Chapter Eighteen
Outside the library door, I finally pull myself up to my feet before joining Jonathan.
He sits down at a giant desk which would be sufficient for several normal people. “Would you like to explain what’s going on out there?”
“I made supper,” I tell him without going into detail.
“Did you season it with arsenic?”
“Ha, ha, ha,” I reply mirthlessly before adding, “We may have eaten too much.”
“You cooked for my staff.” It’s not a question so much as a point of fact.
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, maybe because they’ve all been so nice to me. Why do I need a reason?”
He puts his elbows on the table and teepees his fingers together in front of him. “I pay them to be nice to my guests. They are staff, after all.”
“I beg to differ. You pay them to take care of your guests. Being nice is something they choose on their own.”
“You’ve only been here for one day,” he says, “and already you’ve set my household topsy- turvy.”
I can’t help the giggle that bursts out of me.
“Why is that funny?” he demands.
“Topsy-turvy sounds like something little girls in Victorian times would say.”
“I believe they might have used the term catawampus or cockeyed,” he replies with a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t think topsy-turvy came into vogue until the early twentieth century.”
I plop down on a chair in front of his desk. “Good for you, having a sense of humor about yourself,” I tell him. “Now, why are you really here?”
“I’m here for a file, like I told Martin.”
“Which file?” I demand, eying him closely.
He hurries to open a drawer and makes a show of digging through it. When it’s clear he can’t find any files, he says, “I must have left it at the office.”
“Why are you really here, Jonathan?”
“It’s very quiet at your house,” he confesses.
“What do you normally do at night when you’re home?”
“I have a special room where I … um …”
“Box?” I guess.
“Er, no.”
“Sew blankets for orphans?”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No …”
“Make wreaths out of dried citrus fruit to sell at craft shows.” I can’t help it; I’m having fun toying with him.
“No. I have a special room where I like to relax.”
“The Depot?” I ask.
“You’ve gone in there, haven’t you?” he demands angrily.
“I was in there when you called me from my room yesterday,” I tell him. “And before you get your knickers in a knot, I think it’s a fabulous room.”
“I don’t wear knickers, Emily,” he says sternly.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a commando kind of guy,” I tell him.
“I wear boxers, not that it’s any of your business.” Then he demands, “Why did you go into my room after I told you not to.”
“I’d already been in there before you told me not to.”
“The question begs, why would you open a closed door in a house that isn’t your own?”
“Jonathan, I’m a realtor, that’s what I do.” He looks like he’s softening slightly, so I take a gamble and ask, “Do you want to go play with your trains?”
Whoops, wrong wording. “I do not play with my trains,” he responds in a very superior tone.
“What do you do with them then?”
His face turns red in a blush. “I’m the conductor,” he tells me. “I conduct them.”
“Ah, well then, would you like to go play conductor for a while?” I don’t care what he says, a grown man conducting a toy train set is playing. He doesn’t answer right away, so I offer, “I’ll go with you. I’d love to see the whole thing in motion.”
“It’s my private room,” he says. “I’ve never had guests in there.”
“Not even Steven?”
“Steven can go in when I’m not there.” I stand up and start to walk out of the library. Jonathan practically bellows in my wake, “Where are you going?”
I pick up my pace. “I’m going to play with your trains.” Then I break into a full run.
Jonathan follows me. “That’s my room!” But I’m far enough ahead that he doesn’t catch up to me until I’m already opening the door to The Depot.
I flip on the lights and am about to run over to the conductor’s chair when Jonathan bursts through the door and makes a grab for me. He pulls me toward him with such force I practically fly into his arms.
Words escape me as I feel the hard length of him pressed against me. He doesn’t let me go right away either and I find myself hoping it’s because he likes how this feels as much as I do. The building tension is either going to result in me kissing the man—where did that idea come from?—or making a joke.
Before I can say anything though, Jonathan takes a step back which causes me to fall forward. Apparently, I was leaning on him. “I’ll show you how it works if you promise not to come in here without me,” he says, while making a beeline for his chair.
“Deal,” I agree as I hurry behind him. He sits down and reaches under the table to pull out an honest-to-God conductor’s hat. I want to laugh so badly, but I don’t dare, or he might banish me from this room forever.
Jonathan turns on all kinds of switches that I didn’t have an opportunity to try the last time I was in here. When the town’s lights turn on, I watch in wonder as little freestanding people start to move. The sidewalks are conveyor belts that carry the old western-garbed figurines throughout town.
“There are three separate trains,” he explains, “and it’s my job as the conductor to make sure there are no collisions.” He illustrates how he does this by flipping switches that cause the trains to move onto different tracks. He speeds them up and slows them down. I’m totally engrossed and can see why he was trying to sneak in here tonight to play. It must be his form of mediation.
“Can I try?” I ask, barely suppressing a burst of energy that has me wanting to push him out of his chair so I can take over.
“No. You need several more lessons before you can be a conductor.”
“Are you serious?” He can’t be serious.
“Of course, I’m serious. This is a very intricate operation that I’ve spent years perfecting. I can’t risk any trouble.”
I fall to the floor in mock horror and lie there while he continues his diatribe. “This is not a toy. This is a very serious pursuit.” Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
I stop listening and become distracted by a light shining under the hem of the train table. I’m about to lift it when Jonathan sees what I’m doing and yells, “Don’t go under there!”
Yeah, ‘cause that’s going to work on me. I immediately lift the fabric and roll under before he can stop me. Holy cow, Jonathan has built himself a fort under here, full-on with scattered pillows and blankets!
“Um, Jonathan,” I start to say.
Silence.
“You built yourself a little fort?”
Silence.
I start to rifle through a stack of old comic books and accuse, “You’re an Atlas fan, too!”
“Please come out from there.” His voice sounds strangled.
“No way.” I don’t need him thinking he can boss me around.
“Please,” he begs.
“Nope.”
Before I know what’s happening, Jonathan reaches a hand under the table and tries to make a grab for me. I scoot away and start squealing the closer he gets. Finally, he gets off his chair and joins me. The first thing he does is take hold of my ankle and give it a sharp tug.
I roll over, hoping to grab onto a table leg so he can’t pull me out, but I’m not fast enough. He yanks me toward him with such force that I knock into him. He practically lands on top of me. Yowza!
Jonathan stares deeply into my eyes, like romance-novel deeply. Books make up the lion’s share of my romantic life, don’t judge. “Emily …” he says before I can scoot away.
“Jonathan …” I counter. What I really want to say is, “Take me now, right here in your big boy fort under your train set.” But I don’t want him to think I’m making fun of him.
Instead of reading my mind and enjoying more interesting pursuits, Jonathan breaks all contact with me and rolls out from under the fort. “I’d better get going.”
What? Why? If this behavior is any indication how Jonathan acts in a romantic situation, he might need more than an address change to find the woman of his dreams. Of course, I may just not be his idea of what he’s looking for.