by Tessa Bailey
“Your nickname—pun intended—is Focus Man. Now live up to it,” Andrew says sourly.
Damn. I’ve only been with Anterdec for a year, and so far, so good. After they acquired my firm, my prospects weren’t exactly certain. With three kids in college, this needs to last. Just long enough to have an empty nest, and then…
And then no one depends on me. I’m free. Free to pursue whatever I want for the first time in my life.
A flash of mesh corset fills my free mind.
“Focus Man?” I laugh. “I can think of worse names to call me.”
We all take a sip of our gigantic coffees and sit in silence for a moment. Andrew types on his computer, drinking more, then looks at me.
“Done. Gina can take care of specifics, but I green-lighted another gO Spa RV and two more locations for new, full-service spas.”
“Do I get to help hire the staff?” Amanda asks Andrew with a wink.
“You,” he says archly, his voice going low and dark, “are staying at HQ with me.”
She gives him a wicked smile.
I miss having a woman smile at me like that.
I wonder if Chloe’s free for dinner.
If I’m Focus Man, I can be focused in more ways than one.
Chapter Six
Chloe
Carrie is right behind me as we head for our post-mortem in my office. That presentation went well. Better than well. My skin buzzes with triumph.
And maybe—just maybe—from being once-overed by a man with eyes the color of the sky.
“Oh my God, who died?” she gasps, pulling me out of my mini-fantasy.
There are roses in my office.
A lot of white roses. Six or eight dozen, by my guess.
Presentations like the one I just completed fill me with a weird mix of warrior-induced adrenaline and terror-induced cortisol. I’m primed for battle. This pathetic attempt to make up for what I saw that night—for what Joe did to me a month ago—has the opposite effect of what he intended.
The asshole just won’t let it go.
Won’t let me go.
Fury sears me from the inside out.
“Carrie, here, take some for your desk,” I say, grabbing the biggest vase and thrusting it at her. “Actually, take some for everyone. Take them all. They make my eyes water.” That’s a lie. My eyes aren’t blurring from rose fever. My vision is distorted by rage.
“Seriously, Chloe? Thanks!” It takes her three trips, but she gets them all out.
On her third go-around, she frowns. “Who are these from?”
“An old colleague.”
“He must really like you.”
“He used to,” I say faintly, my voice tinny, like I’m whispering through a pipe.
A sewer pipe.
Does Joe really think that eight dozen roses from Montelcini Flowers will magically erase the memory of his long stem in someone else’s mouth?
“What happened?”
What happened? What happened? The words spin through my mind, untethered and dangerous, like a pain-covered boomerang. None of this is Carrie’s fault, and I can’t get the image of Nick Grafton out of my head.
Any more than I can stop seeing the back of Joe’s blonde bunny’s head.
“Chloe?”
I steel myself and give her a neutral look. “Nothing. His tastes didn’t align with mine. He decided to go for a younger look.”
“That blows.”
Oh, if only you knew.
And with that, she’s gone. Carrie can take a hint.
I take out the mystery shop report and my Costco-sized bottle of aspirin, sit down at my desk, and do not move for the next hour.
Every ten minutes or so, the receptionist looks in and gives me an update. Joe has called six times. She wants to know when I am going to take his call.
NeverEver. Taylor Swift could not have said it better.
Deep in the details of an eviscerating—but accurate—mystery shop analysis, I don’t notice the man in the doorway until Carrie says, in a stage voice, “Her office is right here.”
“Chloe, that was a great presentation.” It’s The Frowner. Nick Grafton. Damn, I should have googled him but I forgot. “I’d like to talk more about your ideas for carrying the O brand through all levels of design. Things like that grey O border on the china—the client almost doesn’t even notice, but it’s always in view. Very smart. Would you have your admin call my assistant and set up a meeting for next week?”
