“Oh! With something in it, of course.” I opened my purse, which suddenly felt too big. And too full of stuff. I knew I had shoved those envelopes in here from the office. My purse was normally very clean and organized. But after the weekend away and… I stopped. The cloth napkin from the back office, the one Elijah had used to clean himself up with after we’d fooled around, was still in there. And just past that, the envelope from the vendor’s market. I pulled it out, and smeared across the side was…
My cheeks went hot.
“What is that?” the lady asked.
“Um… just some primer. Makeup primer. For my face,” I clarified unnecessarily. “It must’ve spilled.”
“Must’ve,” she replied.
I opened the envelope, dug out the tickets, which thankfully seemed unscathed, and tucked them into their new home.
“Do you have a trash?” I asked, holding up the cum-smeared envelope.
The lady reached for it.
“No,” I said, yanking it back. “I’ll just take care of it when I get home.” I shoved it back into my purse. This was why organization was good for everyone.
“O-kay,” the lady said. “Just this then? Anything else for the envelope?”
“Nope, just that. Can you guarantee delivery tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She entered some things into her computer while I got out my credit card and tried to get my face back to its normal temperature.
After that humiliating experience, I sat in my car and sent a text:You must dispose of your own cum in the future.
My phone buzzed in my hands with an incoming call, and I laughed and answered, “You don’t want to know about the most embarrassing experience I just had with the evidence of our office hookup.”
“Honey bunny,” the voice on the other end said, and my chest went cold.
“Dad.”
CHAPTER 40
My fingers felt numb as I held the phone to my ear.
“How are you, love?” my dad sang in his charming British accent. “You sound happy, which makes me happy.” Words. Empty words. He was good at them. Good at saying things and making it sound like he meant them. But I knew better.
I swallowed, my eyes darting to the clock in the car. Five. I did some quick mental math. One o’clock in the morning London time. “It’s late. How are you calling so late?”
“It’s sevenPM. I’m not that much of an old man yet.”
“SevenPM?” I didn’t understand. My brain and all the thoughts in it seemed to freeze. “SevenPM?” I repeated.
“How is your mother?” he asked.
“Not well,” I said.
“Recovery from an accident takes time. She’s a fighter though. She’ll be back at it again in no time.”
“No, I’m not sure that she… Dad, how is it sevenPM? Are you not in London?”
He laughed. “Of course not. I’m at home. In New Orleans.”
“Home?”
“I play the fiddle in a band here. You know this.”
I did not, in fact, know this. “No… I… for how long? Does Mom know?”
