by Jordyn White
“I’m over her,” I say definitively, without hesitation. Because it’s true.
It seems she’s reassured by my conviction, because her expression relaxes.
“What I’ve been struggling with is being over what I thought my life was going to be. I don’t do well with change, and this one flipped my entire world on its head.”
She nods sympathetically. “I can only imagine.”
“But...”
I look into those beautiful sky blue eyes of hers. I want to tell her that she’s making me see I could have a different future. A better future. A beautiful future. Getting a glimpse at the real Rita Becker has made me see I can survive horrible things and go on to be deeply, wildly, impossibly happy anyway.
But the phrase too much, too soon comes to mind, so I keep to myself just how much she’s affecting me. Just how much I want more of her. Not just tonight, but after that, too.
So instead I say, “Imagining a different future than the one I had planned has been hard. I haven’t been hanging onto her, exactly. She’s been gone and we’ve been over for a long time. But I’ve been hanging onto the idea of everything she represented.”
“Yeah.” She’s stroking my arm, keeping me grounded. “It sucks when we realize we’re not in control of our lives as much as we thought we were.”
I smile a little at that. “Right.”
“But, I don’t know. I think the only thing we can do is embrace that, you know? Throw ourselves into the wind. Let life surprise us a little.”
That right there. That’s the thing about Rita that’s always intrigued me. She throws herself into the wind just in the way she walks down a hall.
There’s a side of me that responds to that. Needs it. But I was locked into Christie, and Christie represented the safe path. The predictable path.
If I’m honest with myself, there was a part of me that thought I wanted the kind of life we’d have together, but there was this whole other side that had been silenced and left unfulfilled.
It’s far past time for me to stop hanging onto what I lost in that tragedy, and instead reach for everything I gained.
This could be a chance for me to start over, too. To reinvent myself, just like Rita wants to.
“You make me brave,” I say, pulling her closer to me.
She smiles up at me. “You should. You’re the elevator superhero. The Rita Whisperer.”
I laugh. “The Rita Whisperer?”
She shrugs, that little blush creeping up on her cheeks again. “You make me feel things, too, okay?”
I take her face into both my hands and lean down. “Yes,” I say tenderly, our lips an inch apart, her body softening against mine, “It’s okay.”
Chapter 6
Rita
Dallas kisses me and I am awash with the sensation of it. My heart swirls with the dizzying presence of him, and my mind is humming with confusing, delicious thoughts like, maybe there’s something to this and maybe I’ll stay in Swan Pointe after all.
But right now all there is, is this. And this is not like the other times. This is slow and heated, tender and powerful. This is bringing out a side of me I’m usually too scared to let out. And I’m not just talking the secret spilling I did earlier.
Hooking up with a man is one thing when it’s fast and dirty. It keeps the heart out of it.
Usually.
But the way he’s gently stroking my face and body. The way I’m tenderly caressing him. The heart is front and center, and I’m surprised how much I want from Dallas, too.
Then I let go. Really let go.
If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it. Even if only for tonight, I’m going to drown myself in Dallas Huntington.
As we continue to sink deeply into slow kisses, he gently lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me into the room and puts me on the bed, his weight solid and comforting on top of me.
And we make love just like that, with the cool Boise breeze caressing our skin.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, chest to chest, our hearts beat next to one another, and every touch, every kiss, every movement inside of me is a potent caress.
More times than I can count tonight, Dallas got me to be vulnerable with him... and like it.
Chapter 7
Dallas
“Well, I’ll let you go, Dallas,” Mr. Michaelson says on the phone, “but I’ll say it again. I’m glad you finally came around.”
It’s the next morning, and I’ve been having this conversation out on the balcony so I don’t wake Rita. Who snores like a little puppy, by the way. It’s adorable.
“Well, I realized I was being stubborn over nothing.”
Mr. Michaelson laughs. “Not a bad quality to have in an editor.”
“That’s true.”
“We’ll wrap up the details Sunday.”
It’s a little risky, accepting this position in Boise before I know for sure if Rita’s going to get hers. But whatever it is, her chances are probably good. She’s fierce, a crackerjack writer, and knows how to get things done.
But if she doesn’t, well, I can deal with that as it comes. This job isn’t a done deal until the contract is signed anyway, and there’s still more negotiating to do. Which is what Sunday is all about.
“See you on the golf course,” I say.
“Be prepared to lose.”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
He laughs again and we hang up. I look out over the city, so bright in the morning sun, and feel ridiculously exhilarated.
I know it’s far, far too soon to be planning my job around Rita, or to be expecting her to plan her job situation around me.
But Mr. Michaelson has been begging me to take this position and she’s likely coming to Boise, too. Why can’t we both get our fresh starts and gain the freedom to explore what’s happening between us at the same time?
