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Good For You (Between the Lines #3) Page 16
Author: Tammara Webber

She taps her pen on her clipboard, gnawing her lower lip. “Wel , the least confrontational thing might be to reassign Gabriel e to you, and reassign Reid to Frank.” A puzzling sense of disappointment settles over me, but I shake it off. “That works for me.”

“Gabriel e doesn’t come in on Fridays, so I’l leave Reid with you tomorrow, and I’l talk to him about moving to Frank’s crew next week before he leaves for the day. We’l get Gabriel e situated on Monday.”

“Thanks, Roberta.”

“Yes, wel , better safe than sorry, I suppose.” She bustles off as I clean up for the day and prepare for tomorrow. Reid off as I clean up for the day and prepare for tomorrow. Reid is going to be furious at the interference, and Gabriel e wil probably have a meltdown when she isn’t al owed to hang around him. There’s no way for her to see that we’re trying to protect her; the separation wil look like pure malice from her point of view.

***

My last day to supervise Reid has been almost stress-free.

He showed up on time and made no comments or snide remarks (other than cal ing me Dorcas al day, and what can I say to that since it is my name). He was a model volunteer. He even kept his shirt on.

My iPod fried itself last night, so I brought a radio this morning and had it tuned to a pop station when he came in.

I told him he could change it to whatever he wanted, but he hasn’t moved the station. As we’re wrapping up for the day, the DJ plays a new duet. Without realizing it, I hum along. At the end chorus, Reid turns to me and sings into his paintbrush, “Where were you, baby, where were you? When I was al alone, with no one of my own?”

I sing back, “Where were you, baby, where were you?

When I needed you there, when nobody else cared?”

“I was here, I was right here, looking for you, yeah…” we both sing, and then we laugh at our own goofiness.

“You have a great voice,” he says, but not like he’s surprised.

I lower my glance and mumble, “Thanks,” oddly pleased.

Coming from him, the words feel different, as though I haven’t heard that exact expression of praise a hundred times before.

From the doorway, Roberta says, “Mr. Alexander, could you see me before you leave? I’l be in the kitchen, checking the sink hookups.”

“No problem.” Sliding his eyes back to me when she disappears, his head tilts a fraction to the side and he asks, “What’s that about?”

Uh-oh. With Gabriel e gone al day, I almost forgot about her and the supervisor swap occurring on Monday. “Um, something about work assignments. Probably.”

“Work assignments? I thought you were the boss of me.” His smile is tentative, like he’s teasing me but also testing to see if there’s something I’m not tel ing him.

Coward that I am, I shrug and begin cleaning the paintbrushes, and Reid is silent for a moment before he hammers the lid onto a 5-gal on bucket of paint and then places his folded timesheet on the floor next to me. “I’l swing by to pick this up after I talk to Roberta.” When he returns five minutes later, I brace for an offensive comment or another quarrel over my unwelcome judgments or interference, but neither occurs. He snatches the paper I’ve signed without a word and leaves. As he storms out, I cringe, guilt-ridden after the il usory camaraderie in which we spent the day. At the inevitable slam of the front door, someone in the hal exclaims,

“Jesus!” and a moment later, I remember to breathe.

Monday is going to be a nightmare.

***

Nick is coming over tonight. After he showed up at the Diego House yesterday—a breath of fresh air in his non-designer jeans and thrift store t-shirt—I couldn’t say no when he asked if we could hang out.

I hear his voice downstairs, his courteous, “Good evening, Reverend Cantrel ,” though Dad has urged him countless times to cal him Doug.

As I leave my room, I glance at the clock on my wal .

He’s exactly on time, the minute hand clicking onto the twelve as my father intones, “Good evening, Nicholas.” Nick fails to hear the playful nature I immediately recognize behind Dad’s words. “It’s actual y just Nick, sir.” He spares a quick look in my direction as I reach the last step.

“And it’s just Doug, Nick.” My father slaps his shoulder lightly.

“Do you want to go out?” Nick asks after Dad disappears back into his study. “I think that movie starring your new associate is stil out… School Pride, right? I heard it was… cute.”

Nick isn’t into cute, and general y speaking, neither am I.

I’d not even considered seeing School Pride, but now that Nick’s mentioned it, I’m curious. I know Reid Alexander from his fame, but I know nothing of his so-cal ed talent. I’ve never seen a single one of his movies—like Nick, I don’t real y term them films. A film is something social y consequential or historical y evocative. A movie is hol ow entertainment.

Oh my gosh. I’m a film snob.

Despite my sudden compulsion to see Reid’s movie, there’s no way I’m sitting through it with Nick. “Let’s order Chinese and watch something here. Dad just got a new batch of DVDs.” Nick smiles his agreement. Pul ing the takeout menu from our menu drawer and grabbing the phone, I determine not to think of Reid again tonight. “I’m getting sesame chicken. Anything with chicken is pretty good. Their beef dishes, not so much.”

When the food arrives, Dad materializes momentarily.

“Would you like to watch the movie with us, Rever—uh, Doug?” Nick asks.

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Tammara Webber's Novels
» Sweet (Contours of the Heart #3)
» Breakable (Contours of the Heart #2)
» Easy (Contours of the Heart #1)
» Here Without You (Between the Lines #4)
» Good For You (Between the Lines #3)
» Where You Are (Between the Lines #2)
» Between the Lines (Between the Lines #1)