Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

“Oh, good morning, Rainey.”

I look to the left, where Jenn is coming in from the locker rooms. She smiles at me, then at Mr. Kensington, who sort of returns the expression. I say “sort of” because his version is a tight, constipated type of smile.

I clear my throat.

“Morning, Jenn.” Then I flip my Southern charm switch and, despite hating myself for the gesture, swing my blond curls over one shoulder.

“Mr. Kensington, how are you?”

He blinks at me, taking a very obvious gander at my tits—which are admittedly in a tighter version of the BYC uniform. I did that for Owen’s benefit. Anyway, once he’s looked back up at my face, he seems to be trying to place me. I decide to let him off the hook.

“It’s Rainey Wallace—I’m the codirector here. We met last week when you replaced—er, when Owen was brought on board as director.”

He nods slowly and I notice that his silver hair is more like a cap than a hairstyle. It doesn’t even shift as he moves to shake my hand.

“Of course, Ms. Wallace. You’re actually part of the reason I’m here.”

My heart plummets from my chest to my knees, then sets up shop right around my stomach. I feel sick. Like I might throw up. Or pass out right there on the tacky old linoleum flooring.

“I’d heard from George, one of our project managers, about some grant funding you’re applying for,” Mr. Kensington continues. “I called Owen and left a message this morning. I wanted to chat with you both about your ideas for . . . What were you calling it? Safe Houses?”

“Safe Spaces,” I say quietly.

I should probably be relieved. No, I know I should be relieved. My boss isn’t here to bust Owen and I for fucking around in public—or, you know, at all. He’s here to talk about Safe Spaces.

But something about that makes me feel equally as nauseous.

“It sounds like you’ve got a really wonderful plan going on here,” Mr. Kensington says, his smile still tight and uncomfortable. “I came here to talk to you and Owen a little more about your plans. Maybe see some of the grant applications.”

Something inside me screams “no.” Screams “absolutely not,” “no way,” “hell no.” I don’t know what it is about this guy—I get that he’s technically my boss, but he also feels like he’d be the kind of person to shut Charlie up rather than let her shine. And, by proxy, shut me up as well. I have absolutely no interest in being stymied by a guy in a cheap suit who’s more interested in fiscal years and algorithms and reports.

A throat clears and Mr. Kensington and I turn to see Owen standing in the hallway in front of us. Despite the circumstances, seeing him sends a jolt of electricity straight between my legs to hover just above my clit. I have to bite my bottom lip on a highly inappropriate, poorly timed grin.

“Burt,” Owen says, reaching a hand out to our boss. I can’t help but feel a bristle of indignation. How is it that Owen and I are the same age, but I’m in the position to call him “Mr. Kensington” and Owen gets to chat up “Burt”?

“How are the new digs?” Burt—er, Mr. Kensington—asks him, his face morphing into something far more warm and welcoming than the bullshit smiles he’d been shooting my way.

“Good—good.” Owen glances at me, then back at our boss. “I’ve managed to get fairly well adjusted, if I do say so myself. And Rainey’s been invaluable. She’s introduced me to all the students and staff and I’m starting to make some connections with parents in the community. It’s good.”

Mr. Kensington claps Owen on the shoulder.

“Good man! You always seemed accommodating. We’re lucky to have snapped you up when we did.”

Owen palms his neck and gives a sheepish grin. Refusing to be put off or left out of the discussion, I give both of them a sugary smile.

“Mr. Kensington, you said you were interested in seeing the grant applications, right? They’re on my desk—why don’t we head into my office and I’ll give you the spiel.”

“Rainey really is a better person to tell you about our plans, Burt,” Owen says, nodding at me. “You should see how much planning has already gone into the prototype.”

I’m not sure if I’d call this sexism or not. But the longer this unexpected meeting goes, the more sure I am that Burt Kensington does not give two shits about what I have to say. I hand him the grant applications—first, a state form that would provide up to five thousand dollars tax free, then a few privately funded options that could rake in a whole lot more. Of course, it’s not like I think we’d get all of them, but it never hurts to apply. Most of them have cutoff dates that end this week, then a granting period soon after. If we’re lucky, we’ll have any funds we receive by the end of the school year, giving Charlie and her friends a place to go during the summer months when school is out.

