The Fortunate Ones
Page 26
Best to not overstay my welcome, I think in a desperate attempt to rationalize my feelings. We all have that one friend who’s the last to leave the party, ignoring the fact that you’re cleaning up in your pajamas. It’s not like James invited me back to his place at the end of a sexy date. He is definitely not trying to seduce me. He probably just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to drop dead of a brain hemorrhage.
I slide off the stool and clear my throat, lest any residual hormones try to make me sound like a lust-filled schoolgirl.
“I should probably get going.”
He glances back at me, his eyes matching the stormy atmosphere. “What?”
“I don’t want to keep you.”
“Keep me?”
I nod. “Yeah, you know…” I glance around. “Like you said, if I stay too long, I might start decorating!”
That makes him smile again, and his smile is worse than the storm clouds.
“Let me take you home at least,” he says, moving around the island, presumably to get his shoes.
“It’s okay, I can just ride my—”
Shit.
I completely forgot about my bike. I didn’t remember to grab it from James’ car before the tow truck driver drove off, but it’s just as well. Last I saw, it looked like it’d been folded into an origami swan. The repair job would likely cost more than a new bike.
He frowns, presumably thinking the same thing I am.
“Did that bike have any sentimental value?”
Sentimental value? Well no, other than being my only means of transportation.
“No.” I shrug, trying to play it off. “Like most of the inanimate objects in my life, it was a fixer-upper I found on Craigslist. It probably would have crapped out in the next few months anyway.”
His handsome face is a mask of disapproval.
“Good thing there’s Uber, right?” I add with a weak smile.
He nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “That’s probably for the best.”
I want to know what he means, and usually I would bite my tongue, but he’s requested an Uber for me and I’m about to leave. No doubt another few weeks will go by before I get to see him again, so I bite the bullet.
“Why is it for the best?”
He looks up at me from beneath his brows. “You know why.”
His response is an arrow to my heart.
“I don’t, actually.”
“We’re fooling ourselves here, Brooke.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
He leans forward and props his hands on the counter. His head falls and his gaze is focused down at his bare feet. It takes him a second to collect his thoughts, but when he does, he glances back up and asks me with a stiff tone, “What do you want out of the next five or ten years?”
Easy. “I want to find another job teaching French or Spanish. I want to travel and see as much of the world as I can. I lived in Europe after college for a few years, and I might want to try that again.”
I think my answer will make him happy, but his smile, half twisted in sadness, proves me wrong.
“That’s great. I want those things for you too, but I want to be honest about what I want. I’m sick of serial dating, sick of living out of an empty house I don’t want to come home to at the end of the day.”
“Okay, and what does this have to do with—”
“I want a wife and a family, and I want it soon.”
His words coil around my neck like a noose.
“A wife?” I clarify with a squeaky lilt to my tone.
“And kids.”
“Doesn’t that sound a little too, I dunno—forward?”
He laughs and pushes off the counter. “I’m not proposing marriage, but I’ve gotten to where I am today by looking into the future. In five years, you want to be traveling the world. I want to be married and settled down.”
My voice is barely a whisper when I reply, “So what are you asking?”
“It’s obvious that we’re attracted to one another, but we have to be realistic, don’t you agree? The math just doesn’t work.”
He looks down at his phone, and I can tell from his furrowed brow that my Uber must have arrived.
Oookay, it’s time to go. I gather my purse from the counter and laugh, realizing something.
“You know, you played this all wrong,” I quip.
He looks back up, curious about the shift in my tone.
“You’re right, there is an attraction. We were supposed to fool around for a few months, ignore reality for as long as possible, and then have this discussion after a nasty blowout. Things should have gotten messy and complicated.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t want to rob you of your 20s.”
“Well this way you’re robbing me of a few months of what would undoubtedly be really good sex.”
“Is that right?” His scorching gaze nearly makes me regret my joke. “Is it too late to choose door number three?”
My mouth goes dry and before I can embarrass myself any further, I turn toward the front door. We walk alongside one another like two well-adjusted adults who don’t tumble into bed just because it would feel really good. We look toward the future and plan our lives accordingly. I’ve never regretted acting responsibly so much in my life.
