She shook her fist at him, and he gave in and held out his own.
“One, two, three, go.”
They checked each other’s outstretched palms. “Again,” she said.
After the fifth matching round, Wes rubbed his bicep. “Jesus, we’re going to be here all day. Can I at least get some coffee?”
“I’ll allow a break.” She peeled a banana and passed him half. “Here. It’s our last one.”
Wes paused his multistep brewing process. “But you like them.”
“So do you.” She wasn’t going to hoard a banana.
“Oh.” He looked at the banana, then gave his head a shake. “Look, fine, I’ll start. Last night was…”
He hesitated, and Nadine jumped in, knowing what he was about to say and unable to hear the words out loud. “A mistake,” she said. “I agree. It was unprofessional of us.”
Wes’s face froze. “We should concentrate on work?” he said.
It sounded like more of a question, but Nadine nodded. “That makes sense.” She shuffled her feet a bit. “Uh, why don’t I leave you to finish the coffee, and I’ll get started?”
His eyes were focused on measuring the scoops into the cafetière, which he’d brought from home and Nadine wasn’t allowed to touchafter he caught her plunging the filter up and down to mix the grounds. “Sounds good.”
She hoped he wasn’t upset. Surely he had to know it wasn’t a rejection of him but the situation. Plus, he’d been the one to say it was a mistake first. Well, not exactly, but that was what he was going to say. This was the best and most workable scenario.
Then why was she disappointed, especially since she brought this on herself?
To her relief, Wes seemed normal by the time he met her in the library with two cups of steaming coffee. This confirmed that she’d done the right thing, although it felt unresolved, like there was more to say but neither of them knew what. They separated to various spots in the house, Nadine’s mind half on the search and half on Wes. Or ninety percent on Wes and ten on work if it was a boring drawer, which most of them were.
She was sorting old holiday cards when Wes came in with a matcha latte that she took with gratitude. It must be eleven o’clock. They’d started taking turns to make midmorning drinks and outdo each other with the presentation. Her glass had a green sprinkle on top of the foam that resembled a cat. Yesterday, she’d given him fruit tea decorated with ice she’d frozen petals in.
“Holiday cards?” he asked.
“Nothing useful.”
Wes looked stunning, with a pair of black cotton pants and a white T-shirt that was tight enough to show off everything she’d run her hands over last night. He went back out, and her gaze drifted down. On the walls were old group photos made up of individual portraits, and she bet those fine ladies would take one look at Wes and cheer her on. She sighed and went back to the cards.
“Erma!” Her concentration was broken by Wes reprimanding the cat. “Bad cat.”
“What did she do?” she called.
“Knocked my notebook down.” Wes blew his breath out infrustration so loud she heard it across the hall. “This cat will be the death of me, I swear.”
“She likes you,” sang out Nadine to cover her jealousy. It was a hit to her ego to be rated second best by the cat.
Wes came in holding Erma so her limbs stuck out and put her where Nadine was working. “Enjoy.”
The cat stared at Nadine, hoisted her hind leg, and began grooming.
“Have some respect,” Nadine said, nudging the cat with her knee. “Who fed you this morning? Me.”
But Erma’s memory was short and her conscience pure, because instead of doing anything that could have remotely been interpreted as gratitude, she jumped on a desk and then to one of the mannequins, where she perched on the narrow shoulder of a fancy seafoam dress with lace and black bows.
“Erma!” Nadine scolded.
“She likes you,” called Wes in the same voice she’d used on him. “Shit, that’s not good. Erma, get down. Not like that! Erma!”
The cat leapt from one mannequin to the next, toppling both over. Wes made a desperate grab to steady them by their tiny nineteenth-century corseted waists, but it was too late. They fell on Nadine in a flurry of very expensive and delicate fabric.
