billboard. Opening Day! proclaims the sign out front of what looks like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor.
"Tell you what," I say, casting him a conspiratorial sideways glance. "You know the other best remedy for getting back on your feet after a fail?"
He follows my eye, and I swear, the moment when his heavy, sad expression lightens a little makes it all worth it. "Vanilla milkshakes?" he replies, a hopeful note in his voice.
Normally, his mom makes me swear up and down not to let him have too much sugar or unhealthy food. When we go to the coffee shop, the only snacks I let him get are the health food bars they sell at the counter. But if there was ever a day to cheat on this rule, that day is today.
"Vanilla milkshakes," I confirm, grinning.
When he finally smiles back, I let the weight on my shoulders ease up for the first time all day. We'll get through this. Together.
Nine
Chloe
8 pm . I should not still be in the office—I should be home finishing up packing. My room is strewn with clothes options for the trip, a zillion different combinations and styles and sizes, because I can't decide on any single one yet. So help me god, I am actually feeling nervous about this trip.
No, worse than that. I am actively trying to pick out outfits that I think will catch Max Davis's eye.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I try to convince myself that I just want to look as good as possible in order to torture him as much as possible. But, deep down, the part of me I don't want to acknowledge exists knows that that isn't true.
I want him to stare at me the way he stares at that secretary girl.
Ugh. I hate myself.
I'm so wrapped up in thinking about how much I hate myself for this, in fact, that I almost don't even notice my boss, doubled over in the middle of the hallway I'm striding down, fresh from a wake-me-up trip to the kitchen for an ill-advised pm coffee, until I almost trip on him.
"Paul?" I ask, after blinking for a moment at him. He's got both hands resting on his knees and he's breathing hard, his face red. But after a moment, he straightens, waving a hand at me dismissively as if to say don't worry about me. Naturally, I ignore that. "Are you okay?" I reach for his arm. He lets me take his elbow, though he's standing fully upright now, and some of the regular color has started to return to his cheeks.
His breath still takes a moment to slow and catch in his lungs, but once it does, he smiles at me, big and unconcerned as ever, even though it's obvious to both of us now that he's faking it. "I'm fine. Just takes it out of me sometimes. The steps," he adds, with a vague gesture at the staircase up from our neighboring floor, which stand behind us in the hall.
"That looked like more than just being winded, Paul," I say, and I don't disguise the lawyerly tone in my voice. "Are you sure you're really fine?"
"Well I've been younger, I'll tell you that much." He winks as he slips his elbow out of my grasp.
To my surprise, he's still pointed down the hallway toward his office. "You aren't still working, are you? You should head home; it's late."
"Should I? Look who's talking, Chloe." His eyes twinkle.
"How about you let me hold down the fort, and you get some much deserved rest, huh?" I grin at him, trying to look convincing yet stern at the same time.
He's already shaking his head, though. I can see this approach won't work. "If one of us should go home right now, it's you, my dear. Don't let this office suck you dry the way I have."
I can't help it. My mouth falls open at that. I've never heard Paul say anything against this place. Never even heard him complain about working hours before, unless it's to remind me that I should take it easy sometimes, when I get my head too deep in a case. But to be honest, he's always been the one I'm emulating. He's the first into the office every morning and the last to leave most nights, and, as far as I knew, he wouldn't have it any other way. "You always said you loved
"Tell you what," I say, casting him a conspiratorial sideways glance. "You know the other best remedy for getting back on your feet after a fail?"
He follows my eye, and I swear, the moment when his heavy, sad expression lightens a little makes it all worth it. "Vanilla milkshakes?" he replies, a hopeful note in his voice.
Normally, his mom makes me swear up and down not to let him have too much sugar or unhealthy food. When we go to the coffee shop, the only snacks I let him get are the health food bars they sell at the counter. But if there was ever a day to cheat on this rule, that day is today.
"Vanilla milkshakes," I confirm, grinning.
When he finally smiles back, I let the weight on my shoulders ease up for the first time all day. We'll get through this. Together.
Nine
Chloe
8 pm . I should not still be in the office—I should be home finishing up packing. My room is strewn with clothes options for the trip, a zillion different combinations and styles and sizes, because I can't decide on any single one yet. So help me god, I am actually feeling nervous about this trip.
No, worse than that. I am actively trying to pick out outfits that I think will catch Max Davis's eye.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I try to convince myself that I just want to look as good as possible in order to torture him as much as possible. But, deep down, the part of me I don't want to acknowledge exists knows that that isn't true.
I want him to stare at me the way he stares at that secretary girl.
Ugh. I hate myself.
I'm so wrapped up in thinking about how much I hate myself for this, in fact, that I almost don't even notice my boss, doubled over in the middle of the hallway I'm striding down, fresh from a wake-me-up trip to the kitchen for an ill-advised pm coffee, until I almost trip on him.
"Paul?" I ask, after blinking for a moment at him. He's got both hands resting on his knees and he's breathing hard, his face red. But after a moment, he straightens, waving a hand at me dismissively as if to say don't worry about me. Naturally, I ignore that. "Are you okay?" I reach for his arm. He lets me take his elbow, though he's standing fully upright now, and some of the regular color has started to return to his cheeks.
His breath still takes a moment to slow and catch in his lungs, but once it does, he smiles at me, big and unconcerned as ever, even though it's obvious to both of us now that he's faking it. "I'm fine. Just takes it out of me sometimes. The steps," he adds, with a vague gesture at the staircase up from our neighboring floor, which stand behind us in the hall.
"That looked like more than just being winded, Paul," I say, and I don't disguise the lawyerly tone in my voice. "Are you sure you're really fine?"
"Well I've been younger, I'll tell you that much." He winks as he slips his elbow out of my grasp.
To my surprise, he's still pointed down the hallway toward his office. "You aren't still working, are you? You should head home; it's late."
"Should I? Look who's talking, Chloe." His eyes twinkle.
"How about you let me hold down the fort, and you get some much deserved rest, huh?" I grin at him, trying to look convincing yet stern at the same time.
He's already shaking his head, though. I can see this approach won't work. "If one of us should go home right now, it's you, my dear. Don't let this office suck you dry the way I have."
I can't help it. My mouth falls open at that. I've never heard Paul say anything against this place. Never even heard him complain about working hours before, unless it's to remind me that I should take it easy sometimes, when I get my head too deep in a case. But to be honest, he's always been the one I'm emulating. He's the first into the office every morning and the last to leave most nights, and, as far as I knew, he wouldn't have it any other way. "You always said you loved
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