Her eyes look like they had when I glanced up at her in the car, my head between her legs. Shock at what I’m doing. “You mean for next month’s meeting?”
“No, send them to me as soon as you’re done.”
“But you said…”
“I know what I said.” I nod down to the papers, breaking eye contact. My head is killing me, and now my throat’s started, too. It scratches when I speak. “But I have an interest in this company too. Send it to me.”
“All right, I will. Thank you.” She scoops up the papers and heads to the door, a look of deep concentration on her fair features.
A year with her walking in and out of my office, just like that, and I’d never truly noticed her before.
It strikes me as a gross oversight on my part.
Thirty minutes later Cecilia knocks on my half-open door again. She’s holding a mug and wearing an apologetic smile. “Your voice sounded scratchy earlier. Do you think you’re coming down with something?”
“I can’t,” I say. It’s the truth. Too much work, and too many people depend on it being done. The steady stream of emails never ends. Brad is good, but he isn’t Cecilia, and it shows.
Not to mention the conference in Boston next week with Exciteur. It will carve three days out of my normal work schedule.
“Still,” she says, and sets the giant cup of tea down on my desk. A scent of honey wafts up from the hot water. “For your throat. And… thanks for agreeing to look at my numbers again this week.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She’s gone again, and I look at the mug for a long time. I can’t remember the last time anyone did something for me. Something they weren’t paid for and that I didn’t ask them to do.
I drink the tea.
It’s late in the afternoon by the time I leave my home office, mug in hand. It helped, but only temporarily, and now my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself.
I haven’t been sick in years.
I don’t allow my body to be sick.
Which, of course, means it’s doing it anyway. I wonder if this is punishment for mixing business and pleasure and giving in to Cecilia. Or maybe this is my body’s way of punishing me fornotgiving in with Cecilia over the past three days.
I know which one my head wants it to be. Both of them.
Familiar voices drift from the kitchen and I stop in the hallway, listening to them chatter. Once, my apartment was always dead quiet. Not anymore.
Cecilia and Bonnie sound comfortable with one another, voices muted and soft. My mother and grandmother used to talk like that. My brother and I would sit at the kitchen table at Grandma’s and listen to them chatter about everything and nothing as they cooked or baked.
They’re all gone now, and in nine months’ time, so will Cecilia be. My apartment will be quiet again.
I step into the kitchen. Cecilia’s eyes brighten when she sees me, and the expression sets off an ache in my chest. But her expression quickly turns to concern. “Oh, you look awful.”
“Hello to you too.”
“You sound even worse.” She steps around the kitchen island and puts a cool hand against my forehead. “You have a fever.”
She makes it sound like something I’ve done on purpose.
“I’m fine, Cecilia.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Don’t fuss.”
She steps back, eyes narrowing. I imagine it’s the look she wore outside my office, warding off employees who wanted to speak to me for no particular reason. She was always good at that. My gatekeeper. “We’re having soup for dinner,” she says. “Should be good for your throat.”