Page 42 of Fierce Storm
I hope. For his sake and mine.
Chapter Twelve
SALVATORE
Keeley marches into my office Friday morning with a notebook in her hand and a Cheshire-cat grin lighting up her features.
Meaning... I’m totally fucked.
She hasn’t mentioned our little outing all week, most likely because I spent the last two days in New York, and I thought—hoped—she’d forgotten.
Wishful thinking.
It’s not that I don’t agree with her. How can I not, when everyone else is telling me the same thing? Paige. Easton’s mom, Rochelle. Even Camilla said it again jokingly. Making light of the breakdown in our marriage.
I should have a better work/life balance. The problem is I don’t even have time to think at the moment, let alone have fun.
Though when Keeley bounces her eyebrows, excitement reflected in her eyes, it’s impossible to deny her.
“This isn’t work-related, is it?”
“Nope.” Her smile widens, as if that’s possible.
“Okay, what are we doing?”
“I know I said to keep tonight clear. But what about tomorrow? I was thinking we could learn to surf. Unless you already know how. I just assumed you didn’t.”
“You assumed?”Should I be offended?
“Something about you screams ‘I can’t surf.’”
“Wow. You’re right. But I’m not sure how I feel about it. What is it about me?”
“Does it matter? Are you in?”
“You know I’m fifty-two, right?”
“What? Since when? I could have sworn you were only fifty-one.”
“Ha. Ha. That was my way of saying, I’m not surfing.” Face-planting in the waves and getting sand in places that should never see sand is not my idea of fun.
“Lucky for you, I have back-up ideas.”
“Of course you do.” I bite back a smile, but a little of my amusement sneaks through. “I’ll bet you added our little outing to your to-do list and blocked time for it.”
“I did. It was color codedpurplefor ‘fun.’” She uses quote fingers for “fun” and I chuckle.
“How often do you use that color?”
“Every day. Work is…” She trails off when I cock an eyebrow, her lips thinning as she suppresses a laugh. “Fine. Never. It’s new. But I plan on using it a lot more in the near future.”
“Good for you. What other ideas do you have to torture me with?”
“Bowling.”
My face contorts without my consent and I find myself apologizing. “Sorry, bowling is?—”
“Not it. Moving on. What about live music?”