“Of course. Thank you.” I’m flustered, surprised by his sudden appearance, and a little shaken. One sandal is off, and I’m frantically feeling around for it with my foot so I can stand up properly. And my lipstick is completely worn off… but that reminds me: “I have some thoughts about a line of private-label O cosmetics. I’d love your opinion.”
“Interesting. Next week then.” He hesitates. “A bit of a personal question—did you by any chance grow up around here?”
“Across the river, in Cambridge.” I look at him curiously.
“I have a younger brother, Charlie, and you look just like one of his friends. Any chance…?”
“Oh my god, Charlie Grafton!” I laugh. “I thought I recognized your last name. How is Charlie? We have totally lost touch.”
“Charlie’s, well, …” he starts, when my desk phone buzzes. I look down at it, but before I can pick up the receiver, the intercom starts, “Code Seven, Code Seven.”
We both stare at the phone, perplexed.
This is the call for security. Something is wrong at the front desk.
A business like O requires first-rate security 24/7. So much can go wrong, internally or externally, online or physically.
Privacy is paramount at O. Our cybersecurity is the tightest available. The last thing O needs is public exposure of our clients’ names.
Or their preferences.
We’re also on alert at all times for crazies.
Sometimes it seems like we’re a magnet for crazies. Conservative protestors pop up once in a while and need to be convinced that we really aren’t the place for protests. Generally, sending the g-stringed, all-male revue out to the protestors with boxes of donuts does the trick, but security is always there for backup.
And every once in a while, an O client confuses a staff member’s professional attention to physical pampering with True Love. Those situations can be tricky. Henry gets at least one proposition a week, and some of them are quite insistent.
What we offer our club members is relaxation and serenity. Our mission you might say, is inner peace. Our security team is invisible, dressed just like the spa staff, but when Code Seven is announced, they react very differently.
Nick Grafton is frozen in my doorway as men and women wearing grey silk kimono jackets and very little else race by.
I can hear shouting now, and some banging. Just like everyone else who works here, I have attended training sessions for this exact set of circumstances. I have the certificate to prove it.
And damned if I can remember one single thing that I am supposed to be doing.
Standing lopsided at my desk with one heeled sandal on and one off, staring like a deer in the headlights, is probably not what I was taught, though.
The shouting is getting louder, and dear god, is that my name I hear? Like some horror movie where the demon is closing in on the innocent victim? Nick Grafton and I look at each other.
Rushing toward the source of danger is probably wrong also? I hobble to the door as fast as possible. Three feet away, I trip, pitching forward. Nick catches me by reflex, one hand under my arm and one squarely on my breast as he inserts himself ahead of me, protectively.
I should be totally embarrassed. He’s a business associate and a complete stranger, but damn, that feels good. I need to fall more often. I need to practice klutziness. I never realized before what an important skill it is.
At that exact moment, my ex-boyfriend Joe heaves into view, dragging three security guards and screaming, �
��Chloe! Goddammit, let go of me! Chloe!” Joe’s tie is loose and his shirt is pulled out. His face is bright red and dripping sweat.
As Aaron Sorkin would say, this is not happening.
O’s corporate office is not huge. We all know each other, and everyone here knows Joe, at least by sight. The looks of fear on staff members’ faces shift to curiosity, and maybe a little embarrassment. But like a traffic accident, they can’t look away. They are Relationship Rubberneckers, and I’m a two-car pile-up on the Mass Pike. WBZ should cover this on the threes.
No one moves.
Just then, Joe looks up and sees me in Nick’s arms. Or hands. Or both.
He wrenches himself free from the security guards and lunges at Nick, who lets go of me.
“STOP!” I scream.
“She’s MINE!” Joe roars, a wave of hot breath expelling from him. Drunk, alcohol-soaked breath.
Nick makes two quick moves, so powerful and authoritative that he seems choreographed. Instinct makes me step back. I’m being protected, even if I didn’t ask for Nick’s help. His fluid grace takes Joe’s clumsy charge and turns his weight against him, overpowering my ex-boyfriend. I choke back a laugh driven by pure shock.
