"By meeting with her and explaining to her how I butted into your relationship," he says, smiling confidently.
I squint and give him a side eye. "And you think that will help?"
"Trust me," he says.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Samantha
Peter Shark takes me through the seven stages of relationship grief as we sit across from one another at the coffee shop in my condo complex. I've decided Lisa, the woman Peter took to London to propose to, is a cow of the first order. I'd met her a couple of times, and I never really liked her. She always seemed fake and calculating to me. I get the feeling she didn't like Peter working so closely with my fine black self, either. Too bad, so sad for her. Personally, I believe Lisa did Peter a favor by dumping him.
Peter recounts his heartbreak in excruciating detail, though, thankfully, he shares nothing of his sex life with Lisa. To amuse myself, I imagine her underneath him, making sly glances at her manicure, or perhaps stealing surreptitious looks at a wall clock. He's handling the dumping better than I would have expected. He's gone through all the stages of breakup grief (1.) Desperate for answers, (2.) Denial, (3.) Bargaining, (4.) Relapse, (5.) Anger, (6.) Acceptance, and (7.) Hope for the future.
I am happy that Peter is coping so well, but his acceptance of his single status only makes my own recent breakup all the more poignant.
I'd been the one keeping Lincoln at arm's length. I'm the one who dumped him, which is a welcome change in my love life, which started with my unrequited middle school love of Jimmy Malone in the sixth grade. Jimmy, it turned out, was not really into girls with pimples and hair like a nest of wood shavings. Instead, he chose a girl with long, straight blonde hair and hazel eyes to take to the painfully awkward middle school homecoming dance. Jimmy and all the others who followed, up to and including Howard Becker, had all dumped me. I dumped Lincoln, but oddly enough, I didn't feel any better in the aftermath of a breakup simply because I'd done the dumping.
"I think you'll look back on this time and realize you were better off without her," I say, certain of this statement. Peter's facial expression to this assertion is hard to read. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral.
"Thanks for being there for me," he says. His big, brown eyes study me.
"You're welcome," I say, placing my hand on his to comfort him. "What are friends for, right?"
"We're friends?" His eyes crinkle with amusement. "Because I thought you liked to keep your personal life separate from your professional life?"
"I've come to realize things don't work that way," I say, because it's true. Despite how things ended between me and Lincoln and the pain I'd experienced as a result of that relationship, I realize how hard it is to fend off emotions once you get to know someone. "Human beings seem to have a knack for making friends against all odds. Not sure if it's a feature or a bug."
Peter smiles.
"While we're on the subject," I say, "Please remember I'm not one of those kinds of friends who will bail your ass out of jail at 2 am."
The smile turns into a chuckle.
"Except," I say, raising a finger. "If you pay me to bail you out at 2 am, keep in mind that my rate for things that involve me getting out of bed is $70 per hour, not the usual $35. Just so you know."
I care about Peter, I realize, in a way I hadn't allowed myself to care about someone I worked with since the whole Howard Becker debacle. Part of me realizes this is Lincoln's influence.
I'm happy Peter is getting back into the swing of things.
"So, how are things with the business?" I ask. I slurp my frozen coffee drink through a straw slowly to avoid brain freeze. I love frozen coffee drinks, which I like to pretend I buy for the restorative powers of caffeine, but really, I get them because they allow me to drink milkshakes under the guise of keeping my mind sharp. And I get them because they allow me to drink milkshakes with less guilt than I might otherwise experience. As far as rationalizations go, this one is stellar.
He brings his cup of decaf to his lips and takes a sip. I try not to think about the fact that he's wasting time drinking a brown liquid that won't do anything for him.
"Now that we're beyond the crazed phase of taking orders and shipping, I'm starting to think of the future," Peter says. "I want to find volunteer opportunities for my staff, as well as a charity I can personally get involved with as a donor and volunteer."
We'd spoken about this briefly when we set up a time to meet, and I'd prepared some options to discuss with Peter. Reaching for the leather tote hanging off the back of my chair, I extract a manila folder. In the murky depths of my bag, I see my cell phone buzzing and lighting up with many missed calls and text messages. Without thinking, I remove the phone, and while peering at the display, the phone buzzes loudly in my hand.
