Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  None.

  Jemma is lying on the mat next to mine, cradling a two-pound weight on her chest. She’s not even pretending to move. If we pulled the mats outdoors on the roof deck, people would think we were tanning.

  Hmm, not a bad idea. At least we would be accomplishing something.

  One of the perks of working at O Club is that we get to use Oxygen. Not the breathing apparatus. The fitness studio. Although there is a special room here where members can inhale concentrated oxygen in special scents.

  We offer Summer in Provence, Colorado Evergreen, Caribbean Spice. For non-vegans, we have Ferrari Leather. I have suggested Warm Balls—more than once—but it never appears. Am I the only one who finds that scent delicious? And for some of us, it’s scarcer than Southern Oleander.

  We’re in product development for a new scent: Jamie Fraser. The focus group marketing companies have been inundated with volunteers to test-smell that one.

  Jemma turns on her side and does a few leg lifts. Like, three. In the middle of my work day, I can take an hour and join any class with an open spot. In fact, I’m encouraged to join a class every workday. It helps me stay in touch with the business and the clientele.

  Maybe once I adopt, we can add Baby and Me yoga classes.

  Scratch that. Definitely out of the scope of O’s branding.

  But I can’t stop thinking about babies.

  “It’s a good thing you decided to adopt instead of doing IVF, Chloe. I can’t really see you doing a strict daily routine of Kegel exercises. Unless lululemon introduces a maternity line with super cute yoga pants.” Jemma’s comment about adoption jars me out of my reverie.

  “Oh, lots of benefits to adoption. Like, I don’t have to worry about my water breaking in public. And I’ll definitely take the baby home wearing my pre-motherhood jeans.” No one has openly asked, but I’m adopting for reasons that are no one else’s business anyway, so the lack of questions has been fabulous. It’s complicated, but the bottom line is, I have always wanted this baby.

  Jemma sticks her tongue out at me, just a little. It’s cute. “You would anyway. Your size never changes. My closet has every size from 2 to 14. I’ve shopped in major department stores that don’t carry that many sizes.”

  “My size never changes because I am a contentment eater.”

  “A what?” Jemma laughs.

  “A contentment eater. I’m not hungry when I’m deliriously happy, and I can’t even look at food when I’m sad or upset. Or stressed. When I’m perfectly content, and everything is smooth, then I will polish off a pizza. By myself. But since I’ve almost never been perfectly content… size four.” Okay, six. But who’s checking?

  “And anyway,” I continue, “you have a husband who finds you dead sexy no matter what you’re wearing.” And he should. Jemma’s gorgeous.

  “I do,” she agrees, smiling to herself. She runs her hand along her own curvy hip. “Maybe when your baby comes, contentment will be easier to find. How much longer now?”

  “The birth mom is due in twelve weeks. After all this time, I can’t believe the baby is almost here. I’m so excited, Jem. And terrified. I keep wondering if this is how my mom felt when she adopted me.”

  “How is Li?” Li is a sixteen-year-old homeless street kid I met a few months ago while doing philanthropic work for a charity attached to Anterdec, the parent company of the O Spa chain. Through a series of still bizarre events that I am amazed ever happened, she came to me, confessing her pregnancy, and asking me to adopt the baby.

  Unreal.

  Even my adoption lawyer said she’d never heard of such a thing.

  Yet here we are, months later, on track. I go with Li to the downtown health clinic for her monthly checkups. Baby’s fine. Li’s getting social services, refusing help from me other than some shopping sprees, and determined as ever to have me adopt.

  Unreal, all right.

  If it weren’t happening to me, I wouldn’t believe it, either.

  “Li’s fine. A trooper.”

  “You realize she still might...this could be...”

  I place my hand on her arm. She stops her leg lefts. I’m not sure if she stops out of compassion for me, or relief that she has an excuse to stop.

  “I know, Jem. You and Henry and the social worker and my lawyer don’t have to remind me constantly. I’ll support Li if she changes her mind. I really will. I’ll just go back to the more traditional route I was in before she came along. It’s okay.”