“You know you have it easy, really,” I say, peering up at him as we walk. “There must be thousands of women in Austin ready to ovulate at the mention of a five-year family plan.”
He arches his brow. “Do you know of any?”
My stomach drops. We’re joking around, but still, the thought of setting him up with someone else isn’t funny yet. I refuse to drop the cool-girl act though, so I force a laugh.
“Maybe you should just post a job opening through your business—or better yet, make a Tinder account. Slap on a photo with you wearing a suit, maybe link to this address, and make sure to mention that annoying little dimple that appears when you really think something is funny.”
His gaze is hot on the side of my face when he replies. “Thanks for the advice.”
A car honks out front.
It’s time to leave.
“Thanks for the ride. Sorry about your car.”
He smiles. “Thanks for the talk. Sorry about your bike.”
“Is that what it was? A talk? It felt more like a therapy session.”
“If that’s how you feel, you should come back for another appointment, lie down on my couch…”
I roll my eyes.
“I’ll see you at the club,” I counter, taking one last look at him as he holds the front door open for me.
Though, for sanity’s sake, I hope I don’t.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
The question snaps me out of my brief reverie and I straighten in my chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of my skirt. It’s the second time someone has asked me that recently, and my answer is the same.
“Ideally, I’d like a long-term position with a family either here in the States or somewhere abroad.”
The woman sitting across from me —Mrs. Lancing—smiles and glances back down at her clipboard. She’s been interviewing me for the last 30 minutes, making her way down what I presume is a list of a million and one questions. We’ve gone through the gritty details about my resume and experience. I recounted the work with my last family, careful to leave out the irksome details of my departure. Still, Mrs. Lancing is curious.
“Was there any reason that position didn’t work for you?”
I smile sweetly, trying hard to keep my focus on her and not the large mounted moose behind her head. Their entire house is filled with animal carcasses, mainly deer heads and elk antlers. On the way to the sitting room where we’re conducting the interview, I had to walk past a taxidermied black bear twice my size. Apparently Mr. Lancing is a big game hunter, a masculine hobby I can only assume helps him compensate for a particular anatomical shortcoming.
I swear the moose’s eyes follow me when I shift in my seat and reply, “Not at all. I loved Sophie—my student—and I had a very professional relationship with her mother, Ms. Bannon.”
I slide off the stool and clear my throat, lest any residual hormones try to make me sound like a lust-filled schoolgirl.
“I should probably get going.”
He glances back at me, his eyes matching the stormy atmosphere. “What?”
“I don’t want to keep you.”
“Keep me?”
I nod. “Yeah, you know…” I glance around. “Like you said, if I stay too long, I might start decorating!”
That makes him smile again, and his smile is worse than the storm clouds.
“Let me take you home at least,” he says, moving around the island, presumably to get his shoes.
“It’s okay, I can just ride my—”
Shit.
I completely forgot about my bike. I didn’t remember to grab it from James’ car before the tow truck driver drove off, but it’s just as well. Last I saw, it looked like it’d been folded into an origami swan. The repair job would likely cost more than a new bike.
He frowns, presumably thinking the same thing I am.
“Did that bike have any sentimental value?”
Sentimental value? Well no, other than being my only means of transportation.
“No.” I shrug, trying to play it off. “Like most of the inanimate objects in my life, it was a fixer-upper I found on Craigslist. It probably would have crapped out in the next few months anyway.”
His handsome face is a mask of disapproval.
“Good thing there’s Uber, right?” I add with a weak smile.
He nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “That’s probably for the best.”
I want to know what he means, and usually I would bite my tongue, but he’s requested an Uber for me and I’m about to leave. No doubt another few weeks will go by before I get to see him again, so I bite the bullet.
“Why is it for the best?”
He looks up at me from beneath his brows. “You know why.”
His response is an arrow to my heart.
“I don’t, actually.”
“We’re fooling ourselves here, Brooke.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
He leans forward and props his hands on the counter. His head falls and his gaze is focused down at his bare feet. It takes him a second to collect his thoughts, but when he does, he glances back up and asks me with a stiff tone, “What do you want out of the next five or ten years?”
