Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  She doesn’t seem to mind.

  Tell her about Simone.

  The thought makes me startle, tensing. There’s a time and place for everything, and Chloe’s unzipping my pants right now, pulling me out and palming me.

  Last person I want to mention is my ex-wife.

  We stand, quickly undressing, and then she shoves me onto the sofa, rolls on a condom that comes out of thin air, climbs on board, and sweet god, I’m encased in warm, wet perfection.

  This night has not gone as planned.

  A moment ago, I was worried about where I fit into Chloe and Holly’s life.

  I know where I fit in Chloe.

  “Oh,” she gasps, the outbreath of pleasure tickling my ear, her heat maddening. I reach between us and touch her sweet spot, knowing she’ll tighten, familiar enough with her body to stroke her in ways that damn near guarantee she’ll come, and come hard, in my arms.

  “There,” she moans, then urges me at her breast. I bite, a little harder than I should, my restraint so thin it’s about to snap. We’re slick with sweat and I’m wild-eyed with the speed of change, until my orgasm catches me before I can catch it, my body roaring up, hers matching my rhythm, Chloe biting my shoulder as she screams quietly, the pain enhancing our joining.

  My thumb stays on her clit, knowing I can give her more, slow and steady as --

  “Waaahhhhh!”

  Holly shrieks from down the hallway.

  Chloe falls backwards off me, like a spider blown by a gale-force wind onto its back, legs and arms flailing.

  I catch her, but it takes precision I don’t possess to avoid falling completely. We tumble, my hands bracing the impact, our naked, awkward bodies sticky and inelegant.

  “WAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

  Deprived of instant comfort, Holly’s screams ratchet up. Without a word, Chloe disentangles herself from me and lurches down the hallway, calling out nonsense words in advance of her mother’s soothing touch.

  I’m on the floor, on my naked ass, sitting on my discarded pants.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Scrambling, I dress quickly and dispose of the condom, assuming that when Chloe reappears, she’ll have something on as well. My mind jumps from thought to thought, scattered like dandelion seeds on the wind, all the thoughts in one direction but without any rhyme or reason.

  I left Simone, abandoned in a restaurant she hates, to find comfort with Chloe.

  And here I am, about as uncomfortable as I can be.

  “Hey,” Chloe says, re-appearing in a loose bathrobe, a red-faced, tear-streaked Holly in her arms. “Looks like she has a new tooth coming in.” Chloe’s doe eyes meet mine, her bewildered expression filled with regret and questions.

  “Right.”

  We smile at each other.

  “That was, um...” Chloe searches for the right word.

  “Intense.”

  “Yes.”

  “I should—” I point toward the door.

  She nods slowly. “Right.” Her face falls.

  “Chloe – I don’t want you to think I run around doing this all the time.”

  “Doing...?”

  “Showing up at women’s doors having a quickie.”

  “Really? You’re not the booty call type? Because I hate to break it to you, Nick, but that’s what you just did.” Her words come with a heavy dose of amusement.

  The words booty call hit me like an arrow to the crotch.

  “Booty call?” That’s what my kids call it.

  “You know. Call or text a woman. See if you can come over. Netflix and chill...”

  I groan. “That’s not what this is. That’s not who I am.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? How?” Because I’m not sure who I am right now. Tell me, I want to ask. Tell me who the hell I am.

  She shrugs. Holly grabs a fistful of her hair. “Because we didn’t do the Netflix part.”

  I groan again.

  “And because I can just tell. You have integrity. I can trust you.”

  Tell her about Simone.

  “Chloe, I—”

  Holly starts to cry, the sound one of pain.

  “I have to go,” Chloe says sadly. “Time for some ibuprofen and a long night.”

  I almost offer to stay. It’s reflexive, the impulse to provide assistance.

  I fight instinct and don’t say a word.

  Instead, I kiss her on the cheek, offer a peck for Holly, and make my way quietly into the cold, stark night.

  The slap of icy air does not provide clarity.

  Damn it.

  Chapter 17

  Chloe

  My mother is back from Paris, recovered, and in need of a massage after a day of “helping” me.