  “Sorry.”

  We share a smile that manages to mix excitement, wistfulness, and pain.

  “Not content yet?”

  “Nope. I’m the only expectant mother ever to lose three pounds.”

  “What’s Joe saying about this? It’s going to change a lot of things. You’re not going to be able to meet him at odd hours, or on a moment’s notice.” Jemma looks at me carefully. “Or bail him out of jail when he gets a DUI and doesn’t want his wife to know.”

  “That only happened once!”

  She gives me a look that manages to mix pained pity with drill-sergeant grit.

  I look away. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes, gotta go.”

  And I roll up my mat. I’m never going to have abs.

  It’s hopeless.

  * * *

  5:30. I’ve got to leave work now if I’m going to meet Joe at my apartment in an hour. There’s plenty of wine, and vodka in the freezer if he wants his favorite martini. But I need to stop at the Broadway Market for olives, some chèvre, and those little toast crackers he likes.

  And I need to do a little picking up before he gets there. Joe doesn’t like disorder, and there’s a black lace bra drip-drying in the bathroom. A wine glass and a coffee cup in the kitchen sink.

  And oh my god, I left my swan charging on the bedside table. Joe may be my boyfriend, but every woman needs a battery-operated backup, right?

  Jemma’s words haunt me. She’s right. Joe has zero interest in kids. I know this.

  Yet I’m adopting anyhow.

  I admit it: I have a paradoxical inner life. I own it.

  I am stuffing the mystery shop report into my bag when my phone screen lights up with a text coming in.

  Joe: I can’t believe this, have to cancel tonight

  Shit.

  Shit, I type.

  I know, SO sorry, have to work late. This acquisition. Joe is representing a company that’s buying an Italian textile factory, and the international laws are complicated.

  I text back a frown.

  But the divorce lawyer said there’s been movement, he replied. Honey, I’m so close.

  I smile. He can’t see it, of course, but I do. No worries. Poor you, don’t stay too late. Call me later, I answer.

  Damn it. He’s been doing this lately. That acquisition might be great for his client’s bottom line, but it’s been hell on my libido.

  At least I don’t have to race to the market. But I was really looking forward to seeing him.

  And feeling him.

  And him feeling me.

  And who knows when he’ll have another free evening.

  Henry and Jemma’s gentle (and not-so-gentle) chiding runs through my mind. I know I should dump him. I know I cater to him. I know I accept less. But I’ve invested all these years in him. You don’t spend three years fighting your own instincts and giving in to this kind of passion only to walk away, never knowing if you were almost across the finish line.

  He showed me more divorce paperwork last week. Well, a blurry photo of papers on his phone, at least. He’s so close.

  Poor Joe, working so hard, and now I have nothing to do tonight. I wonder if my swan is done charging?

  He might be working late, but surely he has time for a quickie. Everyone has time for a quickie, right? That’s why they’re called quickies. Short, hot, sweet—

  And something.

  Something is always better than nothing.

  I’ll stop at the market anyway, and get him so
me lovely things to eat. Cheese and crackers, some fruit maybe, and one or two of those chocolate shortbread cookies he loves. I’ll make a basket, how fun! Maybe I’ll put in an IPA or two, and I can buy a little vase with a huge Gerbera daisy…

  His office is closed by the time I get there, but the security guard remembers me from my days as a client. He smiles and waves me in.

  I stop in the ladies’ room in the lobby. Brush my hair, add fresh lipstick.

  Idea: private label lipstick line for O. Color names like cOral Sex. Branded line of lubes with hot names like O Now!

  I add a spray of my lemon verbena perfume at the base of my neck, and on both wrists. I change from my street shoes into heels and smooth the tops of my thigh highs. I slip off my thong and put it in my bag.

  One more spritz of perfume, under my skirt. Just in case.

  And up in the elevator, to the fourteenth floor.