"Do you need to get that?" Peter asks.
Blushing, I fumble with the phone in my haste to stop the buzzing, bobbling it and nearly dropping it before I turn off the ringer. The screen has a long line of text messages and voicemail notifications from Lincoln and from an unknown number that must be Howard. Against my will, my eyes are drawn to two messages in particular, which pop up on my lock screen.
Tough Customer: I love you. Please talk to me.
Tough Customer: I miss you. Please take my calls.
He's written it over and over. And despite everything, my heart melts. I feel sad because the messages contain no emojis, which must mean he's not his usual teasing self. I miss the back and forth of our text messages. I frown at them.
When I look up, it is to Peter's inquisitive eyes. I'm pretty sure he has a glimpse of my screen before I silence the phone.
"Uh...no," I say, waving a hand, flustered. "I just...forgot to turn it off. Sorry."
"Who is Tough Customer?" he asks, his eyes curious with bemusement. "Another client?"
I smile nervously. "Lincoln Cooper," I say with a shrug. "He is— was a client. I'll call him back later." I say this even though I have no intention of calling him.
"Was?" Peter asks.
"Yes, was," I reiterate. "His assistant is back in the office after a series of unfortunate events," I say. "She had the flu, then she broke her hip. He doesn't need me anymore."
"Yikes, what bad luck," Peter says.
"Right?" I say, covering up my heartache. With all my bravado, I'm still missing Lincoln, the irritating fool. I miss his wolfish grins, his annoying arrogance, the way he touches me. I miss his goofy text messages, his flirtations, the way he smells.
I love you...
He'd confessed his feelings for me in the heat of the moment, after admitting he'd had me followed. But I believe there was truth in his words. I believe he loved me, and I believe he loves me now, and he did some stupid shit partly because he loves me. How stupid was I with Howard Becker? If Howard had come back to me, begging my forgiveness after what went down with Alicia, would I have been foolish enough to take him back?
Maybe.
Probably.
I don't know why—maybe because of the pain I see in Peter's eyes —but I feel that after two weeks apart from Lincoln, for the first time, I want to hear what he has to say for himself.
I miss Lincoln so much that I'm tempted to beg off my meeting with Peter to call Lincoln back. We are no longer client and contractor. The source of our conflict is gone. Of course, blowing off Peter is not a good idea. My personal life will have to wait until after Peter and I have finished our business.
So, it is with grim determination that I launch into the research I've done for Peter. I show him the information I've pulled together for several charities focused on providing affordable housing, which is a nice dovetail to Peter's real estate business.
Peter asks me a number of pertinent questions, which I answer while trying not to seem distracted.
At one point, distraction is inevitable when someone walks past the cafe. Oddly enough, the person looks just like Lincoln Cooper. Only, how could it possibly be him? It couldn't be, but I still stret
ch my neck as subtly as possible to see if Lincoln has a doppelgänger.
Lincoln's clone walks past the plate glass window of the café. He must've somehow sensed me watching him because he stops abruptly, peers into the café, then does a double-take. Trailing him is a man I recognize from Lincoln's office. I don't know the man well, but I had met him once, and I seem to recall his name is Brad. But it can't be them, can it?
"Samantha?" Peter says. Apparently, my surreptitious glances are less sneaky than I believe they are. Peter looks at me with a puzzled expression. I blink at him. Peter's eyebrows come together as he traces the path of my gaze.
"What are you looking at?" Peter asks. I blush so hard that the tips of my ears feel hot and tingly.
"Hm? It's no one," I tell him. "No one at all."
