Page 25 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Chapter 9
Knowing full and well that I was running from my problems, I skipped my morning swim, opting to pick up kolaches for the team instead. I’d have to talk to Beck at some point, but it wouldn’t be in the frigid lanes of Power Gym clad in a swimsuit. That much I knew.
Because I’m apparently shameless, I also ran a little late to our team meeting. Just enough that I interrupted Wesley’s weekly reminder to update our time sheets with my kolaches. No one seemed upset by the disturbance. No one except Beck.
Ted reached for the lone jalapeno kolache, but I yanked the box back. “Come on, Ted,” I said as Anna snatched the kolache. “You know preggos get first dibs.”
She gave me a knowing look. She recognized my breakfast offering as stalling because I’d called her last night while in the fetal position on my couch, staring at my finished forty tiles, which meant I still had one hundred and eight place cards to go, and I hadn’t even cracked open a single email for work.
I told her everything. When I got to the part about Beck being in the lobby, she said, “How did you not know he is an Atteridge? It’s all anyone ever talks about in the breakroom.”
To which I had practically screeched, “When do you ever see me taking a break, Anna?”
She conceded and allowed me to finish my story without further interruptions. When my word vomit finally concluded, I’d expected the scolding of a lifetime. Instead, she’d clapped—an actual applause, commenting about how surprised and impressed she was. When I told her I was going to have to give up the job, she’d told me, and I quote, “You’d better not bitch out, Emily. This is your chance.”
I’d made no promises but told her I’d take her vote into consideration.
Then she’d told me not to worry about Beck—that she was ninety percent sure he had a thing for me, and if he hadn’t ratted me out yet, he wouldn’t.
Looking at him now, I wasn’t so sure.
He glowered at me from his chair as I made my way around the table with the box, but I just smiled. Beck couldn’t very well pull the Spanish Inquisition on me when we had witnesses. He’d have to play nice for a little while, at least.
I took the only empty seat. The one next to Beck. “Hungry?” I asked, opening the box toward him while Wesley continued prattling on about the importance of documenting our time.
Beck gave me a long, inscrutable look, then shook his head. “Maybe after the meeting,” he whispered, an eyebrow cocked.
Damn it. He wasn’t going to let this explanation thing go.
I pretended to be pensive. “Hmmm. I don’t know if they will be available then,” I whispered back.
“Emily, did you have something to add?” Wesley asked, calling me out like a student who’d interrupted his lesson.
I shook my head and feigned being very interested in taking notes.
Unfortunately, Beck was interested in taking notes as well. He passed me his notebook, a question at the top. And now I was getting some major high school flashbacks.
Are you even a real calligrapher?
I wondered how best to tackle this situation, which was Beckett Atteridge. I could take the high road: apologize, be upfront, let him know I planned on backing out of the job anyway. Then I thought about Hailey, the woman I’d decided to try to be more like. She wouldn’t take the high road. She’d be a smartass about it. I decided her way sounded a little more fun.
What do you mean by real? I lettered back, using the prettiest faux calligraphy I could manage with the felt-tipped pens I had on hand. Then, I added some curly leaves, delicate berries, and a blooming flower. As Wesley turned around to point to the projected Excel sheet, I thrust the notebook back at Beck and capped my pen with a little smirk.
He appraised my lettering. Then, he scrawled his response below mine before placing the notebook back in front of me just as Wesley looked at Ted, answering a question about an upcoming deadline.
So why are you lying to Victoria about your name?
Are we really doing this? I thought. Here? On notebook paper? Fine.
Why are you sitting in this boring ass meeting when you could have a corner spot in Daddy’s office?
As soon as I plopped the notebook under Beck’s nose, I realized I’d made a grievous error. Partly because I’d gone too far with the wording of my question but mostly because I hadn’t checked to see what Wesley was doing when I’d passed the notebook.
And he looked right at us.
No. Not us. Me. Because Wesley wouldn’t call out the poster child of the team, now, would he?
Fuck.