  We pull into my parking space at O, Charlotte, Holly, and of course me, the driver. Or at least we try to pull in, but there is another car in my spot. A decrepit Hyundai that looks like it may have once been red.

  Great.

  “Okay, Plan B,” I say. “I will double park at the front entrance, set up the stroller, put Holly in it, and you can take her to my office. I’ll find a place to park on the street.”

  “I’m sorry, Chloe, but I don’t have time. My massage appointment is in seven minutes.”

  I just look at my mother. She shrugs, the innocent victim of circumstance.

  I drop her at the front door. She waves cheerily as the doorman opens it for her.

  I circle the block four times.

  When I finally stagger into the reception area, there’s no one at the desk. A few seconds later, Carrie pops around the corner and looks at me. At us.

  “May I help you?” she says frostily.

  “Actually, yes, you may. Can you take this diaper bag to my office?”

  There’s a pause as she studies me.

  “Chloe?”

  I smile weakly.

  “Oh my god! I didn’t know you were coming in! I didn’t recognize you! Is that the baby? I thought you didn’t return to work for another week?”

  Bite back sarcastic reply.

  “I don’t. We’re here for my mother. It’s a muscle emergency.”

  By now, Carrie’s astonishment has drawn attention. Holly’s stroller is surrounded by a crowd of women, all cooing in high-pitched voices and all with their backs to me. I am invisible.

  Which is a good thing under the circumstances.

  In the flurry of getting Holly dressed to impress on her first visit to O, I sort of forgot about myself. She is wearing a tiny sundress, something Charlotte picked up in Switzerland. The skirt has a border of hand painted wildflowers, and it came—inexplicably—with a matching handkerchief. To dry my tears of joy when I am overcome by her sweetness, presumably.

  I, on the other hand, am perhaps not at my best.

  I didn’t really have time to change my clothes, what with getting Holly ready and packing her bag and the equipment, and making a salad for lunch. Charlotte wanted a glass of Sancerre, so I opened that, and then I made up my bed with fresh sheets for Howard’s arrival tonight.

  We were just out the door when I heard a little noise. Everybody back inside for a diaper change.

  Anyway, I’m still in the black Athleta dress and espadrilles I wore to the North End this morning on yet another pastry run for my mother. Was it only this morning? Looking down, I see remnants of powdered sugar at the hem. I brush at it but it doesn’t improve.

  I am holding the crumpled-up Swiss handkerchief, which I have been using to blot the perspiration from my face.

  No wonder Carrie didn’t recognize me. I don’t recognize me.

  “I’ll just be in my office,” I offer, but no one hears me. I clear my throat. “Carrie, could you join me?”

  I leave the door open so I can listen for crying—Holly’s, that is.

  “What’s going on today?” I ask Carrie. My desk is covered with papers, fabric samples, magazines. I hate that.

  “Big private party tonight,” she answers, sitting do
wn across from me. “It was a last-minute booking, but we pulled it together. A divorce celebration. In fact, the woman throwing the party will be here in twenty minutes to finalize details. Catering is tearing their hair out.”

  I nod, flipping through the piles on my desk. “Could you call security for me? There’s a junker car parked in my spot. It needs to be towed.”

  Both hands fly to her mouth. “It’s my car! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were coming in, and your spot is so much closer to the door than mine!”

  “All right, no problem, but could you move it before my meter expires?”

  “I’ll do it right now.” She bolts out the door.

  This is the first time I’ve been completely alone in weeks. And right on cue, I hear the faint sounds of an infant working up to fuss. The receptionist appears at the door, wheeling the stroller.

  “Um, Chloe?”

  “Thanks, Hayley.”

  “And there’s a client here to see Carrie about her party? But Carrie just ran out. What should I tell her?”

  “I’ll meet with her. You can send her in.”

  I pick up the now-outraged Holly, and pull a bottle and a burp towel out of the bag. All sorts of interesting and unusual sounds can be heard in the halls of O, but a crying baby is completely new.