Mr. Kensington flips through the forms almost idly as he chats with Owen about the senior center and a budget meeting that’s scheduled for next week—the second one in less than a month, actually. Which is weird, considering that Remy only attended one of those in the last year, if that. But, then, Remy wasn’t on a first-name basis with Burt Kensington, either.

“Most of these grants are due—what? This week? The week after? The turnaround is very soon. It’s a lot to expect of your staff, Owen. Who do you have writing the proposals?”

Owen looks from me to Mr. Kensington and back again.

“Well, Rainey is heading up this whole operation, Burt. You’ll really have to ask her about those kind of specifics.”

The older man gives me a judgmental once-over.

“It’s a lot of work for one person, Rainey,” he says, a brow raised. “Have you done grant writing before?”

I lick my lips, attempting to ignore his condescension.

“Quite a bit, actually,” I say, forcing a smile that I hope reads as “confident” and “reliable.” “My parents have been on the boards of multiple nonprofit businesses. Grants are sort of a way of life when it comes to asking for funding. I’ve applied for several here in the last few months.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Kensington looks at me as though he’s sizing me up, which is probably pretty accurate.

“Well, anyway, I certainly believe that applying for funding is an appropriate use of time. I’m happy to see that our employees are taking an initiative in assisting our programs.”

Something about the way he says it, though . . . I don’t know, it feels less than genuine. It feels like he’s patting me on the head rather than shaking my hand. I’m not saying I felt equal before, exactly, but I didn’t feel beneath him. Now, I sort of do.

Which makes me want to keep the work I’ve done in the conference room a secret. I’m proud of it, but it probably won’t look like much from the outside looking in.

“Rainey, did you want to talk about the transformation of the conference room?” Owen asks. I glare at him over Mr. Kensington’s head, then school my expression.

“Sure,” I say, managing to keep my tone even. “It’s really just a prototype of what I’m thinking . . . but, of course. Follow me.”

I’m tremendously nervous showing Mr. Kensington the conference-room-turned-student-lounge-café-thing. Mostly because I’m afraid that he won’t see the forest between the trees, or however that saying goes. I mean, it’s essentially a draft of a grander plan and it’s probably hard to picture how it would look if we were a funded project.

And I’m probably right to be leery—my boss’s boss definitely doesn’t seem in the slightest bit impressed. He paces the perimeter of the conference room, reaching out to run a finger over one of the folding tables I set up in lieu of a desk. I’ve stacked a few dozen books—most of them donations from the local library.

“So . . . this is an . . . interesting concept . . .”

Every pause he makes is full of meaning—and the meaning isn’t good.

“This is just a prototype,” I say, rocking back and forth on my heels, hating myself for the fact that I feel the need to defend my work. I was so proud of it last night. Now, I feel like some dumb-ass kid presenting my shitty diorama to the school principal.

Mr. Kensington clears his throat. He looks at Owen and nods.

“Just keep me posted with news of monetary donations. Those are things we’d need to keep track of internally.”

“Of course.”

Owen nods, then glances over at me. I nod, too, although Mr. Kensington already has his back to me.

“I’ll walk myself out.”

He strides through the room and out the door. I can hear his steps—the clip of discount men’s loafers—making their way toward the lobby. The sound fades as he exits. For a long moment, Owen and I just stare at each other.

“Well, he seemed less than impressed,” I finally sigh. I feel my shoulders drop.

In a flash, Owen’s filled the space between us. His broad chest presses against mine and I feel my nipples harden deep beneath my collared shirt. His hands come up to cup my cheeks.

“Fuck him,” he says then, his voice gruff. “Seriously, this place looks amazing. You’re amazing.”

I suck in a breath just as his mouth descends on mine. For a moment, everything recedes—the conference room, Mr. Kensington, and both our jobs—as he spins me around and pins me against the painted cinder block wall, devouring my mouth like it’s something delicious.

Owen angles my head with both hands, his grip both firm and gentle. He moves his mouth to my cheek, then flicks that magical tongue out along the sensitive skin just under my jaw.

“We need to get back to the office,” I murmur, running my hands up over his back.