Lincoln spots me watching him, and we both freeze on our own sides of the glass in a staring contest. My nostrils flare, and I turn my attention back to my meeting with Peter. I clear my throat, blink rapidly, and launch into the benefits of one of the organizations I've researched. Only I lose all my words when Lincoln enters the café. The chimes over the door jingle as Lincoln enters, followed by his friend Brad. Lincoln wears black dress pants, a white dress shirt, and black loafers. His outfit reminds me of the night of the gala, and I note the sprinkle of dark chest hairs my fingers itch to touch. He makes eye contact with me, takes in the fact I am sitting at a table with another man, and furrows his brows. The relatively relaxed expression he'd had on the sidewalk becomes thunderously angry when he sees Peter. He stalks to our table with several long, confident strides. His eyes dart between me and Peter's hand on mine. I don't remember Peter touching me—not at all. It must've happened when I was looking out the window, dazed and confused.
Long, uncomfortable moments pass, during which I contemplate what to say to Peter, what to say to Lincoln, and why this dude Brad is part of Lincoln's entourage.
I clear my throat, which feels as if it might be filled with sand.
"Samantha," Lincoln says through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. "You're a hard woman to get a hold of."
He crosses his arms over his chest, and a muscle in his jaw flexes.
My pulse speeds up. I lick my lips, uncertain as to what I should say. Lincoln has apparently completely misconstrued what's going on here. I'm not quite sure how to handle it because at the end of the day I’m still at work and it seems to me there aren't many appropriate things to say when your lover runs into you at a café with your client, especially when there's no way your lover can know that your client is indeed your client, and not your new man.
I find myself speaking on autopilot. "Lincoln Cooper, meet —"
"Peter Shark!" Brad interrupts me, wearing a broad smile. "We've met before. We use Shark Enterprises software at my firm. It's a pleasure to see you."
Lincoln looks at Brad, incredulous. Then he looks at me. "You told me Peter Shark was a client," Lincoln hisses.
Peter looks confused by the show of blatant animosity from Lincoln. "I am a client. Just like you. Is there a problem?" Peter gets to his feet with his arms crossed over his chest, matching Lincoln's stance. Peter looks offended on my behalf. The two men glare at each other.
I also get to my feet, cross my arms over my chest, and turn my attention to Lincoln. I was ready to forgive him before, or at least, explain what could possibly lead him to spy on me, but the man is stalking me now! Lincoln Cooper is now in the running for asshat of the year.
"Yeah," I say, my eyes narrowed to slits. "Is there a problem?" All of my warm feelings toward Lincoln evaporate in the face of his obnoxious behavior. Who does he think he is? This is my business meeting, and he just barges right in? Oh, hell no.
Of the four of us, only one seems to be in a reasonable mood. The barista, a pale-faced, skinny, hipster with a scraggly beard and a strawberry blond pompadour approaches our table.
Eyebrows up, expression determined, the young man queries, "Can I get y'all anything?" in a tone of voice suggesting less an effort to see to our needs, and more an assertion that we need to sit the hell down, or else step outside should we decide to come to blows.
"No, we are good," I say, switching gears from cranky to ingratiating. My beatific smile seems to put the young man at ease. He slinks away.
Although the café is relatively empty on a weekday afternoon, the patrons there give us curious looks. These are not only café regulars; many are my neighbors as well.
"Gentlemen, why don't we all sit down?" I say, taking a seat. The other three look at me, but no one makes a move to sit. "Please."
Lincoln pulls up a chair and sits, casually draping an arm over the back of my seat. Brad hastily suggests to Peter Shark that they step away so that Lincoln and I can discuss, "a billing issue." Brad and Peter step out into the Texas sunshine, with Brad chatting merrily.
Left alone with Lincoln, I grip the seat of my chair and attempt to scoot away from him. But the more I scoot away, the more he follows, and nothing I do dislodges his arm from the back of my chair. He's got this look in his eyes that suggests he's on a mission. He has something to say, will not be dissuaded, and expects to keep me rooted in place until I hear him out.
In truth, I find his bossiness hot. When we make love, he does a lot of manhandling, posing me in various positions in order to maximize the angle of penetration. That's right, Lincoln is still smoking hot, and my body still gravitates to him. Combined with his wonderful scent, the juxtaposition of his formal work clothes over what I know to be his powerful muscles, the determined set of his jaw the dress shirt that appears crisp even near the end of the work day, turns me on like nothing I've ever experienced before. Gotta love that extra-heavy starch.
