Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I take the time to add soft curls to my hair and dab on makeup. I like the overall vibe I’ve created. I’m trying without trying too hard. My outfit says, Oh, you exist? I’d forgotten. My insides say, Uhhh, are you sure surprising Walt is a good idea?
By 12:30, I’m out the door and heading toward a cafe down the street. I don’t think I can stomach much more than a simple sandwich, so I order that for the both of us along with a few sides the owner talks me into.
Diomedica is close enough to Walt’s apartment that I can walk there after I leave the cafe. I’m outside the glistening glass doors only a few minutes later with our lunch in hand.
The doors slide open and I stroll in, then momentarily freeze at the sight in front of me: security.
It’s like Fort Knox in here.
Employees hustle and bustle, coming and going from lunch. There are two checkpoints where employees who are entering can scan their badges then stroll past a turnstile and security guard.
I stand in the middle of the foyer, blocking traffic.
I must stand out like a sore thumb because a passing woman takes pity on me.
“Are you delivering someone’s lunch?” She points to her left. “You can head over to the help desk and they’ll get it to the right person.”
Sure, okay. I do look like I could be a food delivery person. I mean, I’m not exactly dressed for business in my flirty skirt. Regardless, her advice is actually helpful. After thanking her, I head straight toward the desk so I can explain my situation. I know I could just call Walt and let him know I’m here, but there’s a multitude of reasons why I don’t want to do that. On the surface, I want to keep my arrival a surprise. Deep down, I’m worried he won’t exactly be happy to see me. We haven’t moved so far away from the time when I was only supposed to contact him in case of emergencies. Dear lord this might have been a bad idea.
“Miss? Can I help you?”
The attendant at the help desk asks me this after I waver back and forth between leaving and staying. I’ve pivoted to and fro on my feet about half a dozen times. I’m sure I look like I’m out of my mind.
“Err…yes.” I hold up the brown paper bag from the cafe. “I’m trying to get this to Mr. Jennings.”
Unenthused, she says, “All right, hand it over and I’ll take it up.”
I flash a sort of pleading, half-crooked smile. “Is there any way I could do it?”
She chuckles under her breath like she can’t believe I even asked the question. “Sorry. No one’s allowed up unless they’ve been authorized.”
“Is that something you could help me with?”
Her expression says I’ve just made her job a hundred times harder. “Is he expecting you?”
I cringe. “Not exactly, but I do know him. I’m his wife, actually.”
Wow, saying that out loud still sounds weird. It’s like I don’t even believe it myself, which is probably why she doesn’t believe it either.
“Can I see some ID?” she asks with one cocked brow.
Ah, crap.
I haven’t changed my last name. According to my license, I’m still Elizabeth Brighton.
I tell her this, and she frowns. “Without some way to verify your identity, I can’t just let you up. I could give him a call?”
She starts lifting the phone and I scurry forward, holding out my hand as if to block her. “No, no. Don’t do that. It’ll ruin the surprise. Here, let me…” I glance around me, trying to find something that could help. My eyes lock onto a newspaper lying forgotten in a seating area near the windows. I snap my fingers.
“You can look us up online!”
“What?”
“Yeah, look up our wedding. There are photos of us and everything.”
“This isn’t exactly standard protocol,” she says, thinning her lips as she wakes up her computer by toggling her mouse.
I cringe. “I know. I hate to ask you to do this. I just thought it’d be fun if I surprised him.”
She types something on her keyboard and then leans in to study the screen, glancing from it, to me, then back to it again.
“What did you say your name is?”
“Elizabeth Brighton,” I say, before spelling it out for her as well.
“Did you two get married at the courthouse?”
I smile. “Yes. I should be wearing a cheetah print dress in the picture?”
“Well that’s definitely you,” she says with a laugh and a shake of her head. “All right. Hand over your ID so I can scan it in and then I’ll have someone escort you up.”
A few minutes later, I stand shoulder to shoulder in an elevator with a beefy security guard. Well, not exactly shoulder to shoulder. More like shoulder to hip. The guy is massive. He’s easily four times my size and only interested in doing his job. His eyes are focused straight ahead. His thumbs loop through his belt. His mouth is unsmiling. He doesn’t seem to want to speak, so I don’t press him.