Easy. “I want to find another job teaching French or Spanish. I want to travel and see as much of the world as I can. I lived in Europe after college for a few years, and I might want to try that again.”
I think my answer will make him happy, but his smile, half twisted in sadness, proves me wrong.
“That’s great. I want those things for you too, but I want to be honest about what I want. I’m sick of serial dating, sick of living out of an empty house I don’t want to come home to at the end of the day.”
“Okay, and what does this have to do with—”
“I want a wife and a family, and I want it soon.”
His words coil around my neck like a noose.
“A wife?” I clarify with a squeaky lilt to my tone.
“And kids.”
“Doesn’t that sound a little too, I dunno—forward?”
He laughs and pushes off the counter. “I’m not proposing marriage, but I’ve gotten to where I am today by looking into the future. In five years, you want to be traveling the world. I want to be married and settled down.”
My voice is barely a whisper when I reply, “So what are you asking?”
“It’s obvious that we’re attracted to one another, but we have to be realistic, don’t you agree? The math just doesn’t work.”
He looks down at his phone, and I can tell from his furrowed brow that my Uber must have arrived.
Oookay, it’s time to go. I gather my purse from the counter and laugh, realizing something.
“You know, you played this all wrong,” I quip.
He looks back up, curious about the shift in my tone.
“You’re right, there is an attraction. We were supposed to fool around for a few months, ignore reality for as long as possible, and then have this discussion after a nasty blowout. Things should have gotten messy and complicated.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t want to rob you of your 20s.”
“Well this way you’re robbing me of a few months of what would undoubtedly be really good sex.”
“Is that right?” His scorching gaze nearly makes me regret my joke. “Is it too late to choose door number three?”
My mouth goes dry and before I can embarrass myself any further, I turn toward the front door. We walk alongside one another like two well-adjusted adults who don’t tumble into bed just because it would feel really good. We look toward the future and plan our lives accordingly. I’ve never regretted acting responsibly so much in my life.
“You know you have it easy, really,” I say, peering up at him as we walk. “There must be thousands of women in Austin ready to ovulate at the mention of a five-year family plan.”
He arches his brow. “Do you know of any?”
My stomach drops. We’re joking around, but still, the thought of setting him up with someone else isn’t funny yet. I refuse to drop the cool-girl act though, so I force a laugh.
“Maybe you should just post a job opening through your business—or better yet, make a Tinder account. Slap on a photo with you wearing a suit, maybe link to this address, and make sure to mention that annoying little dimple that appears when you really think something is funny.”
His gaze is hot on the side of my face when he replies. “Thanks for the advice.”
A car honks out front.
It’s time to leave.
“Thanks for the ride. Sorry about your car.”
He smiles. “Thanks for the talk. Sorry about your bike.”
“Is that what it was? A talk? It felt more like a therapy session.”
“If that’s how you feel, you should come back for another appointment, lie down on my couch…”
I roll my eyes.
“I’ll see you at the club,” I counter, taking one last look at him as he holds the front door open for me.
Though, for sanity’s sake, I hope I don’t.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
The question snaps me out of my brief reverie and I straighten in my chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of my skirt. It’s the second time someone has asked me that recently, and my answer is the same.
“Ideally, I’d like a long-term position with a family either here in the States or somewhere abroad.”
The woman sitting across from me —Mrs. Lancing—smiles and glances back down at her clipboard. She’s been interviewing me for the last 30 minutes, making her way down what I presume is a list of a million and one questions. We’ve gone through the gritty details about my resume and experience. I recounted the work with my last family, careful to leave out the irksome details of my departure. Still, Mrs. Lancing is curious.
“Was there any reason that position didn’t work for you?”
I smile sweetly, trying hard to keep my focus on her and not the large mounted moose behind her head. Their entire house is filled with animal carcasses, mainly deer heads and elk antlers. On the way to the sitting room where we’re conducting the interview, I had to walk past a taxidermied black bear twice my size. Apparently Mr. Lancing is a big game hunter, a masculine hobby I can only assume helps him compensate for a particular anatomical shortcoming.
I swear the moose’s eyes follow me when I shift in my seat and reply, “Not at all. I loved Sophie—my student—and I had a very professional relationship with her mother, Ms. Bannon.”
