Page 39 of Something Like Shelter

“It does. They would never admit it, but you can tell. If they can find any fault in me or my performance, they would be quick to get rid of me.”

If they only knew…

Nope.

No.

I wasn’t going to let myself think about that.

That hadn’t only been life-altering; it could easily become career-ruining. And, yes, I had savings. I had a very nice house I could sell and bank the money, move into a smaller place, and get a new job. I had wealthy parents and a rich grandfather. I had people who could take care of me if the worst thing happened.

But my pride didn’t want that.

I wanted to be able to keep the home I’d fallen in love with, raise my daughter in it, create memories there. I wanted to keep building my investment portfolio, afford private schools when the time came.

Would I love to leave my company eventually? Of course. But right now, I needed stability. So the truth could not come out.

Owen was going to help with that. Whether he knew it or not.

“One day, you will open your own firm. Until then, you can still dream and plan.”

“Once I am getting enough sleep again.”

“It’s good to have goals, but also the comfort of what is familiar to fall back on while you dream.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what is the venue? A gallery?”

“It used to be. I mean, I don’t think the Chrises knew a Vermeer from a Warhol, and my boss lives in a brutalist-style home, so it’s completely empty of art. But they like to appear to be into the same things a lot of the clients are: art, golf, the opera, classical music. Do you play golf?”

“I think I prefer my sports to be more… active. To be fair, I’ve never played golf.”

“Here we are,” I said as the venue loomed just ahead of us.

“A library?” Owen asked.

“Yep. It’s actually a really gorgeous location. You’ll see.”

We pulled up to the curb then, and Owen slid out and offered his hand.

His hand closed around mine, rough and warm, and for a strange second I had the overwhelming sensation of two completely different parts of my life colliding.

There was Willa, the financial advisor. The woman who wore silk blouses and carried a portfolio instead of a diaper bag. The woman who knew which fork to use at dinner and which clients preferred Bordeaux over Burgundy.

And then there was the woman who spent her days watching Tuna swim laps in the pool while she rocked her baby beside a laughing Owen.

I had no idea which version of me he was seeing right then.

Maybe both.

And, unexpectedly, I liked that.

Because Owen didn’t seem overly impressed by the house or the money or the expensive things inside. He’d never once treated me like I was more important because of what I owned.

He just looked at me.

Saw me.