Rich in Faith (Richness in Faith, Book 3) (8 page)

MONSOON

FRIDAY MORNING BRINGS torrential rains which squash any attempt at running. Thunder rumbles early and wakens me from a night of surprisingly good sleep.

I thought the late dinner and time spent with Court might make for a restless night, but I was wrong.

Mrs. Stratton needed the day off, so I make the coffee. I’ve pulled my hair back in a ponytail and am reading the Wall Street Journal online when Court steps into my world.

He nods toward the back of the house where sheets of pouring rain are visible through the floor to ceiling windows.

“No outdoor activities today.” He pours himself a cup of coffee before joining me at the bar.

“I agree.” As I sip my coffee, I spy the card I had bought for my dad. It’s addressed and stamped, ready to be mailed.

Picking it up brings fond memories of my dad. I will miss spending Father’s Day with him this year.

“Need to mail that?” Court asks.

“I do. I’m sure the rain will let up soon and I’ll run it out there.”

Court leans over, taking the envelope out of my hand. “The mail comes first thing. I’ll take it.”

“No. You’ve already showered. I’ll run it out there.” I make a move to slide off my barstool, but his hand on my shoulder stops me.

“I’ll do it. Keep reading.”

He half-smiles and I’m mesmerized to do what he says.

Which is not like me at all.

But my gaze follows him as he walks out of the kitchen and down the hall. I hear the door open then the garage door opening.

Moments later, and I swear it’s barely moments, I hear the garage door shut again.

He’s back.

Like it’s second nature, I jump up off the barstool when Court enters the kitchen, hair dripping and shirt speckled with large rain-soaked spots.

Grabbing a towel hanging from the oven door, I hand it to him. “Here.”

He holds the thick red towel in his hand and shakes his head. “I’m not sure what Mrs. Stratton would think of me using a kitchen towel to dry my hair.”

I swallow hard, waffling between not being embarrassed at my maybe lame gesture and unsure of what to say.

His expression holds a hint of mischief as he rakes the towel over his wet hair. “I guess we won’t tell her.”

The fact that his words have the ability to relax me doesn’t escape my notice. Maybe the fact annoys me, but I’m aware.

It’s impossible not to be aware of Court Treyhune on any level. “I guess we won’t.”

“This needs to go to the laundry room.” He drapes the towel over his arm as he brushes his hair with his hands.

“Good idea. Mrs. Stratton will be none the wiser.”

Once again he disappears, but I barely have time to process him leaving the room before he returns.

He doesn’t stay in the kitchen. He walks into the keeping room and stands, one hand on the window, the other shoved in his pocket. The rain seems to hold his attention, and I quietly wonder if I slipped away would he even notice.

As I’m about to take a step his voice stops me.

“You’re refreshingly real.”

I know he’s talking about me, but since I feel anything but real, an unwanted wrench settles in my stomach. He didn’t ask a question, so there’s no obligation to respond.

But somehow saying nothing makes his statement appear true.

Isn’t that what I want?

“Bristol and Darling are real, but they’re only ten,” he continues, his gaze still focused on the monsoon falling outside. “Other than them, I’m surrounded by people who are who they think I want them to be.” Now he turns to me. “Why do you think that is?”

Even with his rain-splattered shirt and wet hair, he makes a perfectly contrasted backdrop to the gray skies and falling rain. It’s almost like he’s too beautiful to be real, but he is real.

And he’s accusing his friends of not being real.

“I’m not qualified to answer that.”

Stepping away from the window he walks toward me. All of him, moving at a slow pace, giving me time to dwell on every step he takes.

Every inch of space that closes between us causes my heart to do strange things.

Like hope.

And beat faster at that hope.

The hope that one day I will love again.

He stops dangerously close to me.

Dangerous because we’ve only known each other a short time, yet he seems unbothered by the closeness.

Maybe he’s unaware?

No. His gaze says he’s not. Dark eyes in which the wall that was there at our first meeting seems to have had a brick or two knocked out of it. Like a sliver of light has entered into his eyes.

My face heats as he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair that has escaped my ponytail behind my ear.

“Thank you, Shelby. Thank you for being real and reminding me what’s important.”

The heat from my face quickly fades as the icy truth runs through me.

He has no idea who I am.

“DO YOU MIND IF I share this space with you?”

I look up from the files I’m looking through in Court’s office as I hear his voice. “No. It’s your office. Your meeting must have gone well if you are home early.”

My imposter self is sitting on the settee with my laptop on my lap and the papers, now in file folders, sitting on the coffee table.

Court walks around his desk and settles in his chair. “It did. Thanks.”

After a few moments, I realize I can sit here all day watching him work. That part of me is real.

Honest.

Maybe that’s what he’s picking up on. My realness toward him, because everything else about me is like those people he described that he surrounds himself with.

I wonder if he puts Jared in that category as well.

I would, but I haven’t been around long.

Still, there is a decisive fakeness I detect from Jared.

As I peruse the homeschool files, Court is busy working on his computer. After a few minutes, the printer starts, and I realize I’ve done more Court-gazing than perusing of the homeschool information in front of me.