  The door slides open. I have always loved after-hours offices. Most of the offices dark, no phones ringing or machines running, the view of city lights below. No one watching me.

  Creative freedom.

  Picnic basket over my arm, I head down the hall to Joe’s office, my hips swinging like a runway model. My high heels make no sound on the grey carpet. This will be a total surprise. Arousal twins with anticipation. My thighs buzz and I am so ready. As I get closer, I can hear faint music, that jazz station he loves. Another bonus of working after everyone else has gone home is putting on your own music.

  My pulse races now. I love to create special moments, and this feels so much like our first time, all that desire built up for so long and finally, unexpectedly, released.

  And released.

  And, if all goes well…released again.

  The memory of our first time seizes me as I finish the long walk down the hallway.

  So beautiful it was worth waiting for. That’s what he told me.

  Pretty much every sexual fantasy I ever had came true in that one unforgettable hour. Until he had to leave for a business dinner. I was the appetizer.

  That was three years ago. Sex has never been quite that hot since. But tonight…

  I slow as I get closer to his office, my pulse throbbing between my legs, a smile on my face as I imagine his delight at my little surprise.

  Hmm. There’s a black sweater slung over the side of a cubicle. Someone must have gone home and forgotten it.

  And oh, that’s odd, one black high heel. In the doorway to the conference room.

  Then I’m in the doorway, peering in.

  At Joe, leaning back against the enormous limed oak table. Our table.

  And the girl on her knees in front of him, her head moving up and down, her hands on his hips, pulling him in, head bobbing in an all-too-familiar rhythm.

  He gasps, “Honey, I’m so close.”

  I can’t move.

  “Baby, this was worth waiting for,” he groans.

  Then he looks up and sees me, and there’s a strange kind of pause as we both process what’s happening.

  I’ve had better days. The day I totaled my car in my senior year of high school? Better.

  The winter day six years ago when my wallet was stolen and all my credit cards were used to buy Vuitton luggage and plane tickets to Tahiti? Better.

  Every single day of my life up till today?

  Better.

  Chapter 4

  Chloe

  One month later

  Carrie walks by my office door, then backs up and asks, “Hangover glasses two days in a row?”

  “They are not hangover glasses, Carrie, there’s just a lot of glare in here. Morning sun.”

  “Okay, whatever. Looking good, Chloe.” She moves on.

  Today all of O’s corporate management team will be meeting with the investment team from Anterdec. They’re all coming here, on site, to check out the place in person and make decisions. In Boston, Anterdec is the biggest player in hospitality properties, ranging from international hotel chains to restaurants and so much more. I have to impress them. My career depends on it.

  And so does impending motherhood. I’ve built up a ton of paid time off, and when the adoption goes through I’ll need all the maternity leave and flexible schedule time I can get.

  If the adoption goes through, I chide myself. If.

  If I just keep these sunglasses on, maybe they’ll think it’s a fashion statement? Because my eyes are so puffy, I look like Ronda Rousey after fighting Holly Holm. Worse, actually. Last night was another bad one, flashbacks and bitter tears.

  And I’m slated to present the design scheme for O’s newest location in New Orleans, when all I can think about is Joe, that blonde head bobbing between his knees, and how he looked at me. A month has passed, a month of shame and anger, of self-flagellation and fury. I let myself be deluded because it was easier than facing the truth.

  Which makes me human, I guess.

  I still can’t believe it. He gave me a blank look, and then said one word to me. One.

  “Oh.”

  Just…“Oh.” Irony can be a real bitch.

  It’s been a busy month, between social workers and lawyers and adoption agency workers arranging for paperwork for the adoption, and Joe turning into Joe Blow, for real.

  I have accomplished a lot.

  Block Joe on my cell? Done

  Block Joe on Facebook? Done

  Block Joe on email? Done

  Call locksmith to change locks on my apartment? Done

  Those were easy. Done on day one. He spent the next three weeks creating ways to contact me, from new accounts on OKCupid (yes, my profile’s still there...) to leaving messages for me at work. Carrie’s a reliable gatekeeper, though she’s recently taken to answering the phone in fake foreign languages whenever “Private Number” appears on caller ID.