Because making love to Rita was an otherworldly experience. It’s never been like that with anyone else. I don’t know where things are going with us, but I’m not willing to just let it go.
I’m already grinning, but when I hear her moving around in there, my smile gets even wider. My heart does an actual flip. And I practically spring into the room.
First, I’ll make her coffee, because she warned me last night that she’s not a morning person. Then, I’ll tell her the good news. Then I’ll give her a proper morning hello.
Maybe not in that order.
But when I find her fully dressed and slipping on her heels, a scowl on her face, I stop short just inside the door.
“Where are you going?”
Maybe just downstairs for coffee, I think, but I know that’s not it just from the look on her face. Something’s wrong.
“I’m going to my hotel, where do you think?”
“Uh...”
Having put on the last heel, she straightens, brushes her hair off her shoulders, and stares daggers at me. God, what did I do?
I start moving toward her. “What’s wrong? Why are you leaving?”
“Please. As if you care.”
What on earth happened? I reach for her. “Rita—”
“As if I do.”
I drop my arm.
“Like I said. I just had to get it out of my system. Mission accomplished.”
Then Rita storms out of my room and I’m left standing in the middle of it in shock, watching the door swoosh close with a damning click.
Chapter 8
Rita
I should’ve known when we were making love that I was letting myself get too vulnerable with him. Hell, the fact that I’m even thinking of it as making love should tell me something.
I got too close.
And look what happened.
He took his opportunity to be a selfish bastard, just like everyone does. I gave him an in to Mr. Michaelson and he took it. My skin was crawling almost the entire time I was listening to that conversation.
See you on the golf course.
Well, to hell with him. And to hell with me for thinking he was different.
No one’s different.
Everyone sucks and they can just all go bite the big one.
The fact that my heart is bleeding all over the place is inconsequential and my own damned fault anyway. Let that be a lesson learned.
Of course I’m crying over Dallas. What did I think would happen? That we’d live happily ever after?
God, I’m an idiot. I should’ve known better.
My only consolation is knowing that only one of us can get that editor job, and therefore the other one will be in a completely different city. Because the last thing I need is to pass Dallas Huntington in the hall again. Not there. Not here.
Not anywhere.
But if only one of us is getting the Boise job, it’s going to be me.
“I’m afraid we’ve decided to go in a different direction,” Mr. Michaelson says. “Besides, you’re such a valuable asset in Swan Pointe. We’d hate to lose you there.”
I’m clutching the phone to my ear to keep it from shaking. My desk is in a shared space and the last thing I need is for all my co-workers to see me getting all emotional.
I mean, again.
But the only witness to that one was Too Nice Nancy and what else was I going to do when she sat herself down in the break room and opened that little Styrofoam box with the chimichanga inside?
Apparently nothing else but start bawling, because one damned night with Dallas Huntington has turned me into a weak, brokenhearted female who will cry over nothing.
It’s ridiculous how much I still want him. Or how much I want to go to him and beg him to come up with some brilliant lie so I don’t have to believe he just fucked me over.
But as I listen to Mr. Michaelson tell me that Dallas will be the editor at their Boise location, what else am I to think?
He had to have known that was the position I was going for. He’s a fucking investigative journalist. He finds things out for a living. Besides, how hard would it have been? I saw him and Mr. Michaelson talking at the party.
Maybe he got the idea that I was the front-runner, as Mr. Michaelson himself had hinted at before and is telling me right this very second, and decided to lure me to the hotel so he could get some inside tips.
But you lured him, not the other way around.
And you’re the one who brought up the job, not him.
And Dallas isn’t the kind of guy to do this.
God, I’m such a confused mess and just not used to opening up my heart the way I did to Dallas that night. I’m definitely not used to getting it stomped all over.
Maybe I’m missing something here, but there was no mistaking from the conversation I overheard that Dallas decided to throw his hat into the ring at the eleventh hour, knew just where to take Mr. Michaelson to butter him up, and is now getting the job when I’m not.
I’d fucking love to tell Mr. Michaelson just where he can shove his nine iron, but he’s still my boss so I graciously thank him for the opportunity and blah blah blah and get off the phone.
I sit there staring at the phone as the clacking of keyboards and chatter of employees and shuffling of paper goes on all around me.
I glance at my screen. I’m halfway through a column titled, “Councilman’s wife suspected member of underground sex club.”
This is not suspected. It is solidly confirmed. Her husband is into it, too, so as far as I can tell it’s consensual and an open marriage and I don’t give a fuck about any of it. But the editor here at The Voice wants me to reveal the councilman’s involvement later. We have a whole series planned out in order to maximize the shock value.
And the profit.
That’s the kind of “valuable asset” I am to them here in Swan Pointe and I’m sick of it.
I pop up from my chair and storm out of the room.
“What’s the matter with you?” a co-worker asks as we’re passing each other in the Great Divide.
