It’s not right. No matter how much I want it to be. No matter how much it makes me think of family and tradition, and Dulaney.
“It’s a stunning space but it would probably be better suited to an event venue or brewery than an escape room.”
Jim slaps me on the shoulder as we head back out. “Oh ho, you are speaking my language. You ever decide to open up a brewery and I will be your first customer.”
I huff out a laugh at his enthusiasm and I realize I’ve missed this too; not just my grandfather but Dulaney and the people that make it feel like home no matter how long I’ve been away.
“I don’t know. Letting you in would also mean I’d have to be the one to kick you out if you got too rowdy and if I recall a certain barbeque during mine and your son’s senior year of high school, you definitely know how to rile up a crowd.”
Jim’s face is confused for a moment as he rifles through the years and when he comes upon the memory I’m referencing—the day our high school won the championship and he decided to play DJ and dancer, complete with an AC/DC air guitar and leg kick—he bursts out into guffaws.
“What a blast from the past that is. You’re right though, better stick to this escaping thing. From whatIremember you were always messing around with stuff like that. I just hope you’ve gotten better at it.”
My cheeks flame at the reminder and Rachel’s expression is careful as she absorbs all she can from our interaction.
“Here’s hoping. Thanks for helping us out today. I’ll be in touch with you soon on whether or not we need to view those other two properties you mentioned.”
And then Jim’s out of there and it’s just me and Rachel and the ghosts of my past.
“Lunch?” she asks, walking toward my car, and only then do I feel the hunger gnawing at my stomach and remember I skipped breakfast as well.
“Lunch sounds great. You let me know where you’re staying and I’ll drop you off afterwards as well.”
“There’s actually a Japanese place right across from my apartment I’ve been interested in trying. I’m over on Hoffman.”
We drive in quiet, me lost in thought and Rachel entranced by Dulaney in a way that I have forgotten to appreciate. Once or twice she asks me about a particular building—the local canning plant where they make everything from jams right through to soups and pickled vegetables. A hollowed out shell of stone that used to house a few small businesses—like the tailor that helped me with a tux for prom when nothing suited my tall and broad frame—that burned down a couple of years ago. There’s a plaque out front with plans to turn it into a community garden.
I pull out onto the street, lucky to find a spot near the restaurant, and back into the parallel parking. Not even thinking about the fact that I’ve got my arm across the back of her seat and I’ve turned myself to look out of the rear window, until I hear a small snick in her breathing, as if it stopped for a moment and she had to remind herself to start again.
“I’ll—uh. I’ll go get us a table while you pay the meter.” Rachel is out as soon as the car’s no longer in motion and I can’t even begin to unravel what just happened.
Pulling out my phone, I buy us two hours on the parking app. It’s overkill but I’d rather not take a chance on getting towed. When I get inside and up the stairs to the second level, Rachel is sitting in a small booth by the window, staring out at the street we just came from.
As if she can sense my approach—despite the steady din of the restaurant—her ponytail whips over her shoulder as she turns her head to face me. And somehow, with no particular reason I can put my finger on, I know I am in a world of trouble.
I’m a mess of grief, anger and determination, and somehow—impossibly and inconveniently—there’s a stirring of something I haven’t felt for a long time. One I’m not ready to name. Something that I can’t afford to entertain right now.
I slide into the booth opposite her and she tugs the table closer to her to accommodate my legs, a small smile on her face like it’s nothing . . . as if she’d done it out of reflex alone and not consideration.
Rachel flicks through her menu, handing me one to peruse on my own, but I’m stuck. On silky black hair, and big brown eyes, and the uncomfortable feeling of being seen—and liking it.
Why doeshe have to be so . . . so . . . Ugh.
It’s impossible to focus. All morning has been me trying my best to be professional, to ask the right questions and toe the proper line. I have to make a good impression. I can’t afford to mess this up. My rent’s been paid for the month and Farren texted me that they might have a subletter, but I’m hanging on by my fingertips when it comes to cash flow and this job is the only thing standing between me and having to slink back home—a disappointment.
It’s for that very reason that I am incredibly pissed at my inner comments throughout the location scouting experience. Because, despite her usual propensity for snarkiness and pulling me back on track through deprecation, my inner voice has latched onto something else to focus on.
Namely, Bryce Locke Dawson—my cute, definitely kind of shy and surprisingly vulnerable boss. So different from the picky, arrogant assholes in D.C. walking around like their biology alone is something I should bow down to. Bryce’s got that fucking Hallmark Christmas movie hero vibe and despite how awful I pretend those movies are, I still swoon when Mr. Small Town shows up in his laid back outfits after all the stuffy suits.
That henley, man . . . Whoa. You know, those romance writers have it right. It’s definitely a main character type of outfit. Between Hallmark movies and my secret romance stash on my kindle, he’s definitely swoonworthy.
Stop. No. We are not doing this right now.
I grip my menu tighter, my eyes blurring on words, skimming all the way from gyoza to the lunch bento without seeing a single descriptive ingredient. How can I when my mind keeps getting tripped up on that moment in the car? Bryce rested his arm on my seat, backing into the parking spot with no help from a fancy little back camera. Just gripped the headrest in his big hand, the heat off his body close enough to feel, and a whiff of either his body wash or cologne sending my head spinning.
Boss, boss, boss,I chant to myself.
Married. Married. Married.
