And yes… home was the right word for me to use. Maybe it’s temporary, but it still feels like a home, and that’s probably because Sophie has been so welcoming.
Prepare to be wowed by the dinner I’m making, she replies. And then sends a GIF of some cartoon character with its head exploding.
Christ… I’m good at GIF conversations. But I don’t have time right now, so I type back, Can’t wait.
Then I make myself put my phone away so I don’t hover over a potential response from her.
Before I reach the elevator, I run into Brienne Norcross walking down the hall. She appears to have just arrived as her purse is slung over her shoulder and she’s talking to Michael beside her who’s taking notes on his iPad.
She glances up, sees me, and lifts a finger in a silent demand for me to wait.
After issuing a few more things to Michael, she smiles and approaches. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you today.”
“If it’s about Drake,” I say, my tone heavy in apology and embarrassment, “I’m so sorry about his attitude yesterday.”
“Not your fault.” Her reply is crisp and dismissive. It’s not up for further discussion, so I’ll consider my apology enough. Her eyes are warm, though, as she pivots. “I just wanted you to know I interviewed Jenna, and she’s fabulous. I offered her a job on the spot—pending her references checking out.”
“Oh, wow.” I’m pleasantly shocked by how fast that went. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“She wants to talk it over with her sister but promised me an answer by tomorrow.”
“It would be a brave, courageous step for her. But I know she’ll be great. Is she going to work for the organization or for one of your other companies?”
“For the organization,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “She’d be the team’s press liaison.”
I blink in further surprise. That’s really going to force Jenna to be out there, and that might be a tad overwhelming. But as someone who has taken a risk by coming here, I hope she goes for it. I’m here to help her adjust, and I know from personal experience it can be fulfilling to step outside the box to try something new.
Brienne looks down at her watch. “Sorry… I’ve got a meeting. If you talk to Jenna, talk her into taking the job.”
I laugh, because I’m not going to do that, but I am going to reassure her that I’ll be here for her. “I’ll do my best,” I reply noncommittally.
CHAPTER 13
Sophie
Leaning my pelvis against the sink, I bend closer to the mirror and apply another coat of mascara. Capping the lid, I draw back and study myself.
Foundation, blush, eye shadow, and mascara. The only thing omitted is eyeliner as I never use it. My green eyes are large on their own, and liner tends to make them look like they’re going to pop out of my head.
I consider some lip gloss but decide against it. Not only will it come off the minute we start eating, but I’ve gone overboard as it is with my appearance.
It’s with great effort I fight off the urge to scrub my face clean. I’ve barely worn makeup the last seven months of this self-imposed isolation. I think I put on some mascara and lip gloss the two times I went to the police station, but beyond that, my makeup case has been collecting dust in my bathroom closet.
If I don’t take off the makeup, I should at least put my hair up. It’s in desperate need of a cut, hanging a good eight inches or so past my shoulders. A trip to the beauty salon hasn’t been in the cards, but that’s not been hard to forsake. I don’t color my naturally golden locks, and I have the easiest style in the world because my hair is naturally curly. I basically wash and lightly towel-dry it, apply a bit of taming spray, and then leave it alone. In a few hours, I have oodles of bouncy curls, but for months now, I’ve been wearing my hair up in a messy bun or ponytail.
Studying my reflection, part of me feels like a fraud all painted and fluffed up. But part of me recognizes my old self.
Behind thick lashes, my eyes sparkle. I’m excited that Baden will be here soon and we’ll share another meal together.
Such a fraud.
He started out as my savior and became a friend when I least expected it. He is nothing more. Therefore, I shouldn’t care how I look or what Baden thinks about how I look.
I snatch the washcloth off my towel hook, prepared to soak it and scrub the farce off my face.
But my phone dings, and when I look down, the security system alerts me that the garage door is in use.
Baden’s here.
My heart jackhammers with a weird mixture of anticipation as well as apprehension.
The anticipation is self-explanatory, but the apprehension is harder to analyze. It’s not fear of Baden because he’s the one person I don’t think I’d ever be afraid of.
No, it’s fear of myself because I’m excited to see him.
Like, really excited.
To the point I put on makeup and I know I’m setting myself up for not only failure but maybe heartbreak as well.
And more fear now, because this feels like a runaway train.
Another ding on my phone, and I see that Baden has set off the motion detectors in the backyard, meaning he’s almost at the porch.
“Shit,” I mutter, all hope of wiping away my makeup gone. I do a once-over, looking at my clothes instead, and I’m satisfied at least they convey I’m a casual girl. Gray leggings, a long-sleeved, V-neck, ivory T-shirt, and thick, gray fuzzy socks. My normal home attire for comfort.
It will have to do.
I scramble out of my room and down the stairs, only to slide into the kitchen to find Baden at the alarm panel entering the code. I ready myself to reengage it once he walks away, but he actually does it for me.
Which means he’s been very, very observant. I wonder if he thinks it’s overkill.
Baden faces me wearing a smile of greeting, but then he sort of freezes as if in shock. He doesn’t do anything so bold as to ogle me, but I can tell he’s surprised by my appearance. The makeup and hair is a bold statement.
I almost lie and tell him I went out for an appointment, but it would be an obvious untruth.
So I don’t, because I don’t want to lie to him.
I play it off and act like I don’t notice that he’s noticed me.
“Hi,” I say cheerily as I scoot around the far side of the small island that separates the kitchen from the eating area. “Hope you’re hungry. I decided to make a dazzling meal.”
“Just for me?” he inquires. Do I note a tone of dismay? As if he might not like me going to any trouble for him—fancy meal, pretty makeup, hope for something that will never be?
I shake my head and give a hearty laugh of denial. “No, not for you. For me because prime rib is my favorite, and you can’t just make it for one person. So this is really a treat for me, but I hope you like it.”
My back remains to him as I fiddle with the tinfoil covering the rib roast, but I can hear him take off his coat and drape it over a chair.
His voice is closer when he says, “It smells divine. Can I help?”
I don’t detect anything weird in his voice—just sincere olfactory delight and a genuine offer to assist.