“Nothing. I’m great.”
Fantastic. Lovely.
I’m also done. So fucking done.
I head for the smoker’s patio, which is currently abandoned thankfully, and pull out my phone. I don’t smoke, but this was the closest place I could go. I can’t send this email quickly enough.
I pull up my email and draft a note to Mr. Michaelson.
I’ve fantasized about this for months. Months. I’ve mentally written versions where I tell them what fuckers they are. I’ve written versions that are existential, long, boring explanations of how I want more out of my life. And I’ve mentally drafted the kind of resignation letters that are brief, professional, courteous, and don’t burn any bridges.
Exactly like the one I’m sending right now.
I even give them three weeks’ notice. Cuz I’m an angel like that.
I hit send, return my phone to my pocket, and look out over the bare, concrete slab that serves as the smokers retreat.
The emotions trying to surface inside me are so polar opposite, it’s rendering me numb. I’m relieved and elated to finally be free from the job I’ve grown to resent so much. I have no idea what I’ll do next, but I’m resourceful. I’ll figure it out.
The point is, it can be whatever I want.
But it can’t be with whoever I want, and that’s the thing that’s keeping me from the high I thought I’d feel when I finally left this job behind.
It was one night, Becker. Get a hold of yourself.
But that night with Dallas was like that moment in the café watching Rayce and Emma. It changed me. Touched me. And I can’t seem to go back to who I was before Dallas Huntington revealed himself to be the Rita Whisperer.
No matter how much I want to.
I calmly walk back down the Great Divide, return to my desk, grab my purse, and head home where the hot tub and a bottle of wine awaits.
By the time I’m leaving for work the next day, I’ve had all the expected conversations about my resignation with all the expected people. My editor thinks it’s about money and offered me such a sizeable raise it only made me think I’ve been ridiculously underpaid the whole time.
Mr. Michaelson wants me to stay, too, and after I made it clear I’m not staying in Swan Pointe—or freaking Boise—he said he’d find a place for me.
But I don’t know. I don’t know what I want.
Other than the obvious.
I get to the end of the Great Divide on the second floor, walk past the elevator, and head for the stairs.
“Rita!”
I freeze at the sound of his voice, coming up from behind. I’ve managed to avoid running into him ever since I’ve been back. I guess it was inevitable. Still.
I clench my teeth and start walking again, my heart galloping in my chest.
“Wait!”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I answer, my heels click clicking on the tile steps. It’s true. I don’t want to talk to him. I want to turn around and pummel him. And then kiss him while he holds me in his arms and—
No, no. I just want to pummel him.
“Rita, will you please stop?”
I stop on the landing between the second and first floors and turn to him, my arms crossed. “What?” I say, as if I couldn’t care less what he has to say. I’ve no idea if he’s buying it.
He comes up to me and it’s difficult just looking at him. He’s so handsome and so freaking right for me... or so I’d thought. I don’t even know what to do with the fact that he looks so heartbroken.
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I heard you quit.”
“Why do you care? I heard you got the job I was going for.”
“I—wait, what?”
Those gray eyes look so genuinely surprised and concerned. It’s confusing. But I’m not making the mistake of trusting again. I spin,
intending to leave. He takes hold of my arm.
“Wait, what do you mean the job you were going for?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t know.” I yank my arm away even though it was so good to have Dallas touching me again. Too good.
“I didn’t. I swear.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday? I’ve made a living reporting on other people’s bullshit and so have you, so don’t give me that...”
But I don’t even know if he’s listening. His face has undergone a transformation of realization.
“Rita,” he says low and soft, in that Rita Whisperer voice. It silences me immediately. “Is that what happened? You overheard my conversation and thought I was going after your job?”
I examine his face. Is he playing me, or is this for real? “You did go after my job. And got it. Congratulations.”
My mind is a confusing swirl of thoughts. I can’t handle this. I have to get out of here. I turn to leave but he gently hooks his hand under my bicep. “Rita, wait.”
I look up at him. Did he really not know? Was this all just a coincidence?
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
I want to believe him, which is exactly the danger. I want to believe him. I need to believe him. Which means I’m in the ideal frame of mind to be deceived.
He puts both hands on my arms. This time, I let him.
I’m trusting him. But I don’t know if I should. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not. You never said which job it was. And it didn’t even occur to me that it’d be that one.”
“Why? Because you think I couldn’t handle it?”
“Are you kidding?” he says, like the thought never crossed his mind. “No, I... I guess I figured it’d still be a writing position because it seemed like you wanted something that fed you more creatively.”
“I—hey, this isn’t about that.”
He cocks his head at me and his gray eyes sharpen, like he’s just figured something out. I get that sensation I had with him before. That sensation of being seen. Being vulnerable.
“You’re right. It’s not about that. You’ve been telling yourself you left because of what you overheard that morning.”