In seconds, Nick’s forearm is around Joe’s throat and one of Joe’s arms is pinned behind his back.
That was unexpected.
And if I weren’t mortified beyond belief, I’d have to admit it was kind of hot, too.
The security guards catch up. Nick says something to them that I can’t hear, and one of them handcuffs Joe. I can smell alcohol, and French cologne.
“Chloe, I have to talk to you, it’s all a mistake, I can explain, I’m so sorry, you know I love you, no one else matters to me, please.” Joe’s talking fast and low.
Henry comes sprinting in, dressed in a g-string, cowboy boots and a big belt buckle that says Everything’s Bigger in Texas. “Chloe, what the hell…? Joe?”
I’m undone. Without thinking, I take three unbalanced steps toward Henry and throw my arms around his mostly naked torso.
Nick looks at us for a long moment, then walks out behind the guards and Joe, who is still talking.
“Get your hands off of me! Don’t you know who I am? Chloe, call them off. Damn it, call them off! Please? C’mon, Chloe, you know I—”
Then—wait? Yep. The unmistakable sound of vomiting.
Some of those roses will need to go to the cleaning crew.
This is not my beautiful life.
* * *
Henry drives me home in his 1996 Audi. A fitting end to a day of uncertainty, discomfort, and some danger. Henry grew up in California, where he learned to drive. He is courteous. He observes the posted speed limit. He yields to the right-of-way.
In Boston traffic, this kind of thing will get you killed. No one expects it and no one knows how to react. Lacking a better idea, they usually respond with their middle fingers.
Surprisingly, we arrive safely at my condo. Climbing out of his car, I pause.
“So… you don’t mind if Jemma hangs out here tonight? I need some girl time. You come, too.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Chloe. Anyway, I’m working tonight, so it’s perfect. If I get out early, I can do research on my thesis until Jem gets home.”
“Thank you, Henry. For everything.”
He winks at me. “You’re our girl.”
I tear up, and wave. He signals, looks over his shoulder, and eases out into the street. Miraculously, no one hits him.
Godspeed.
Inside, a shower. Hot water and ginger-scented soap to wash everything off my skin. As if Joe never touched me. A clean slate.
By the time Jemma walks in the door, I have assembled the following out of the refrigerator: a container of olives (cocktail mix, the kind with tiny onions and dried cranberries), a small block of Parmesan cheese, a dish of honey, a Granny Smith apple, and three slices of smoked ham. Also some crackers of questionable freshness.
She looks it over.
“Maybe if we boiled a pound of pasta and mixed it all together, we could make a dinner out of this?” She sounds doubtful.
“I have an entire case of Prisoner, Jem,” I offer. The Prisoner is our favorite Napa red. Food just became irrelevant. Dinner will be served in a glass tonight. Possibly tomorrow night as well.
She settles on a counter stool as I pour.
“Okay. What’s been going on?”
“In the last twelve hours?” I smile wearily. “This morning I gave a kickass presentation to senior management, during which I exposed myself in a black corset. At least they know I don’t pierce my nipples. Andrew McCormick green lighted my gO Spa project. I also met an incredible man, who turns out to be the brother of my high school boyfriend. I went back to my office after the presentation and there were dozens of white roses from Joe. I gave them away. He called about sixty times, but I didn’t answer, so he showed up at O. Drunk. And tried to fight with Nick, who is the incredible man I met. Then he puked all over the hallway in shades that do not match the color palette.”
Jemma blinks. “That’s it?”
“And I have a meeting with Nick next week.”
“Want to hear about my last twenty-four hours?” Jem asks.
I nod.
“Yesterday I had a meeting with my editor, then I went home. Henry made salmon for dinner, after which I exposed myself in a lace bra. This morning I walked three miles. I wrote half of an article on nutrition for pregnant women in displaced populations. I took a nap. Henry called four times and I answered four times. Then I showed up here. Might get a little bit drunk.”
