Page 117 of Business Casual
Her cheeks flush pink. She’s frustrated and picking up steam. She points at my face. “It is a big deal. Just like the trip to Italy was a big deal! There was a limo at the airport, Charlie! A limo!”
I blink at her. “There was supposed to be a limo. That’s what I asked for.”
“The whole trip was incredible! All of it! I ate so much pasta it’s a wonder I didn’t explode!”
I shrink back in my chair. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because you keep minimizing yourself and the things you do and I have no idea why!”
“That’s not…” I frown. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
I like planning trips to Italy. I like thinking up ideas for the farm. It’s a productive use of my time when my brain won’t slow down and sleep won’t come easy. It’s also better than financial spreadsheets and never-ending emails and placating my father.
“You are,” Stella seethes, one pale pink fingernail pointed in my direction. “And it stops now. No more of this”—she waves her hand in my face—“nonsense. I love you. I love you whether you send me to Italy or not. Whether you take over my job for a month or not. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”
I pick at the edge of a cupcake wrapper. This conversation is eerily similar to the one I had with Nova the night she inked my wrist. Too close to the battered pieces of my heart. “Fine,” I mumble.
Stella cups her hand around her ear. “What was that?”
“I said fine.”
“Fine, what?”
“Fine, I’ll stop”—I make a face—“minimizing myself.”
Stella relaxes. “Thank you. Was that so hard?”
“Kind of.”
She ignores me and claps her hands together. “Now let’s talk about Nova.”
I groan and let my head drop back. “Who sent you the video? Did the whole phone tree see it?”
I’d like to know how many people saw me taking a nosedive into the hydrangeas and why no one decided to say anything about it.
“No. It was a very specific branch of the phone tree.” Ah. That explains why no one asked me about it in the cheese aisle of the grocery store. The unofficial motto of the phone tree is Your Business Is Town Business. “This town isn’t that reckless.”
I stare at her over the stretch of her desk. “Do you remember during the Disney themed trivia night when someone tried to set off celebratory fireworks on the bar top? Or maybe the Easter egg hunt last year when Clint replaced all the plastic eggs with actual eggs for authenticity and the kids started pelting each other with them?”
“I forgot you were here for that.”
“I got yolk on my Armani.”
“All right,” Stella agrees. “Fair point. This town is reckless.”
I shift in my seat. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable that people know;I’m more concerned that one specific person knows. “Is Beckett on this branch of the phone tree?”
Stella shakes her head. “It was long ago decided that Beckett would not be added to any subthreads given he once launched his phone out of a moving vehicle when the phone tree called to tell him about ladies night at the bowling alley.”
“Who decided this?”
“That is not for you to know, Charles Gareth Milford.”
I drag my hand over my face. This conversation is officially off the rails. I have no idea how we got here.
Stella’s face softens, and she leans forward, resting her elbows on top of her desk. “It’s just me asking. No one else. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But if you do need someone to confide in, I’d like to listen.”
I scratch at a spot under my ear. Stella’s gaze drifts over my wrist. A smile tugs at her mouth when she notices my new tattoo.
