Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series) Persephone Autumn (black authors fiction TXT) 📖

ride back. She concedes and we hop in the rental after saying goodbye to Cora and Erin.

We are out of the park and turning off the bridge when Alyson turns down the radio, muting the local rock station. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”

I peer over at her, her eyes glued to the road as she watches for pedestrians. “Not sure I understand the question,” I answer. I have an idea of where this is headed, but I won’t put words in her mouth or give her fuel for the fire.

Stopped at a red light for Hamden Drive, she faces me a second and then returns her eyes to the street. “The dinner meeting.” I don’t miss the way she emphasizes the word meeting. Her tone mirroring a bad taste on her tongue. Yep. Just as I suspected.

“I thought we already discussed this. I really don’t feel like repeating myself,” I clip.

She turns onto Hamden and we wade through traffic for the next twenty minutes. Not another word passes between us and the silence leans more toward uncomfortable than not.

Once she parks the car, we head into the hotel. I press the call button for the elevator and notice her slight fidget as we wait.

Is she nervous? Why the hell would she be nervous?

“You okay?” I ask as the elevator car arrives and we step in.

We press the buttons for our respective floors and the doors close. Once we are in the confines of the elevator, she answers, “I’m fine. Just…”

I hold up a hand, stopping her from continuing. Already aware of what she is going to say. She is warning me. Telling me to be on my best behavior. As if I am a fucking child. As if I am her former client who liked to stick his dick in anything with a hole. I understand her role in our business relationship, but she needs to give me some slack. She needs to trust me.

The elevator pings for her floor and she hesitates a moment. A second later, she steps out and faces me. “Enjoy your dinner, Gavin.”

I nod, a snide smile on my face. Thanks, I will.

Searching through my memory, I cannot recall a time I remember being as nervous as I am right now. It has been ten minutes since the host seated me. Eight minutes since the server came to the table, pouring two glasses of ice water and asking if I would prefer something else to drink. Five minutes since I picked up the menu, scanned the options but didn’t read a single word of it.

But none of that matters. None of it.

As I twist and untwist the cloth napkin in my lap, the only thing that matters is standing at the host podium. She is utter perfection. And I am second-guessing this whole situation I masterminded.

While she waits for the host to return and direct her to the table, I sit in silence and watch her. Her silky, straight hair grazes the tops of her shoulders. The inky black strands parted off-center, the side with less hair tucked behind her ear. The other side hangs straight and blankets half of her cheek.

God, I miss running my fingers through her hair.

She bounces from one leg to the other as she waits, her bare calves accentuated by the black chunky-heeled Mary Jane’s she wears. My eyes stroll up the length of her body, pausing and relishing on the dress that stops just above her knees. It hugs her body like a glove. Matching her hair and shoes, it’s black in color but embellished with large rivets.

This is my Cora. The girl I knew all those years ago. The girl I fell in love with. The woman I still love.

Regardless of how much time has passed, she still manages to keep the root of who she is alive. And although she dresses as expected for her career, she hasn’t abandoned who she is at heart.

The host returns to the podium and they exchange words, her smile lighting up the room before he turns to walk her to the table. Should I keep my eyes on her? Or should I avert my gaze and play it cool? As if I wait for her arrival disinterested.

The napkin rubs against my palms as I wring the cloth tighter. When she sees me—and only me—her brows scrunch in question. She stands ten feet from the table when a bead of sweat rolls down the side of my neck. Five feet when I swallow the boulder in my throat.

I can do this.

“Hey,” I stammer as she sits, the host unfolding her napkin and offering to place it in her lap.

Once the host walks away, she looks around the room before circling back to me. “Hi,” she says. “Where’s Alyson?”

I don’t want to lie to her, but I fear what she will do when I tell her the truth. If I ever want anything more with her again, I can’t lie. Honesty is essential. No matter the consequences.

“Not sure. She’s doing her own thing. Exploring the area and whatnot.”

I mentally prepare for the backlash. The anger. For her to get up and stomp off and not talk to me again. Because she has to be upset at the fact that I coordinated a dinner with her and made her believe it was a meeting.

My eyes dart between hers, watching her expression and waiting for the fire that is bound to blaze at any moment. But I don’t see anger. Confusion still paints lines on her forehead, her eyes pinching at the corners.

“So, there’s no meeting?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I tell her.

Her shoulders drop as she exhales a deep breath. Was the idea of having a meeting a concern for her? I hadn’t read the email Alyson sent Cora, but I told her to make certain it was vague. Had it been so vague she was concerned for her job? Shit.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’ve just been pondering over why we were having