I look at her lovely, serene face.
“I would trade with you in a heartbeat,” I say sincerely.
“So Joe Blow earned his nickname,” she muses. “I am so sorry, Chloe. That must have been awful.”
I know she means the confrontation at work today, but my mind goes back a month.
“Don’t call him that. It was awful, Jem. I will never get that picture out of my mind.” I press my hands to my eyes. “And Blowjob Barbie was wearing a bra printed with Red Sox logos! How could he?”
Jemma shudders.
“The only thing worse would have been a Yankees logo.”
I throw an olive at her. She catches it neatly in her palm and eats it.
“He tried to fight with some guy at your office?”
“Yes! In front of the whole staff! I tripped and fell, and Nick caught me and somehow he had one hand on my boob, and Joe saw that and went crazy—well, he already was crazy—and took a swing at him. And Nick just went like this,” I stand up and do my best to demonstrate how he overpowered Joe, “and that was it. Security took over.”
She is just staring at me. I sit down again.
“Oh, and then Joe threw up all over my lovely New Zealand wool carpet. I chose that carpet when we remodeled the building.”
She starts to giggle. I see her point and join in, until a horrible thought stops me cold, and my eyes fill up with tears.
“Jemma,” I whisper, “What if the adoption people find out about this?”
“Do you think they could?”
“O keeps pretty tight control over information. All the employees know that any leak would cost them their job. But still… there’s always a chance… and it would look so bad. It was a violent outburst. The timing could not be worse.”
“Actually, it could. Suppose you hadn’t found out he had this in him? Suppose he acted this way around the baby? You know Henry and I were never big fans of Joe’s, but I would not have predicted any of this. Did you see it coming?”
I think for a minute. “Not really, no. Maybe I should have. Looking back, I guess a lot of things didn’t really add up. But he loved me so much!” I frown. “I mean, I think he really loved me… right? He said he did, all the time.”
Jemma looks at me sadly.
“He didn’t love me, did he?” I ask, but I don’t really expect an answer.
“He wasn’t really getting a divorce for three years,” she says. It clearly pains her. “So…”
I make an animal noise in the back of my throat that can only be cured by wine.
“Chloe.” Jem takes a deep breath. “Chloe, you are our best friend. You are the best person. You’re lovely and kind and smart and funny. You work so hard, and you love so hard. You’re true blue. And you deserve so, so much better than Joe Blow. You deserve a guy who will love you every day. Only you. A guy who will show you how much he loves you, and not just say the words.”
“I look at what you and Henry have, and that’s how I know it’s possible. It exists.”
Jemma sighs. It’s the sound a friend makes when she wants to say something she shouldn’t, but has to anyway. “Chloe, you know how people ask you sometimes why you decided to adopt?”
“Yes.”
“And how you choose not to give a reason?”
“Yes.” Where’s she going with this?
“I think part of the reason is that you knew you didn’t have a future with Joe, so you decided to make your own future.”
Ouch.
“Please don’t be mad.” Her fingers land on my forearm, pressing compassion into me.
“Not mad,” I choke out, trying not to cry. “Just blindsided a little. You’re right.” I look at her with a starkness I wish I could share with a life partner. “Joe was never, ever going to give me what I want.” I squeeze her hand.
We share a sad smile.
“Now tell me about this incredible man you met.”
“Not much to tell, really.” I let out a cleansing breath. “Pretty high up at Anterdec. He’s handsome. I think he liked me—he might have been flirting—but I’m not sure.”
“Well, he liked you enough to grab your boob,” she smiles.
“That was an accident!”
“Ah. He can put another guy in a choke hold with one James Bond move, but he is so klutzy, he can’t hold you up without feeling you up?”
She raises one eyebrow.
I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.
“He’s my high school boyfriend’s older brother. There’s something about him, Jem, I can’t describe it. I want his arms around me. It’s a funny feeling. Safe sexy.”