"Are you sure you aren't involved with Peter Shark?" he says, looking at me as if it is perfectly normal to accuse a woman of dating someone else as a lead in to getting back together.
"Why don't you ask your investigator?" I say, feeling angry as fuck at him. I cross my arms over my chest again, and my boobs hitch up slightly with the motion. Thank goodness, I'm totally covered up, otherwise, I'd be presenting my cleavage for his inspection. Lincoln's expression turns lecherous. The man doesn't miss a thing.
"What? No answer to that?" I purse my lips, take a deep breath, and wait.
"Why did you hire someone to investigate me?" I ask.
His brows furrow.
"I didn't," he says. His expression is oddly sincere. He says nothing more.
"Excuse me?" I ask, feeling like the straight man in a comedy routine. "The other day, you told me that you'd hired a private investigator. Are you now saying that's not what happened?"
"Who hired him? Or her? Who hired them?" I ask. I am frustrated and losing patience.
"Brad hired the investigator," he says. "I told him about you. I couldn't understand why you were so hell-bent on not having a relationship with me. I should never have discussed it with him. I'm sorry."
I start to settle back in my chair, but Lincoln has his arm draped around it, meaning he also has his arm draped around my shoulders. I can't completely relax.
"Why didn't you just ask me why I was reluctant to commit?" I ask. I really want to move away from him, but he has me trapped. The heat of his body is getting to me. I want nothing more than to feel his arms all around me. And Jesus, does he smell good!
"I did, in not so many words," he says. "I couldn't get you to open up to me."
I have to admit this is true. Even though, when it was clear that Lincoln and I had something special, I still resisted. Lincoln takes my hand in his, looking directly into my eyes.
"I love you," he says, his Caribbean blue eyes alight with sincerity. "Do you think we can try again?"
Emotion swells in my throat, and I can feel the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I swallow down the cry that threatens to erupt from my throat.
"You know," I say. "A wise woman once told me that once you become a pickle, you can't go back to being the cucumber."
&n
bsp; Lincoln blinks at me. Then he smiles. "Do you mean Dear Ida?"
My brows crease. "You know Dear Ida?"
"I know her well," he says. "As long as I'm coming clean, I saw that you wrote her a couple of times. I did too."
His smile is cautious, as if wondering whether I'll react poorly to this revelation. I realize that in addition to pushing Lincoln away out of fear, I have also closed myself off to something truly wonderful.
At this point, Lincoln and I are pickles. We can't go back to being cucumbers. And honestly, I don't want to.
"It's okay," I say. "I love pickles."
"I love pickles too," he says.
Lincoln has a hard time containing himself. His eyes shine with happiness. He scoots my chair closer to his until the legs touch, and we can get no closer. Lincoln cranes his neck at the plate glass window where Brad and Peter are speaking animatedly; Brad talking with his hands. Neither man pays the slightest amount of attention to us, Brad keeping Peter distracted. Brad seems to be taking his wingman duties seriously.
Lincoln yanks me onto his lap and covers my mouth with his for a long, breath-stealing kiss. He tastes fruity, his lips are warm, and his light beard abrades my face deliciously. I totally forget myself and give into the moment, and we make out right there in the cafe. The crowd chatter dissipates to a dull roar. When we stop kissing, we have many pairs of eyes on us. I blush and go to hop off Lincoln's lap, but he holds me still.
"Just to be clear, when I say I love pickles, I mean, I love you," I say.
"I sorta figured that's what you meant," he says with a hand on my waist, holding me tight. It feels good. He feels good.
His lips, his scent, the way he makes me feel in his arms. This moment is perfect, even with a room full of people watching and perhaps wondering if I'm batshit crazy, or perhaps some kind of exhibition. This is such a perfect moment. The kind of moment I want to live in and keep in my heart to tell the grandkids someday.
"I interrupted your meeting," he says. He has his mouth close to my ear, and when he speaks, his lips brush the shell of my ear.
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 20