Court’s cell phone rings, startling me. From his side of the conversation I learn the call is from his assistant, Susan. He asks her to hold on for a minute.

He turns to me. “I need to take this in the other room. Can you make sure these pages print okay? Sometimes if the output bin gets too full, they fall on the floor.”

“Sure.”

He nods his head and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

His conversation with Susan must be very private.

The sound of the printer jamming brings back memories of when I was trying to scan yesterday.

I set my laptop on the coffee table, lay the papers that have already printed on Court’s desk, and proceed to unjam the printer.

He’s printing on legal size paper, and the tray is empty.

I scour the credenza and finally find a ream of legal paper, so I load the printer and push the start button.

What looks to be a financial statement is printing, but when that finishes, copies of checks start printing.

Finding a paper clip on his desk, I clip the financial statement together, then deciding that wasting legal paper isn’t smart, I switch the paper back to letter size.

I see the checks are all made out to one vendor. Rajed Media. The checks are pretty hefty amounts.

Looking at the still-closed door, I perch on the edge of Court’s chair and pick up the financial statement.

Thankful for my financial background, I quickly find the account that is listed on the check.

Prepaid account.

Of course.

The printer quiets indicating it’s finished printing and I reach over and grab the rest of the papers.

All of which are still copies of the checks to Rajed Media. As I stack the checks, I realize the last check doesn’t have the same account number listed as the first couple of checks that printed.

No, this is another account, still a liability account, but this is an expense account.

Flipping to the expense page of the financial statement, I see the last check is cut to an expense account while some of the other checks are cut out of a prepaid account.

Strange.

Normally vendors who are set up as prepaid aren’t paid out of the expense. That might mean the expense is being charged twice. Especially if it is the same invoice.

I flip through the checks and find four more that are charged to the expense account. But there are no invoice numbers on the checks to reference back to.

Maybe that’s why Court is printing them. He knows something doesn’t look right.

A clicking sound turns my attention to the door knob, which I see turning, and I realize Court is coming back.

I scoot a away from the desk, acting like I’m straightening the stack.

He shoves his phone back into the case that is clipped to his belt and I can tell by his motions that the phone call wasn’t pleasant.

“Thank you for monitoring the printer.” His tone is clipped like he’s not thankful at all, but I’m not taking it personally.

Because he’s real.

And that’s much better than putting on an act.

Even if the act is truly how you want to be.

I stand and step back toward the window as he comes around. His agitated state doesn’t hinder the manly scent that surrounds him. I hope he doesn’t become more agitated that I changed the paper.

He picks up the stack of check copies as I scoot around and make my way back to the safety of the settee.

Leaning back in his chair, he flips the copies of the checks just like I did a few minutes ago. His expression doesn’t change, which means he’s not giving me any indication of his understanding of what he is reading.

He clips the check copies to the financial statement.

The gray of the day has crept into the room, into the atmosphere. In fact, it might be stormier in here than it is outside at the moment.

Court stands and lays the papers on his desk. “I need you to come with me.”

It must be my crazed expression that has him add a “please” to his request.

“Please? I’ll explain in the car.”

“Okay.”

Closing my laptop, I follow him out of the office.

Within minutes we are heading down the main road of the subdivision, neither of us saying a word.

As we turn right out of the subdivision, I see a car that looks like Jared’s pulling into the subdivision.

“Hey, isn’t that—”

Court guns the engine as he turns right, and I hesitate before finishing my question.

I point my thumb toward the back of Court’s SUV. “That looked like Jared’s car.”

“It was.”

Court’s answer makes it more than clear why we are leaving his house. The empty roadway in front of us apparently gives him the license to drive fast, but then he mutters something about the rain and slows his speed to a respectable pace.

All of these driving skills have me questioning why he doesn’t drive on the racetrack.

My other question?

Why are we avoiding Jared?

WE PULL INTO AN almost empty parking lot by the water. Rain is still misting as gray skies hover. All of which appear to match Court’s mood. We sit in silence in the parking lot for a minute, the SUV still running, cranking out the cold air that is fogging the windows.

Or maybe it’s the heat from Court’s anger.

Or whatever emotion it is that has us acting like runaways.

Runaways from our own home.

Even though it’s only my temporary home, it’s still my home.

“You probably think I’m crazy.”

His voice slices through the frosty air, not really demanding an answer, but not rejecting one either.

“Not crazy. Just bothered by something.”

His hands still grasp the steering wheel. It’s as if letting go would indicate he was ready to let go of whatever emotion is driving him.

No pun intended.

But something has to give and I’m not sure he even knows what that something is. “Do you want to get out? Walk around a bit? The air might do us some good.”

I say us like this is our problem.

“It’s still raining,” he says, his grip still tight on the wheel.

“I won’t melt. And neither will you. You proved that this morning.”

His knuckles shift slightly, like he might be considering my suggestion. His right hand pushes the button that turns off the engine. “Come on.”

We exit his ride, the air thick with humidity. He shoves his hands in his pocket and it’s only then I realize he’s still in dress clothes.