RHYS LEFT TOWN the next week to pursue a series of meetings concerning the impending shift in corporate operations. Angie was left with the responsibility of overseeing his office, handling what she could, contacting Rhys if he was needed, holding anything else until his return. She welcomed both the work and his absence. She hoped the time apart would give her a chance to recover her equilibrium, something she hadn’t been able to do since that kiss.
The tension between them had been painfully uncomfortable, though they’d both been very careful not to let it interfere with their work. He’d been civil enough to her, but his cool formality had only reminded her more forcefully of the heat of the embrace they’d shared. She missed the tentative closeness that had developed between them, the shared smiles and easy conversation. She missed him.
She wasn’t sleeping well, had little appetite. She was generally miserable. She was even beginning to consider looking for another job, though she doubted she’d find another as prestigious or well paying as this one. She couldn’t imagine anyone else taking the kind of risk with her that Rhys had taken in hiring her. But how could she continue to work for him when she had the terrible suspicion that she was hovering on the edge of falling in love with him? And how could she keep her distance from him when he had only to give her a slight half smile or say her name to make her melt at his feet?
Though she told herself she was glad he was gone, by Wednesday his office seemed so painfully empty that she found dozens of excuses not to enter it. She used June shamefully, calling upon the secretary to bring her the materials she needed from Rhys’s office, claiming she was too inundated with work to fetch them herself. She tried to make up for her behavior by being especially nice to the other woman, who warmed fully under the attention Angie paid her.
A good-natured, extroverted woman, June seemed to grow genuinely fond of Angie, even bringing her a couple of fresh, homemade blueberry muffins on Thursday morning with the motherly expostulation that Angie was getting too thin. “Don’t let Mr. Wakefield work you down to skin and bones, honey,” she added kindly. “You let him know you’re only human and you need time to rest and to eat, you hear?”
Only human. Boy, was she ever, Angie thought even as she thanked June for her concern and for the muffins. She wondered what the older woman would say if she knew that Angie was suffering from a severe case of lust for their formidable employer.
Rhys called that afternoon to discuss the progress of his meetings and give Angie a list of instructions. The conversation was brief, clipped, productive. It ended without ceremony. Rhys seemed to go out of his way not to address her personally, though she was perversely relieved that he didn’t call her “Ms. St. Clair” in the distant, rather sarcastic voice he’d used after their confrontation in his office.
She was horrified to realize that tears were rolling down her cheeks when the call ended. She dashed her hand across her face, determined that no one would see what a mess she was becoming, determined to get herself back in hand.
Angie was playing on the floor with Flower when her doorbell rang early that evening. Her hand freezing on the rapidly growing kitten’s rumbling tummy, she jerked her head to stare at the door as if she could tell by looking at it who stood on the other side. What if it were—?
No, it couldn’t be. Rhys wasn’t due back in town until early the next afternoon. And even if he’d arrived earlier than anticipated, he wouldn’t come here. Would he?
She wasn’t at all sure if she was relieved or disappointed that her caller was her young neighbor, Mickey. “Well, hi. What’s up?” she asked, effortlessly returning the boy’s bright grin.
“I got a new watch. My mom said I could come show it to you. Ain’t it cool? It’s got a calculator and a stopwatch and it tells the time and the date and everything. It’s even got an alarm and it beeps every hour. My grandpa got it for me.”
Angie dutifully admired the multi-buttoned digital watch. “That is cool,” she assured him. “Would you like to come in, Mickey?”
“Yeah, thanks, but my mom said I couldn’t stay long. Where’s—oh, there she is. Hi, Flower.” Mickey darted past Angie to kneel on the floor and roughhouse with the playful kitten. “She’s really growing, ain’t she?”
Resisting the impulse to correct his grammar, Angie nodded. “Yes, she is. Not surprising, as much as she eats. You didn’t tell me she had four hollow legs.”
Mickey laughed. “That’s what my mom says about me. Well, not four, I only got two, but I’m hungry all the time.” He eyed the kitchen door as he spoke.
Taking the hint, Angie asked politely, “Would you like a cookie?”
Mickey’s grin broadened to show all four gaps where teeth had once been. “You bet.”
“Have you had your dinner yet?”
“I had a hot dog and some chips. Mom’s making some kind of fancy French stuff for her and Dad and Grandpa, but she said I didn’t have to eat it.”
“That was very understanding of her,” Angie replied, leading the boy to the kitchen table and handing him two chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.
“Mmm. She’s okay,” Mickey agreed offhandedly. “Most of the time.” He stuffed half a cookie into his mouth, eyeing Angie curiously as he chewed and swallowed. “You’re not sick or anything, are you, Angie?” he asked when his mouth was relatively empty.
“No, I’m fine,” she answered, startled. “Why do you ask?”
“I dunno. You look kinda funny,” Mickey returned with a shrug. He swallowed the remaining half of the cookie, then picked up the other. “How come there’s never anyone but you here, Angie? Don’t you got any friends?”
“You’re my friend.” Angie was quite proud that her smile didn’t waver. “And I’ve made some friends at my office.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“Yes, sometimes,” she admitted candidly. “I suppose everyone gets lonely sometimes when they live alone. That’s why I enjoy your visits so much.”
The doorbell rang again before Mickey could respond. “That’ll be my mom,” he guessed, rolling his eyes.
She smiled. “Let’s go see.”
Mickey was right. His mother waited at the door. “Is he making a terrible pest of himself?” she asked ruefully.