Like, maybe, me.

Fine, okay, I have a little bit of a crush on her. Or maybe her baking. Or her husky, raspy, incredibly sexy voice, which she doesn’t even realize is sexy.

This feeling takes me by surprise. I spend my life hunting down people who want to stay lost, but I have had considerably less luck finding someone I’d like to keep around for a while.

Stuffing the file into my briefcase, I shake these thoughts off. Maybe my mother is right and I do need a massage, or whatever form of relaxation it will take to get me back to separating my work life from my private life.

All of my best-laid plans, however, go out the window as soon as I arrive at her place and find her waiting for me. She’s wearing jean shorts, cutoffs, like Daisy Mae. Her legs are long and tan and muscular, and I can’t stop staring at them. “What?” she says, glancing down at her calves. “Did I cut myself shaving?”

“No. You’re perfect. I mean, you look perfect. I mean...” I shake my head. “Did you talk to your grandmother this morning?”

“Yeah.” Sage leads me into her home. “She’s a little scared, but she’s expecting us.”

Last night, before we left, Minka had agreed to look at a photo spread. “I’ll make her as comfortable as I can,” I promise.

Sage’s house is the visual representation of that favorite sweatshirt you own, the one that you search through your drawer for, because it’s so comfortable. The couch is overstuffed, the light creamy and soft. There’s always something baking. It is the kind of place you could settle down for a few moments and wake up, years later, because you never left.

It’s completely orthogonal to my apartment in Washington, which is full of black leather and chrome and right angles.

I like your place,” I blurt out.

She glances at me oddly. “You were here yesterday.”

“I know. It’s just... very cozy.”

Sage looks around. “My mother was good at that. At drawing people in.” She opens up her mouth and then shuts it again abruptly.

You were going to say that you’re not,” I guess.

She shrugs. “I’m good at pushing people away.”

Not all people,” I say, and we both know I’m talking about last night.

Sage hesitates, as if she is about to tell me something, but then turns and walks into the kitchen. “So what color did you decide on?”

“Color?”

For your nail polish.” She picks up a mug of tea and hands it to me. I take a sip and realize she’s put in milk but no sugar, just the way I took it last night at the café. There’s something about that—her remembering—that makes me feel like I’ve taken flight.

“I was going to go with cherry red, but that’s so FBI,” I reply. “A little too flashy for us DOJ folks.”

“Wise decision.”

“And you?” I ask. “Did you glean any wisdom from People magazine?”

“I did what you told me to do,” she answers, and suddenly the mood has dropped like a stone in a pond. “I saw Josef.”

“And?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t talk to him and pretend I don’t know what I know now.” Sage shakes her head. “I think he might be upset with me.”

Дата добавления: 2015-10-21