His lips coast down to my collarbone and I loop my arms around his neck as he presses me even harder against the wall. It’s a strangely delicious contrast to the wet and wonderful sensation of his mouth sucking and licking my neck.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks, his lips brushing against my earlobe. I shiver as he grazes it with the slightest bit of teeth.

“I don’t think I have plans . . . why?”

Owen pulls back a bit and his mouth kicks up on one side.

“I was thinking we could give that midnight swim another shot. What do you say?”

I meet his grin with one of my own, then shrug.

“If at first you don’t succeed . . .”

But he cuts me off with another kiss before I can finish the cliché.

***

“Okay, you can open them.”

I pull my hand off Charlie’s face and watch her blink as she adjusts to the light in the room.

“What . . . is this the . . . what room is this, even?”

I grin at her. “It’s the old conference room. It was only used every once in a while for random meetings. We feel like you—you and whoever else will join us—will make so much better use of it.”

Charlie walks around the room, surveying it like she’s giving it a letter grade. I lean back against the wall and let her make her judgment.

Finally, she turns to look at me. Her eyes are glassy with tears.

“I can’t believe you did this for me. For us. For people like me.”

I tilt my head and come over to rest my hands on her shoulders. “You deserve a place you can call home. I know this isn’t quite that—it isn’t quite what you’d want in a home. But this is a place you can always come to. You can always leave things here in the locker and it will always be safe.”

Suddenly, before I realize what’s happening, Charlie throws her arms around my waist and squeezes.

“Thank you, Rainey. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

I stroke her hair, blinking back the tears that are filling my own eyes. Charlie squeezes me tighter, and for a long moment we just stand there like that. Finally, she pulls away and grabs her phone from the table.

“I have, like, seventy-five thousand people to tell about this place.”

I grin at her. “That many? Really?”

She shrugs. “Okay, no, not that many. But I can name at least five people who are going to start coming here.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling like a rock star. I can’t wait to see how things look once we’ve actually gotten funding to make this place more than what it is now. In general, I can honestly say that I’ve never felt so proud of something I’ve done. It’s a feeling that is about more than just a job. It feels like a calling. It feels right—like a perfect fit. And right now, finding a place where Charlie can fit—where I can fit—well, it’s a task that feels almost accomplished.

We all need a home away from home. Maybe we’ve both found ours.

And that’s what I’m still thinking when, a few hours later, I’m flicking off the light in my office and walking over to Owen’s door. I knock lightly, but I can hear him talking inside.

“Right . . . sure, I understand . . . Well, like I said, I don’t know anything for sure. I will keep looking, though, and I will let you know if I find anything.”

I knock again, this time a little louder, and crack the door open as I do. Owen looks up and his eyes widen when he sees me. At first, his expression is almost one of shock—then it mellows and relaxes into something happier. Something sexier.

“I’ve got my assistant manager at my door, so I really need to go take care of things here, but I’ll be sure to keep you posted.”

He says good-bye and hangs up the receiver. I lean a hip up against the doorjamb.

“Everything okay?” I ask, crossing my arms. He nods.

“Yeah, of course. I’m just still catching up with everything here. There are more county meetings than I expected. Everyone just seems very invested in what we do here. In who we have to report back to. I feel like I have a million different reports to write.”

He leans back in his desk chair then and regards me. I tilt my chin down and meet his inquisitive gaze.

“You ready to take a swim?”

His smile spreads over his face like it’s blooming—like it’s coming from the inside out.

“Hell, yes. I’ll meet you in the deep end in about ten minutes—I just have to make one more phone call.”

I wink at him over my shoulder as I turn to walk away.

“Don’t take too long.”

I attempt a sashay as I head out of the office and Owen lets out a wolf whistle that practically echoes through the hall. I grin and shake my head. There are things about Owen that are more like boy than man sometimes. His youthful face and charm, for one. His ability to make me feel like a teenager with a crush, for another. As I make my way into the locker room and change into my bathing suit, I can’t help but remember the last time I felt this twitterpated—this smitten. It was Phillip who used to make me feel this kind of amazing, this kind of in love—back before he betrayed me so completely. As terrifying as it may be to feel so out of control again, it also makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t in so long.