I force my attention back to the article I was reading promising “wild dating ideas” but it doesn’t hold my attention for long. Barrett folds his hands at the back of his head and stretches, elbows wide and biceps flexing. He closes his eyes and blows out a breath. A subtle head shake precedes him standing up.
When he comes my direction, I put my fingers on the keyboard and start tapping random keys. Google doesn’t know what to make of my gobbledygook.
“Kitty Cat.”
“Yes. Hi, Fox. What’s up?”
“Want some lunch? I have to get out of here.” He pulls a hand over his face and shoots a longing glance at the window.
I glance at the clock. “It’s almost 11:30.”
“Right. Lunchtime. I’m starving.” His heated gaze trickles from my face to my chest. I squirm in my seat at the memory of what he was starving for a few hours ago. Me.
I shake off the X-rated thought. “You only have thirty minutes to finish your column. Are you close?”
“Sure.” He laughs.
I don’t laugh. I’m not amused.
“Come on. Lunch.” He tilts his head toward the exit and starts away from me. “My treat.”
“Barrett!”
“I’m going. With or without you.” His playful smile is missing. He’s serious.
“Wait.” I slip my bare feet into my high heels and run after him as quickly as my tight-around-the-knees skirt allows. He watches my approach, his eyes hooded.
“I really like that dress.”
I ignore the suggestive husk in his voice.
“I know I’ve been acting like a besotted idiot in every other aspect of our relationship,” I whisper, sending a cautious glance around the empty-ish office, “but I refuse to let you walk out of this building before your column is done. Mia said noon.”
“It’s going to take longer than that.” He shrugs. Shrugs!
“It...it can’t!”
“Well. It is.” He turns away again.
“Fox, you can’t leave when you’re on deadline!” The pleading inflection in my voice doesn’t slow him down a bit.
“Watch me.” He punches the elevator button. I start to chase after him before stopping myself. I said I wouldn’t act besotted. I owe myself the decency of keeping that promise.
Once he’s inside the elevator, waving goodbye for effect, I turn back to my desk and try and think of an excuse to appease our harried editor.
Or...
I could try and hack his password and finish the article for him. The clock says I have twenty-seven minutes. That’s plenty of time to review what he wrote, polish it, and email it to Mia.
Depending on how quickly I can figure out his password.
I hustle to Barrett’s cubicle and sit in his chair. I barely contain a “Yay!” in celebration when I discover that his screen saver is on, but the screen isn’t locked.
Hallelujah!
Hurrying, I begin reading the words before me, realizing after a few sentences that I’m reading a starchy, dry paragraph from an e-book and not the Word document Barrett was working on. I tap the screen and then scroll to the top of the page.
Dyslexia and You.
I tap a few pages back, noting several highlighted sections. This chapter is called “In the Workplace.”
I close the book’s window to find a menu listing other e-books sitting behind it.
Writing with Dyslexia.
How to Thrive with Dyslexia.
Dr. Fields’s Guide to Adult Dyslexia.
Realization dawns as shame heats my face. Every rude comment I said or thought about Barrett’s skill or writing style or slow typing lines up in front of me like a firing squad.
My attempts to help him were met with nos. Not because of his stubbornness, but likely his embarrassment. I made it a point to pull him away from his work last night, and he suffered through a four-hour writing session this morning as a direct result.
“I am such a bitch,” I whisper to his laptop.
“You’re not all bad,” comes a low, gentle voice behind me.
I jerk away from the screen feeling (and probably looking) as guilty as hell.
“Forgot my money.” He leans around me, pulls open a drawer, and grabs his wallet. “Change your mind about lunch? Now’s your chance.”
“Barrett.” I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know why he’s not shouting at me for invading his privacy.
“Now you know my secret. Quite the plot twist, huh?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my tone flat. “Why didn’t you explain this was going on?”
“Didn’t you see the book entitled Dyslexia: The Silent Shame?”
“Don’t joke.”
He pockets his wallet and squats in front of me. He’s looking up at me with gorgeous blue eyes, his expression one of patience. “I’ve lived with it my entire life. It’s not news. Lunch?”
“You should tell Mia. She’ll extend your deadline. She’ll—”
He places his finger over my lips and shakes his head.
“I’m not telling Mia. I’m not letting you finish the column for me. I’m going to do it myself and it’s not going to be done by noon.” He stands and I tip my chin to take in his height. “Lunch. Let’s go.”
When I turn longingly back to his laptop, he shuts the lid and offers a palm. I take his hand and stand, then stop by my desk to grab my phone and purse. We walk to the elevator in companionable silence.
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting inside a café a few blocks from work, enjoying the A/C in quiet company with other professionals on their lunch breaks. The café serves chicken salad sandwiches I can’t pass up, so I’m enjoying every calorie of the buttery croissant drenched in mayonaissey goodness. Conversely, Barrett ordered a salad, but it does have a medium-rare filet on top.
He chews, swallows the bite, and then says, “If you don’t stop looking at me like an abandoned puppy on the side of the road, I am going to stand from this chair and announce to everyone here that you’re my wife and I caught you cheating on me with our dentist.”
“What? Don’t you dare!”
“Don’t dare me.”
“Dammit, Barrett.”
“I like the anger.” He points to me with his fork. “Keep that.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I don’t believe you.” I fold my arms stubbornly.
“Well, excuse me, sweetheart!” he shouts, bursting out of his chair. “I expected you to have a tooth filled, not your—”
“Barrett, please!” I stand and reach over the table to grip his forearm. Every pair of eyes in the café swivel to us.
“I promise I’ll stop,” I whisper.
“Okay then.” He waves at the diners around us and announces, “My apologies for the interruption.” Then he sits down and tucks into his meal like nothing happened.
I sit, too, earning a few admonishing glances from our neighbors.
“You are unbelievable.” I push my plate aside. Half my heavenly sandwich is left, but I’m no longer hungry.
“I’ve been told,” he says around a bite.