lived in Florida. You never did. Why did I think you lived here? “Where are you from? Where do you live?” I really don’t know you at all. I’ve been feeling closer and closer to you when all I’ve done is fill in the blanks myself.
“Georgia originally, right outside Atlanta. Heidi still lives there.” You pull another lime from the branch and drop it in the basket. “I’ve been in upstate New York for the past five months. I move about every six months or so.”
“Why so often?”
One shoulder hitches up in a shrug. “Never felt comfortable anywhere. No place felt like home I guess.”
“You’re considering retiring and staying here though. For how long? That’s a huge decision for a six month commitment.”
Holding a lime up to your nose, you take in a big sniff. “Ah.” You toss it in the basket and pause, holding my gaze. “This is home, Rachael. This finally feels right.”
Upstairs behind the couch in the sitting area, you lift a huge cardboard box and sit it down on the coffee table. Filled with old books, loose sheets of paper and a couple file folders, it isn’t the organizational style I expected from you.
“Seriously?” I gently backhand you in the chest. “You need a filing cabinet or something. This is a mess.”
You laugh, running your fingers through waves of dark hair. Your olive-toned skin has tanned a little more over the past couple days here, making your white teeth seem even whiter, your lips even redder. I’m struck by how I find every move you make sensual. Your voice vibrates through me, collects and smolders in my center.
“Organization isn’t my strong suit. That’s why I have Joan.” You sit on the couch and hook my waistband with a finger, pulling me down next to you. “Start digging, woman. My mouth is watering thinking about that pie.” Your eyebrows shrug suggestively.
“Don’t get all worked up. We have all day…for pie.” I pull a stack of papers and books out of the box as you chuckle, low and deep.
Instructions and a warranty for the new stove are in the first booklet I flip through. I toss it aside and grab a sheet of paper from the stack. It’s faded and hand written. I can’t make out one word. Beside me, you’re squinting at a yellowed page in a cookbook. I pick up a file folder and leaf through.
The contents are recent. The pages have the Rocha Enterprises logo scrolled across the top. I glance to see if you’re paying attention. Maybe I shouldn’t be going through your business files. You’re humming to yourself and running a finger down the page in the cookbook. My eyes turn back to the file on my lap.
The top page is titled: TURTLE TEAR PROJECT and it’s dated 2010. I didn’t realize you’ve owned the hotel and island that long and renovations haven’t begun. Why the hold up?
The next page is a resume for a woman named Adrianna Singer. Her name is circled and beside it, in your handwriting, it says: HIRED 6/15/10. Behind Adrianna’s resume is a photo of you and a dark-haired woman. You’re both wearing bathing suits holding drinks served in coconuts with leis around your necks. Hawaii, maybe? Is this Adrianna? Your arm around her waist holding her close tells me she was—is?—more than an employee.
The next few pages are pink duplicates of purchase orders for building supplies, work orders for a construction crew and detailed project notes for the hotel renovation. All are dated in early 2011, and all of them have CANCELLED scratched across them in angry, black pen—in your handwriting. The last pages in the file outline a severance package for Adrianna Singer.
I slam the file shut not wanting to see anymore. You glance over, frowning. “Something wrong?”
Accusations streak through my mind, but I try to sound merely curious. “No, nothing.” I hold up the file before laying it aside. “Was Adrianna Stringer hired as project manager before I was offered the job?”
Your expression freezes. Your eyes open a
“Georgia originally, right outside Atlanta. Heidi still lives there.” You pull another lime from the branch and drop it in the basket. “I’ve been in upstate New York for the past five months. I move about every six months or so.”
“Why so often?”
One shoulder hitches up in a shrug. “Never felt comfortable anywhere. No place felt like home I guess.”
“You’re considering retiring and staying here though. For how long? That’s a huge decision for a six month commitment.”
Holding a lime up to your nose, you take in a big sniff. “Ah.” You toss it in the basket and pause, holding my gaze. “This is home, Rachael. This finally feels right.”
Upstairs behind the couch in the sitting area, you lift a huge cardboard box and sit it down on the coffee table. Filled with old books, loose sheets of paper and a couple file folders, it isn’t the organizational style I expected from you.
“Seriously?” I gently backhand you in the chest. “You need a filing cabinet or something. This is a mess.”
You laugh, running your fingers through waves of dark hair. Your olive-toned skin has tanned a little more over the past couple days here, making your white teeth seem even whiter, your lips even redder. I’m struck by how I find every move you make sensual. Your voice vibrates through me, collects and smolders in my center.
“Organization isn’t my strong suit. That’s why I have Joan.” You sit on the couch and hook my waistband with a finger, pulling me down next to you. “Start digging, woman. My mouth is watering thinking about that pie.” Your eyebrows shrug suggestively.
“Don’t get all worked up. We have all day…for pie.” I pull a stack of papers and books out of the box as you chuckle, low and deep.
Instructions and a warranty for the new stove are in the first booklet I flip through. I toss it aside and grab a sheet of paper from the stack. It’s faded and hand written. I can’t make out one word. Beside me, you’re squinting at a yellowed page in a cookbook. I pick up a file folder and leaf through.
The contents are recent. The pages have the Rocha Enterprises logo scrolled across the top. I glance to see if you’re paying attention. Maybe I shouldn’t be going through your business files. You’re humming to yourself and running a finger down the page in the cookbook. My eyes turn back to the file on my lap.
The top page is titled: TURTLE TEAR PROJECT and it’s dated 2010. I didn’t realize you’ve owned the hotel and island that long and renovations haven’t begun. Why the hold up?
The next page is a resume for a woman named Adrianna Singer. Her name is circled and beside it, in your handwriting, it says: HIRED 6/15/10. Behind Adrianna’s resume is a photo of you and a dark-haired woman. You’re both wearing bathing suits holding drinks served in coconuts with leis around your necks. Hawaii, maybe? Is this Adrianna? Your arm around her waist holding her close tells me she was—is?—more than an employee.
The next few pages are pink duplicates of purchase orders for building supplies, work orders for a construction crew and detailed project notes for the hotel renovation. All are dated in early 2011, and all of them have CANCELLED scratched across them in angry, black pen—in your handwriting. The last pages in the file outline a severance package for Adrianna Singer.
I slam the file shut not wanting to see anymore. You glance over, frowning. “Something wrong?”
Accusations streak through my mind, but I try to sound merely curious. “No, nothing.” I hold up the file before laying it aside. “Was Adrianna Stringer hired as project manager before I was offered the job?”
Your expression freezes. Your eyes open a
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