Page 4 of Merging Wright

“That thing doesn’t even run,” I state, giving away my recognition of the old pickup.

“Says in the paperwork it works just fine.”

With the ramps at the correct angle, the younger man walks up one incline and enters the truck. With a sharp grind and a small kerchunk, the pickup comes to life, and I startle, surprised at the sudden rumbling purr. Another wash of memories cascades over me.

A pretty blonde in the front seat. Sweet laughter mixed with country music. Sunlight in brilliant green eyes.

No. I fight off the reminders from a lifetime ago.

“Mach,” Jane’s voice pops the balloon of the past. Her warm hand on my arm seeps through the shirt sleeves I keep lowered in the office, hiding all the ink. Hiding all the scars.

I stare at her, holding her eyes as if she might ground me in this moment. Have I ever looked directly into her eyes? I hate the sudden weakness I feel and pull away from her penetrating gaze, tugging my arm from under her hand.

With the classic truck in the street, the delivery man cuts the engine and exits the pickup. After rounding the front, he holds out the keys, and I snag them from him, fighting the tremor in my fingers.

“Thanks,” I mutter without gratitude.

“Here.” The young guy holds out an envelope. “I was told to give this to the owner.”

When I don’t reach for the slim package, Jane takes it from the man’s hands. “Thank you. Do we owe you anything?”

My wallet is upstairs in my desk. A tip is in order, although advice is all I have for him.

Never trust a gift; there’s always a stipulation attached to it.

“Nah.” Delivery Guy smiles at Jane and receives one of her warm grins in response. He restores the ramps to their place then rushes around the large flatbed to the driver’s side and fires up the beast’s engine, leaving me standing on the city sidewalk wondering what I’m supposed to do with this behemoth paperweight from the past.

3

Playlist: “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)” – Meat Loaf

[Jane]

“What a fucking joke.” Mach’s bitter tone abrades my skin like rough sandpaper as we re-enter the building.

“Pete, find someone to move that thing into the parking garage,” Mach snaps, tossing the keys at the unprepared security guard. My boss doesn’t even wait for a response from the older man, stomping forward toward the elevator bank without a glance back at his delivery.

The ride up the elevator is silent.

I follow Mach toward his office, questioning the truck’s safety on the busy street.

“Let’s hope the police impound the thing. Or better yet, a semi barrels into it,” Mach replies without glancing back at me.

He can be brash, but this is more than agitation. Something below the surface hints at history and hurt, and it’s none of my business. Still, I follow him like the weak-kneed woman I am around him, worried about him when I should probably leave him alone.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I offer outside his office, keeping my voice low once we arrive at his door.

“Could you come into my office a moment?” The directive is stated with all the stability of a professional asking a colleague to enter his space, but an undertone suggests unease. His emotions are anything other than calm. I’ve spent years working beside this man, observing him, smelling him—though that second part is neither here nor there in the moment—and I know him. His current reaction frightens me. This is not the Mach I know.

Even though he hadn’t looked in my direction when he asked me to follow him, I nod and silently trail behind him into his corner office.

Once inside his office, Mach doesn’t immediately break the tense silence, and I gaze out the window where the lake gleams off in the distance on a beautiful late August day. Summer is swiftly coming to a close, and my thoughts drift until Mach’s sharp tone breaks the silence.

“What a fucking joke,” Mach repeats.

I face him, and he tosses a letter onto his desk. His fingers squeeze his forehead, pressing against his skin as if forcing back a headache.

While I’ve admired Machlan Wright for years, I don’t know much about his personal history other than those random deliveries and the countless number of younger women he’s had on his arm at charity events or company-sponsored activities. I’ve always ignored the ache in my chest, telling myself it was for the best that he had those youthful pieces draped over him. Their presence was a reminder that Mach was not for me. I would not date my boss. An office romance was not the path for me.