  One hundred percent success rate in guessing the caller’s identity.

  Joe tweets, Instagrams, Facebooks under false names, calls my office, texts, and tries every way he can to weasel his way back in. Why wouldn’t he? It always worked before. Can’t blame him for that.

  But I can blame him for plenty of other behavior.

  The hard part came later, though, when the shock wore off and the anger really set in.

  I couldn’t sleep last night, so at three a.m. I got up and collected the following items:

  Tee shirts, 3 (two Princeton, one Coldplay concert which we attended together but he couldn’t take the souvenir home)

  Boxer shorts, 3 pair

  Princeton sweatshirt (okay, you went to an elite school, enough already). Here I had a weak moment. I admit it. A whiff of his French cologne made me bury my face in the sweatshirt and sob. The moment passed.

  Running shorts, one pair

  Nike running shoes, one pair

  Socks, two pair

  Shaving kit

  One tube of athlete’s foot cream

  One half-used bag of floss wand picks. Joe was obsessed with periodontal disease. He would pick his teeth after every meal, even if we were watching a show.

  All the carefully chosen birthday and Christmas gifts I have given him that of course he couldn’t take home, including the small, signed Picasso etching of a cat that was his Valentine in February. Joe gave me my cat last year. He said she reminded him of me because she was so sleek.

  I took a long, hard look at the cat. No, she stays. It’s the boyfriend that has to go.

  It all made quite a big pile.

  On second thought, I put the Picasso etching back on the wall. Let’s not be crazy.

  There is an actual service that will come to your home and just get rid of it all for you. If you can’t bring yourself to part with his frayed boxer shorts—because he used to do that adorable little dance in them, or because you are hoping he will come back for them and suddenly realize you are his One True Love—you (or your best friends) can hire a team to come to your house and exorcise the demon.

  NeverEver will go through your closets with y
ou, gently pull each object from your clenched fingers, pack it up, remove it, and burn the appropriate herbs afterwards. If they could prescribe Xanax, I would have called them.

  I did briefly consider selling some of it on Never Liked It Anyway, which I never thought I’d have a reason to use. After a breakup, you can go to their website and sell the crap your ex gave you. It’s monetized revenge and purging. A client told me about it.

  It’s brilliant. But who would want Joe’s half-used bag of floss wands?

  Don’t answer that.

  Instead, when I felt myself losing heart, I just whispered, “This was worth waiting for…”

  Except it wasn’t.

  “Oh.” He really just said that.

  Asshole.

  I took the box of Joe’s crap and mailed it to his house this morning on my way to work. Now I have more closet space. Good.

  All good.

  No—not good.

  Better.

  * * *

  If I never see another conference table, it will be too soon.

  Much of my job requires me to stand in front of small groups of people and present my ideas for environments that are appropriate, completely unique, and undeniably beautiful. Spaces that no one could have imagined and no one ever wants to leave. Spaces that can be created on-time and on-budget. And thanks to O’s enlightened mission, spaces that are environmentally sustainable, actually contributing to our natural resources.

  All while being sensual, female-empowered, and high-value. (That’s O, not me, although I’d like to think the same descriptions apply.)

  These presentations almost always take place around conference tables.

  Sigh.

  Seated around O’s table right now is Anterdec’s investment team, along with O’s directors and senior managers. Their meeting will last all day. According to the agenda, I am here to walk them through the concept for O NOLA. But I also have a short pitch of my own to make. A way for O to bring pleasure to women who deserve more of it. gO Spa.

  “Good morning. I’m Chloe Browne, design director for O. This is Carrie, our junior designer. She’ll be helping me today. Carrie, could you start by lowering the shades a bit? It’s very bright in here, and I want to be sure everyone sees our vision clearly.”