The Reunion(46)

“Oh, you’ll see.” With a laugh, Mom lets go of Larkin’s hand and heads over to her apron, which hangs on the pantry door by a Command strip hook. My parents are firm believers in Command strips. They’ve even gone as far as to claim they’ve changed the home-decor industry. “While you two are discovering little trinkets of damning knowledge about our dearest Ford, I’ll be making some cherry-honey scones. I will call you down when they’re ready.”

“Sounds great, thank you, Mrs. Chance.” Larkin takes off toward the stairs, and my anxiety kicks up. She’s moving far too fast for my liking. I need to get ahead of her. “I am so excited to see your childhood room and find those green boxes.” Shit, she’s really fast.

As she “sprints,” I try to take a mental inventory of what I could possibly have kept in my childhood room. What would be damning enough to make me want to act like an ostrich—stick my head in the ground and pray for tomorrow.

But as I rack my brain, I can’t recall anything. But it has to be something, because Mom made a big deal of pointing it out.

“What could you be hiding in those green boxes?” Larkin’s voice bounces with humor.

Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I don’t fucking know. “There are no green boxes,” I hiss. At least I hope there are no green boxes.

Are there green boxes?

No . . . there aren’t. Are there? Fuck, I have no idea.

Her pace picks up; so does mine. And as if we’re in a race, bumping against the walls and trying to pass one another, we head up the stairs. Panic sears through me, embarrassment clawing at my throat while Larkin brims with excitement.

She reaches the landing before me, and she looks around while asking, “You know, I don’t even know which room is yours.”

Oh . . . duh. I inwardly chuckle: here I am, trying to bulldoze my assistant up the stairs, when in reality, she’s never been to my childhood home before.

I scratch the back of my neck. “You know what, I just remembered something: I already moved all my things out of my room a few years ago.” I motion with my thumb toward the stairs. “Maybe we just head back to the hotel.”

She slowly steels me with those eyes of hers. “Nice try, boss. If you’re not going to tell me, then I’ll just find out for myself.”

She takes in both sides of the hallway and unfortunately is smart enough to turn right.

“Did you hear that? I think my mom just called your name. Maybe she wants help with the scones,” I say as she opens the bathroom door and then closes it.

“She didn’t call my name. She’s singing along with the Rolling Stones currently.” She opens Cooper’s door, and I watch her take in the space. She shakes her head and shuts the door. “You would never have sheets that don’t match the comforter.”

In this very moment, I hate that she knows me so well. I could have passed Cooper’s room off as mine. Then again, I have NO idea what kind of damning things Cooper might have in his room, and I’m not willing to take that kind of risk.

She gets closer to my room, and panic heightens, my brain working in overdrive as I do the first thing that comes to my mind.

Please know, I’m not proud of this, but I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of this woman; whatever awaits in that room needs to go untouched.

Gripping onto the hallway wall, I clang my foot against the baseboard—loudly—and say, “Oh shit, my toe.” She turns around just in time to see me fold like an accordion down to the floor.

“What on earth?” She steps away from my door and kneels down on the floor next to me. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Was I going for less embarrassing? Because as I pretend to grip my toe in pain and she hovers next to me, I’m quickly realizing that this was not a great choice to uphold my dignity.

“Uh . . . I, uh . . . I ran into the wall.”

Yup, didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of her anymore: doing that perfectly while curling up into a ball out of reaction to a “stubbed toe.” Real smooth, Ford.

“You ran into the wall?” she asks, a smile on her lips. “You realize they’re solid, right? If you want to get to the other room, you have to open a door.”

“Yeah, thought I would try something different.”

“Well, I see that’s going well for you.” She pats me on the shoulders, stands, and then walks toward my door again before I can make something else up, like a groin tear—because that’s the only thing my mind can come up with. She opens the door and then sighs in contentment. “Found your room.”

I hop up to my feet and say, “How do you know it’s mine?”

“Easy.” She glances down at my foot, and I pretend to limp. “Incredibly tidy, neat, and not a thing out of place. Forest-green walls, so you—one of your favorite colors. Navy-blue comforter with matching navy-blue sheets, just screams Ford Chance. This room looks like it was plucked from the army barracks. It’s obvious.”

She’s right. Not a poster on the walls.

Not a knickknack or trophy on display.

Not a thing out of place.

It’s just . . . boring.

Another wave of embarrassment hits me hard. What does she actually think of seeing such a lack of personalization from me? And why do I have this overwhelming need to earn her approval? It’s like . . . I want her to like me. Not as a boss, but as a person, and the more I dive deep into the man outside the suit, I realize I’m less and less charming when removed further and further from the office. If I don’t even really like myself, how could someone so positive, so . . . hell, so beautiful like Larkin find me likable?