The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair #1)(22)

My increasingly tangled thoughts are interrupted when Jordan comes bounding up to my cubicle.

“Hey, Presley. Oliver said our proposal looks great, but some new info came in from the construction company and he wants us to revise our estimate.”

“What?” Crap, I didn’t process a single word he just said. It’s no use—my brain is too full right now. I swivel around to face him. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

He cocks his head at me. “Is something wrong? You look pale.”

“Uh . . . no, I’m just tired,” I lie.

He blows a loud sigh of sympathy through his lips. “Monday mornings, am I right? You want to come grab some coffee while we talk? I was thinking of going to the cafeteria anyway.”

“That sounds great, actually.” I push out my chair. “Maybe my blood sugar is low.”

He flashes me a pleased grin. “There ya go. Snacks solve everything.”

Despite my thoughts buzzing around inside my head, I have to chuckle. Seems the absentminded frat bro has an unexpected mother hen side.

In the cafeteria, I take a giant cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin for good measure.

As we find seats, Jordan says, “I had the craziest weekend.”

Not crazier than mine, I’ll bet. “Yeah?”

As Jordan rambles on about some party he went to, I reply in mostly monosyllables in all the right places, but I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting back to Dominic and I pray Jordan doesn’t notice, because there’s no way in the world I can tell any of the other interns about this.

? ? ?

It’s Wednesday evening and I’m supposed to meet Austin in less than an hour, but I’m stuck in neutral. Instead of getting ready, I find myself staring blankly into the mirror with only half my makeup on, trying to figure out what this odd feeling is. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s also not good.

Is my intuition trying to warn me away from him? Do I want to bail on this date?

I don’t think so. I need a break from all this madness at work—not to mention a cocktail or three—and the prospect of seeing Austin again is a pleasant one. Yet, I’m still strangely reluctant. I still feel an urge to . . . hold something back from him.

I turn and call out, “Hey, B?”

“Yeah?” She sounds like she’s in the kitchen.

“Will you come with me?”

A cabinet closes, and soon Bianca pokes her head into the bathroom. “You want me to crash your date?”

I fiddle with my tube of mascara. “Yeah. I just, I don’t know, I suddenly don’t feel ready for this to be a serious thing. Does that make sense?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll be your life raft.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Scoot over. Where are we going?”

I shift so she can use the mirror, too. “Some bar downtown called Tres Amigos.”

“Ooh, your boy toy picked a classy place. Make sure you get one of their mango mojitos.” She starts swiping on foundation.

“You’ve been there? Is the music super loud?” I ask.

“No, Grandma, I promise you can hear yourself think.” She pokes out the tip of her tongue at me.

By the time we’re on our way, her presence and cheerful teasing have calmed me. A little.

The bar is refined, yet relaxed, with soft golden lighting, hardwood floors, and wide, caramel-colored chairs. Unsurprisingly for a Wednesday, it’s also half-empty. As we approach Austin’s table, he spots us, and a flicker of disappointment crosses his face.

“Hi, again,” I say awkwardly, feeling a bit guilty about upending his plans for the evening. “This is my roommate, Bianca.”

But he’s graceful about my faux pas. Without hesitation, he smiles and shakes Bianca’s hand with a warm, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too. I was curious to finally find out what you looked like,” she says with a mischievous quirk to her lips.

“Presley’s talked about me? Wow, I’m flattered.” He flashes a sheepish grin at me, rubbing the back of his head. “So you’re already introducing me to your friends, huh? Wait, forget it . . . that was a bad joke.”

Bianca giggles. “Cute,” she says, which flusters both me and him.

Austin goes to the bar for us. Per Bianca’s recommendation, we order two mango mojitos, and he gets an IPA. Once we’re settled with our drinks, he asks, “So, did you two meet at work?”

“Nope, in college,” I say. “We were paired up in the dorms as freshmen, and we’ve been together ever since.”

“That’s great you’ve maintained your connection so long. It’s too easy to lose touch with old school friends.” He sips his beer. “So, what exactly do you do at work?”

Did he not understand me, or is he just clumsy at conversation? Oh well, it’s not like my manners have been perfect either.

“A bit of everything,” I say with a shrug. “It’s an internship, so I’m there to learn—and they also want to test me. But I’ve only been there a week. So far, most of the work I’ve done has been in logistics.”

“Cool. Can you be more specific?” he asks.

His abruptness catches me by surprise. “Uh, I guess so. Like budget, supply-chain management . . . oh yeah, I’ve also written a little web copy, I forgot about that.”