There is no bell to jangle as I walk in, and only two large desks take up the main room. One is to the right with a coffee bar built into the wall behind it. Another room with the door open wide is in the back right corner.
What I believe is probably a bathroom is in the back left, and across from the previously mentioned desk is Elijah, sitting at his own station as he types furiously on his computer.
Dressed in a pair of navy blue, wide-legged slacks and a white sweater, he doesn’t seem to notice me at first. He’s typing so quickly that two loose curls bounce with each desperate movement of his fingers.
It reminds me of those same little strands bouncing beneath me just last night, or how some were laid so beautifully around his head as they decorated the pillow underneath him.
I find myself heating once again and note that this is getting to be ridiculous.
“What does a man have to do to get some help around here?” I ask, and Elijah jumps in his seat, his big hazel eyes finding me within seconds.
He stands, sending the leather office chair crashing into the wall a few feet behind him as he yells, “Rowan!”
I grin, approaching his desk to set the white plastic bag on the surface.
“Afternoon, Eli,” I greet.
“W-what are you doing here?” he rushes, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater, and then moving to smooth the lines of his slacks. He’s nervous.
“I brought lunch. I figured it might be better than a text.” At that, I pull out his note, and Elijah flushes a deep red.
“Oh, thank you. You… you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I nod once in reply, beginning to round his desk to touch him.
To hug him or run a hand over his jaw—I’m not sure. But I don’t make it very far before someone else is clearing their throat.
“Having a lunch date, Eli?” the old man asks, and I recognize him immediately. He’s been the man to run our town’s newspapers since I was a kid—John Andrews, the man who told me Elijah had boarded that plane to California.
“Sorry, sir. Is that okay?” Elijah asks, looking nervously between his boss and me.
Shit, should I have texted after all?
“Of course, son,” John responds, walking toward us. Once he’s within range, he extends a hand to me. “Rowan Alexander, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” I respond politely, taking his hand in mine. “And you’re John Andrews, the owner of theFort Myers Post.”
I appreciate that he’s pretending we haven’t interacted before—that he’s not acknowledging my showing up here that day.
John grins. “Well, if you knew that, why did ya ignore me when I came by your house all those weeks ago?”
Oof. I heard him, alright. Pounding away at my door and calling out to me about his interview. But at the time, I had absolutely zero interest.
If Elijah hadn’t been the one to show up next, I would have declined their request until the day I died. No one in this town cares about my accomplishments; what’s the point in blasting them to the public?
“I must have just missed you,” I lie, and John laughs the way I imagine Santa Claus would laugh if he actually existed.
“No reason to lie, son. I respect your desire to be left alone, even if I wanted this interview more. I’m just happy Eli here was able to use those pretty eyes to persuade you.”
Elijah groans, plopping back into his chair as he hides behind his hands.“John,please. You’re worse than my father.”
John just laughs harder, and he stares at Elijah with handfuls of affection. I find myself pleased with this—with the knowledge that he has someone looking out for him.
“Sorry, sorry! Well, anyway, I’m going to get back to work. You two enjoy your lunch. And Rowan, please come by again. Elijah is normally so put together that it’s kind of nice seeing him all blushy and—”
“John!” John cackles some more at Elijah’s glare, and he wanders back to his office, his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry about that,” Elijah mutters, closing his laptop to make room for our bowls.
I snag the chair from the opposite desk and sit across from him, handing him a bowl and a spoon.