  As I’m trying to settle in my chair for Holly’s feeding, Hayley reappears. Behind her is a slightly heavy woman in a white skirt and a red-and-hot-pink silk halter. She’s not tall, but her four-inch fuchsia heels add height. She is wearing so much heavy gold jewelry, I don’t know how she stands up under the weight. Her dark brown hair has clearly just been blown out.

  “This is Ms. Silverman,” Hayley announces. “Ms. Silverman, this is Chloe...”

  I attempt to stand up, but drop the bottle in my hand, which must not have been closed tightly, because the top pops off and formula makes a thick greyish puddle on the carpet. Holly cries louder.

  Ms. Silverman takes an involuntary step back.

  “Please come in,” I call over the noise. My hair has come loose and is hanging in my face as I try to mop up the mess with the burp towel. “This will just take a second, and then we can talk. Please sit down.”

  She sits, carefully, looking at the chair seat first. I get out another bottle and sit back down with Holly. Mercifully, silence falls.

  “I’m so sorry,” I start. “I’m a new mother, and this is the first time I’ve brought the baby to work. Just need to get into a routine here. Let’s talk about your party tonight.”

  She looks at me doubtfully. “I have twenty-five friends coming,” she begins. “Starting at 5:00, for spa services, then drinks, dinner, and entertainment. I want everything to be perfect. You know, the fourth space? Rest, relax, indulge? You can handle this, right?”

  At those words, my mind goes blank. Rest. Relax. Indulge.

  “I’m getting a divorce,” she continues. “We’re celebrating my new life, my freedom. From that lying, cheating, egotistical, high-maintenance alcoholic I was married to.”

  “I know the type,” I mutter.

  “Seven years! Seven years of waiting for him to come home at night! Finding thongs in his pockets, scratches on his back, lipstick in places it should not be! And lately he always smells of lemon verbena perfume, when I wear Chanel No. 5! Never marry a lawyer, that’s my advice. They know how to hide the truth. For a while, anyway.” She makes a bitter sound. “But now I’m free.”

  Lemon verbena perfume? Lawyers? I look at her closely. But I don’t know anyone named Silverman.

  “So tonight has to be perfect. I don’t care what it costs. Now that I don’t have to pay for Joe’s expenses anymore, my money is my own. Can I see the menu, please?”

  I just stare at her. I do not move. I do not breathe. If I had a paper bag, I would put it over my head.

  Joe.

  “Of course, Ms...Silverman? Let me see if Carrie is back at her desk. She’s been managing your event.”

  “Silverman is my maiden name. I’m taking it back. I’m not really used to it yet.” She smiles, a bit shyly.

  “Carrie?” I say into the phone. “Can you come in here, please, and bring Ms… Silverman’s… information.”

  Immediately there’s a quick knock on my door frame, but it’s Henry. Shockingly, he is dressed in street clothes, khaki pants, a button-down shirt, my god, even a belt. Behind him is Ryan. Henry half-pulls, half-pushes Ryan into the room. He is wearing a Captain America outfit.

  Minus most of the costume.

  Ryan is wearing a mask, a red, white and blue shoelace thong, and he is holding a shield.

  Henry is beaming with pride. Ryan looks miserable and murderous at the same time.

  “We’ve got the costumes,” Henry announces. “Carrie sent us in to show you. There wasn’t a lot of time, but I think we’ve nailed it.”

  Our client rises to her feet and circles Ryan with obvious approval.

  “This is fantastic!” she breathes.

  Ryan perks up slightly. I swear the tattoos on one arm swell of their own accord.

  Henry holds out a hand. “Henry Holliday,” he says smoothly. “O’s master masseur and costume designer.”

  Oh please.

  “Wait until you see Iron Man.” Henry winks.

  I hold back my shudder.

  So does poor Ryan.

  The client puts her manicured hand in his, looking up. Way up. “I’m Marcy Silverman.”

  And there you have it. Marcy. Confirmed.

  On my first visit back to O, I am helping Joe’s wife arrange her divorce party. While feeding my baby. You can’t make this stuff up.

  And I haven’t had my eyebrows threaded in weeks.

  Holly has stopped taking her bottle, about halfway through. I raise her to my shoulder and rub her back while watching Henry and Marcy discuss what the servers will wear. Or not wear. Henry is sketching something on a pad. He uses an economy of strokes.

