s beyond the glass of my office.
My heart skips a beat, then a few others, when I spot a tall, charming, and dashing man smirking at me from the middle of the open floor. He looks very smug and proud, his T-shirt stretched over his chest, his muscular and tattooed arms crossed over it.
He looks so out of place among those assiduous and somber-looking people that I wonder if he is a hallucination. Have I gone mad from the withdrawal?
But if he’s a figment of my imagination, then why is everyone else peering and glancing at him?
It’s him. It’s really him. That sneaky man got a much earlier flight to surprise me.
The pure elation I feel upon understanding turns into something sour when I notice Isabel whisper something in her colleague’s ear. Larry is out there too, looking as shocked as the rest of them.
Oh, no… More gossip is the last thing I need right now.
Chapter Thirty-One
Gen
Anxiousness makes my throat swellas if something is lodged in it. I roll my chair back and stand to walk up to the door. In the pit, people’s gazes drift from Jake to me, and it doesn’t help my nervous state.
He takes a few steps toward me on the other side of the glass, and we meet right at the threshold of my door, which I open with a trembling hand.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my attention anxiously darting left and right as I take in the stares of my colleagues.
“Thought I’d surprise you and take you out for lunch, red.”
“How did you even—I was supposed to pick you up this evening.”
“This guy I was tattooing yesterday had a private jet leaving for New York in the middle of the night, and he let me come along.”
I can hear the surrounding whispers, and my chest tightens with unease. Unsure of what to do, I grab his muscular arm to pull him into my office and close the door. People can still see but can’t hear if we keep our voices down.
