Page 142 of Cockpit
fter everything with Claire.
“If you’re not happy with the topic, why did you let them have a choice, then?”
“Because I’m learning . . . and I learned last year that letting them feel like they get to help with the decisions makes them more invested than the times when I make the decisions.”
“I always knew you were smart. That’s why you love me.”
And just like that—with a flash of his smile and a dash of his charm—he can erase my stress.
For a moment.
I lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. Just a hint of everything I love, fully aware that my staff is within viewing distance, before tapping him on the butt.
“Thank you. I love you. But I need you to go before you see me cry tears of frustration that I then take out on you.”
His chuckle fills the space, but the squeeze of my hand makes up for it. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“We wouldn’t.”
“That would mean no sex when you get home.”
“Oh, there was a promise of sex?” I ask, batting my eyelashes coyly.
“Mmm. Mind-blowing sex.”
“Better go home and charge the PS4 remotes so Luke thinks we’re preparing for an epic battle.”
His laugh sounds off and eases a bit more of my tension momentarily. “Does that mean you were planning on screaming my name later?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a guy.”
“Thank God for that.” He brushes a kiss to my lips. “You’ll get it fixed. It’s probably nothing major.” Another kiss. “And we’ll do epic sex later.”
It’s my turn to laugh. And then sigh. The last time there was a program glitch like this was my first Harvest Festival back. I think of him here in the office. Taunting me. Seducing me without me even realizing it. And then, of course, my jealousy and assumptions.
The softening in Grayson’s eyes tells me he’s remembering the same night. The same emotions. The same building block that helped make us what we are today.
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He leans in and kisses my cheek. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say as I take a seat. “I’m going to need it.”
And I don’t look up again as the door shuts, because I’m already pouring over the layout. The errors. The misplaced words sitting erroneously in the middle of articles, looking almost like a ransom note gone wrong.
Like this one here. It’s an article on flowers and arrangements. Haphazardly plopped on top of the article is the word “me.” Or this one here about perfect venues, where there is a bold-faced type more than a hundred times larger than the regular font spelling the word “will.” And then, of course, there is the image of the gorgeous cover couple all fancied up in their wedding attire in the middle of the vineyard—the shoot we had done that hit every note perfectly—with a comic book type of POW over it, but instead of the word “pow,” it says “marry.”
So frustrating.
I begin trying to manipulate the program that I’ve learned inside out over the past year. I click, I refresh, I do everything I know to do and nothing—I mean absolutely nothing—is working.
With my focus on the computer, I reach over and click on the phone intercom. “Jamie?”
No answer.
All of these pages. I line the erred ones up on the screen.
“Jamie?”
