Chapter Sixty-One

Lincoln

 

Hey, I’m at work now. Can’t chat.

Not available, sorry.

Can’t talk. Boss is here.

 

My kneejerk reaction to Michaela’s brusque replies was she’s already pulling away and I didn’t like it. I wasn’t used to insecurity about women. Never had a reason to feel it before.

Logically, I shouldn’t now, either. She was at work. She’d told me her hours. Not every workplace allowed employees to be on their personal phones outside of breaks, so I needed to be a grownup and not get my shorts in a twist because she wouldn’t chat.

Fucking feelings.

Did I sleep well alone in my bed? Nope. Even after rubbing one out to memories of the past week? Also no. Did I still wake up early to wish her a good morning? Yep. Was I hopping in the shower now with fantasies my brain wouldn’t let go of? Admittedly, also yes.

And I had nothing scheduled for today. No work at all this week unless Jake assembled another jam session. Was I going to go nuts with too much time on my hands? Oh yeah.

Which had never been a problem before.

Fucking feelings.

I needed a distraction now, so with morning wood deflated, I headed to the gym.

Then I cleaned my apartment and put the Christmas tree away.

I’d reclaim my chill. This was only an adjustment day.

After a week in a passion bubble with Michaela…

Nah, I’d had passionate flings before.

My feelings for this girl weren’t the same.

I desired all of her and wanted her to want me the same way. That was the crux of my insecurity this morning—what did she feel for me? Was she thinking of me today?

Last night’s texting and phone chat were fun, so that’s probably why her short reply to my greeting threw me this morning and got my head spinning. I’d expected to resume our banter.

Didn’t expect a brush-off.

Argh.

She warned me.

Michaela told me exactly what I was getting into. If I didn’t like it, that was my fault.

So get your shit together, Linc.

I’d just gotten the tree back in the box when my phone rang. Wiped my hands on my pants while crossing the room, then picked it up from where it sat on my little dining table.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” Michaela.

Act cool. “Hey.”

“Sorry if my texts sounded rude? I’d been in a rush to sit at my desk on time and my boss was about to walk in any second. No one contacts me during the day unless it’s an emergency.”

“It’s fine.”

“And I don’t leave for lunch. Mrs. Fletcher cooks, so it’s either a working lunch or I eat in the backyard if it’s nice. So I wasn’t trying to sound like a bitch.”

I glanced at my watch. 1:05. “Are you in the backyard now?”

“No, done for the day,” she replied more softly. My pulse picked up. “I’m heading to the bank.” Oh.

“Well, I absolve you of any texts-lacking-context guilt.”

“Thanks.” She sounded relieved. “I should learn to use emojis. Did I interrupt you?”

“No. Just cleaning after being away a week.”

“Ah. Sensible.” She paused, then, “Mr. Howell sent me info about accessing Harry’s bank. As the saying goes, shit got real today.”

I sat on my sofa. “I’m sorry about the circumstances.”

“Yeah. I had a panic attack at my desk.”

“Are you okay?” My urge to find her and hold her was strong.

“Yes. Sorry. It was embarrassing. Right in front of my boss! Thank God he’s a decent man.” She groaned at herself. “I’ve never done that at work, so he wanted to know what was wrong. I hadn’t mentioned Harry’s death since I was off last week anyway, so—”

“That’s why you worked a half day?”

“Sort of. I did transcribe his new pages, but my panic attack was within the first hour of the day. A courier delivered the documents and…I mean, I know Harry’s gone. His ashes are in the river, for God’s sake. It was a heavy week and a lot of things hit me at once and I started hyperventilating. It was so embarrassing. I don’t lose control in public.”

I heard a turn light blinker clicking. Then the shifter moving.

“I don’t know why I’m rambling about all this.” Her voice sounded closer, like she’d picked up the phone and put it to her ear. “I’m at the bank now.”

“Michaela, you know I don’t mind—”

“Moira’s at work today, so I couldn’t bother her and—”

“Sweetheart, come over after your errand—”

“I guess I needed to spill to someone who already knew. I’m heading into the bank now.”

“Michaela.”

“Hm?”

“Stop. You can call me any time you want or need.”

“Alright.”

“Say it.”

“Lincoln is available on the phone.”

“Close enough.” Chuckling at her Michaela-ness, I shook my head. This girl. “Come over after the bank.”

“Not today.”

“What else do you have to do?”

“Lincoln…” she replied on a sigh.

“Michaela…” I echoed.

“I’m already seeing you tomorrow night.”

A car door closed, then I heard the jingle of keys. The click of hard soles on asphalt. Heels weren’t practical enough for her at a desk job, so I imagined loafers.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to keep me on my toes every minute.”

A chuckle, then, “You have zero patience! Poor Abby.” The squeak of a door hinge. “I’m about to enter the bank.” Another hinge. She’d entered a branch with a security vestibule before the bank itself. “Can we continue this later?”

I sighed. “Sure. Whatever. Bye.”