Page 82 of That Next Moment
I laughed, a chuckle that radiated through the room loud enough to get some looks from those around me. I clenched my teeth and mouthed a quick sorry to them before turning back to Elliot.
“Does this mean I’m in the clear now?” I asked quietly, pointing to the computer.
Elliot shrugged. “I’m a business owner, not a lawyer. I have no idea what this means, but it seems pretty black and white there on the screen that you, my friend”—he slapped my shoulder—“are no longer the embezzling accountant everyone took you for. Are you going to email them back?”
I blinked a few times before reading the email for the millionth time. “I don't know. Should I appeal?” I twist my body, craning my head to look at him.
Once again, he shrugged. “I would if I were you. How much did you pay them again? You could get all of that back.”
Get it all back. . .
Milo left that evening for his night shift, after making sure I wouldn't burn the apartment down. (“Milo, I’ve been making breakfasts and dinner for weeks now”), and then just a few moments later, there was a light knock on the front door.
I was straining the pasta, a towel over my shoulder when I heard it, and I almost dropped the pan. She was here. My breath was shaking, my heart rate picked up, and my palms started to sweat. I set the pot back on the stove and ran toward the door, opening it with a smile. Ophelia tilted her head, cocking a hip and giving me a smile that paused the world around me.
Ophelia Fuller was the most beautiful, the most daring, the most compassionate, talented, strong woman in the entire world, and I couldn’t believe I got to call her mine.
I blinked, snapping myself out of my trance. I returned her smile, taking a step forward to wrap her in my arms. I lifted her off the ground, spinning around to walk back into the apartment. Ophelia’s hands rested on my shoulders, sliding together on the back of my neck, her fingers lacing in my hair. I kicked the door shut and walked to the kitchen. My eyes not once leaving hers, I set her down on the counter, my hands trailing her back and to her legs.
It was second nature to kiss her, as if I had never stopped kissing her. All those years vanished when my lips touched hers, and everything just made sense.
Ophelia hummed against my mouth as she broke the kiss, gently kissing my chin as I backed my head away, giving her a crooked grin.
“Well, hello.” She sighed.
“Hi,” I whispered back, wanting to kiss her again. The oven beeped, forcing both of us to look behind me.
“What's for dinner?”
“Baked chicken and alfredo pasta. Nothing too fancy.” I stepped back, leaving her sitting on the counter as I turned to pull the chicken from the oven.
“I thought you said you could cook,” she chuckled.
“And this is cooking.” I turned, presenting the glass of chicken to her. She raised her chin, tilting her small frame forward to look at the chicken sizzling in the glass dish. “You can thank Betty Crocker for this. However, I decided to add the alfredo pasta.”
“Well.” Ophelia leaned back onto the peninsula and crossed her legs. Her small white heels dangled as she bobbed her knee up and down. “It smells wonderful.”
After finishing preparing the meal, Ophelia helped me set the table, taking over all the plates and silverware while I handled the food. We would pass each other in the kitchen, and her hands would find my arms, my stomach, my shoulder, any part of me that she could touch just in passing. And once we were sitting at the table, we sat right next to each other, our knees touching as we ate. It was comfortable, and it was perfect. Everything I envisioned it would be.
“How did Maddy’s bridals go?” I asked before taking a bite of the chicken, which turned out fantastic, if I do say so myself.
She hummed as she finished her bite. “It was perfect. She was stunning. Carter took her to the mountain, and we climbed and climbed, but it was worth it. Every shot was brilliant, and Madeline glowed like I'd never seen her before. Just you wait. We’ll have some framed at the wedding.”
“I’m still offended you wouldn’t let me see. I’ve seen her in the dress,” I joked, hoping she would catch onto my sarcasm.
She narrowed her eyes at me, twisting her lips before saying, “It’s different this time. She was one hundred percent bride here, not just Madeline in a fancy dress.”
“Made by the best wedding gown designer in the United States,” I mumbled.
“And I really didn’t want to risk anything, so yes”—she dropped her fork—“the photos are on Instagram and no”—she stabbed a piece of chicken and raised it to her lips—“you cannot see them until the wedding day.”
I raised a single eyebrow. “Fair.”
Ophelia chuckled, placing her hand on my thigh. “How was the office today? I’m sure Elliot keeps you on your toes.”
I shrugged a shoulder. “He’s actually pretty fun to work for. He’s laid back and easy.”
“Are we talking Michael Scott laid back? Do you have conference room meetings every day? Do you have award ceremonies?” she asked, her voice raising with each question.