  Holly, good girl that she is, produces an impressive belch. There’s a brief pause. And I feel something warm running down my shoulder and neck. And back.

  Where the hell is Carrie?

  The office intercom speaks: Chloe Browne, you have a call on Line Two.

  Without thinking, I reach for the phone, but before I can pick it up Marcy turns around. She blinks, and then her eyes travel from me, to Holly, to the spit-up formula splashed all over my dress.

  “You’re Chloe Browne?” she asks in obvious disbelief.

  “Um,” I say definitively. “Well. Um, yes?”

  “That is very strange,” Marcy says slowly. “Very coincidental.”

  “Oh? Do you, ah, do you know someone by that name? Not an unusual name, really. Fairly common, in fact. Lots of Chloe Brownes out there.” I am babbling. “Someone even told me there’s a porn star with that name. Funny, right?”

  I laugh. She doesn’t join in.

  “My former husband’s girlfriend was named Chloe Browne.”

  She takes a step toward me, and I turn in my chair, shielding Holly. But all Marcy does is inhale deeply.

  “I thought I smelled lemon in here, but all I smell now is sour milk. It couldn’t be you.”

  Henry has backed up to the wall. I imagine a hostage being held at gunpoint would look more comfortable.

  “It was me, Marcy,” I hear myself say, my voice trembling. “But I ended it. I’m so sorry. I thought he was divorcing you, and he told me...”

  “Oh you poor thing,” she interrupts. “You believed everything he said, didn’t you? That lying dog. He lied to both of us for years. And look at you now, an unwed mother, trying to hold down a paying job! That tiny-pricked, slobbering snake of a festering twatwaffle!”

  “No, no no no!” I am horrified. “You have the wrong idea! This is my baby!” But I do like her abundantly creative mastery of insults.

  “Brave, brave girl.” Marcy is undeterred. She takes out her phone. “But don’t you worry, you’re not alone. I’m going to take care of all you
r expenses, nannies and private school and college. That slimy bastard whoreson of an asshat. My family foundation will take care of everything. Joe and I never had children. You and I will raise his child together. What’s your cell number?”

  “Ms. Silverman, Marcy,” I start. “This is not Joe’s baby.”

  She looks up from her phone. “Really.” Her eyes narrow. “There were others? You had a DNA test?”

  “I adopted. She’s just mine. No paternity test needed.”

  She processes this. “You really are a brave girl,” she says finally. “Come to my party tonight. Get a babysitter. We’re both free of him. A new life for both of us.”

  “Thank you, Marcy,” I say with real gratitude. “I can’t, but thank you so much.”

  I stand, still clutching Holly to my shoulder, and move to hug her. She leans in but suddenly pulls back, and I realize that only someone wearing a hazmat suit would hug me now.

  Henry grabs Ryan’s arm and they sidle out of the room. As they exit, Carrie enters. She has folders in one hand and a small tray of dessert samples in the other. She walks by Ryan, then spins on one heel in a classic double take. She bursts into incredulous laughter, then catches my eye and tries to swallow it.

  Ryan raises his shield to hide his face.

  “Carrie! Why don’t you take Ms. Silverman to the conference room to finish your meeting? I think everything is in really good shape.”

  I smile at Marcy, and she smiles right back.

  O, the fourth space.

  * * *

  I’m going back to work full time in one week. One week. And everyone from our pediatrician to the supermarket checkout clerk says I need to get this baby on a schedule.

  Actually, I’m not sure what this means. And I have no clue at all how one would accomplish it. How do you motivate an infant? Threaten to take away her cell phone? Or maybe the reward system is better—if you finish your cereal I’ll let you binge-watch Sesame Street?

  Anyway, in an effort to establish predictable nap times, on this sunny afternoon, I am taking Holly on a snooze cruise of Back Bay while my mother recovers from her massage at my place. Holly is tucked warmly into her stroller with her binky and stuffed bunny. I am able to study the display windows of all the chic Newbury Street shops, heading for the Public Gardens. There I plan to sit on a bench in a warm place and read a novel while she sleeps.