Page 94 of Tutored in Love

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Page 94 of Tutored in Love

He spends the rest of the traffic jam discussing strategies for better turnout while I make monosyllabic contributions. I resist reminding him that we don’t get paid commission for higher anxiety or more people—don’t get paid at all, in fact—not that I don’t want to do the job well, but sheesh. His hypervigilant perfectionism has me fighting some serious passive aggression. Eventually, he gets back to setting a time for our next meeting. He really wants to have it before worship, but he settles for directly after.

Alec won’t like how that cuts into our time together, but I don’t see any way around it. My efforts in the traffic gauntlet should buy me some credit.

When the call ends, I bask in the silence and free-flowing traffic, and by the time I get to Alec’s, the AC has pulled ahead and my mood has mellowed. I pull into one of many empty slots and run into Garth on my way up the stairs to their apartment. We exchange pleasantries and he walks back with me.

“Alec isn’t home yet,” he says, pulling out his keys and unlocking the door. “I can let you in if you want to wait.”

“That would be great,” I say, happy to get out of the afternoon heat.

“I’d stay,” he says, “but I’m meeting someone for dinner.” He tells me to make myself at home, and with that, he’s gone.

I take a seat on the sofa and pull out my phone, but the only messages I have are from Tony on the committee group text, saying in several installments and too many words that we have a meeting Sunday. Nothing from Alec or anyone else.

I shoot off a message to Alec to let him know I’m here, then open my ebook. It’s a good one, but it can’t hold my attention in this too-quiet not-my-apartment. I check my messages again—nothing—and switch to a word game.

Several levels and a growling stomach later, there’s still no sign of Alec. As insistent as he was about my being here right when he got home, my imagination is worrying its bounds. I hope everything is okay at work, that he didn’t get into an accident.

He’s nearly half an hour late when I finally hear him coming up the stairs, talking to someone in the courtyard. Pleasant surprise claims his handsome features when he opens the door and sees me.

“Hey!” he says, setting his keys on the table and wrapping me up with long arms. “This is nice to come home to!”

I relish the feeling of being held, kissed, wanted. “Traffic?” I ask, though the chances of that are slim since he’s coming from this side of the construction.

“Straight shot,” he says. “What should we do tonight?”

I’m confused. Didn’t he have something planned? Why did I need to be here at a certain time if he didn’t? I could have waited half an hour and missed the traffic. I could have had a snack. I bite off my irritation and give him the benefit of the doubt. I must have misunderstood. “Maybe... get some dinner and then go for a walk?”

“Nah,” he says, flopping onto the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Suspecting that sitting too close might result in a serious delay of dinner, I leave some space between us, putting my hand on his knee as consolation when he pulls a face. “How about we order pizza and watch a movie?” he asks.

With the apartment to ourselves, I’m 90 percent sure that will translate into more of what might delay dinner if we were to go out. Not that it isn’t nice, kissing him, but I’d rather focus on other aspects of our relationship. We’ve established that our lips are compatible.

“Wouldn’t you like to get out, after working all day? Enjoy the warm weather while we can?”

“Mmm, good point,” he says. We toss around a few ideas and decide on a nice counter-serve place close by. It takes him a few minutes to change clothes, my belly grumbling as I wait. He looks great when he comes out, and I’m ready to go, but he has other ideas. When I pull away, he asks if something is wrong.

“Not at all, but I’m hungry. I thought we’d be eating sooner.”

“Well, I just got home, but I guess we can go now if you want.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I can always eat,” he says with a smile, “but they had some treats set out for someone’s birthday. I guess that took the edge off.”

“Is that why you were late?”

“Late?” he asks, confused.

Tamping down my rising irritation before I go postal-hangry, I casually usher him to the door. “You told me to be here forty-five minutes ago.”

He throws a smolder my way. “Missed me, did you?”

I straight-arm the pass he makes at me, hide my clenched teeth behind a smirk, and look up into his eyes.

“You’re forty-five minutes late,” I say. “I’m hungry.”And the only thing I’m missing right now is food.

Something clouds his eyes—disappointment? irritation? hurt?—but he shrugs it off, stepping under my block to get the door. “Let’s get you something to eat,” he says with a conciliatory smile.

“Thanks,” I say, grateful to be moving.




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