by Jess Bentley
The pesto salad she picked up for me is delicious. Marinated mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Olives and feta cheese, dressed in oil and blended herbs. Lots of protein, few carbs. And no red onions, because she knows I don’t like those.
Quite thoughtful, really.
When she knocks on the door, I happen to be smiling, but her expression is not happy. She closes the door behind her before striding toward the conference table, her hands into fists at her sides.
“Landry is taking a nap!”
I’m not sure what to say. “All right. That’s… good?”
Her cheeks are red, and a curl of her hair has slipped from its clip and bounces over her cheekbone.
“She’s tired, okay?”
“Okay.”
I’m not sure what we are arguing about. She’s whisper-shouting at me, but these are not things that need to be kept a secret, are they? I don’t get it.
“Just who do you think you are!”
Oh, okay. Here we go.
I raise my hands to show I mean her no harm. “She just started talking to me, Clarissa. I think she just wanted someone to talk to.”
“That is what I am here for! That is my job!”
“I absolutely understand that,” I venture, keeping my tone even.
“Lower your voice!” she whisper-yells.
“I absolutely understand that,” I correct myself in a whisper.
“I don’t want your interference, all right?” she continues, so quietly that I have to lean in to really hear her. “Thank you for the ride and everything, but we don’t need you getting in the middle of this. We will be fine! I know how to take care of her!”
I am sure that she does. I am getting the impression that Clarissa could take care of everything. And that she has, for a really long time.
But as she is standing there, furious with me to the point of irrationality, all I can do is think about kissing her again. All I can do is think about taking her by her trembling shoulders and quieting her rage by covering her mouth with mine. Before I know it, I am doing just that.
And the kiss is intense. Her body is stiff in my arms as my hands hold her shoulders. But she tips her chin toward mine the moment that I approach her. She groans in her throat, acknowledging the heat that has sparked between us. The taste of her tongue against mine sets off a deep hunger in me, one that is not going to be so easily ignored.
Twisting, she pulls away and covers her mouth with the back of her hand. Outrage flashes in her eyes.
“You must be kidding me!” she hisses. “Stop playing games with me, Maxwell!”
She begins to storm out, but pauses before the door to brush her hair behind her ears. She doesn’t want to leave in a huff and set off more rounds of whispers and rumors. Like a magician or an actress, she completely changes as soon as she crosses into the hallway, back into the professional maven that everyone knows.
But I know how she felt here, just moments ago. She felt like a woman in my arms. She felt like an answer to a question. She felt like something I very much need to feel again.
Chapter 12
Clarissa
My legs are shaking as I stalk back to my office, and I have to force myself not to break into a run. I am almost certain that I can hear people whispering about me. They avert their eyes as I pass the cubicles, but I’m sure they have to know. This feeling inside me is growing so strong, it seems like it must make a sound or something, something everyone can hear like a semi-truck horn blaring. Does everybody know?
Carefully I close the door to my office, trying not to let the handle click. Landry is breathing softly as she lies on the sofa, her mouth hanging open, her hair fringed over her face. With her hair in the way, I can’t see the bruises. And that is good, because it makes me sick to my stomach.
Standing here helplessly, I just look around, hoping for something to do. I know I have a mountain of work to do, but I can’t stop thinking about Maxwell. What was that? Another kiss? Another kiss that doesn’t mean anything? This whole thing seems like another stupid chess match, just two pieces circling each other endlessly on a board of black and white squares.
He has got some nerve. Butting into my life. Telling Landry what to do. And then just kissing me out of the blue like that? Taking my breath away, cutting me off in the middle of a sentence like that?
Who does that? What kind of psychopath—
My office door swings open, startling me. I whirl around to see Lou standing there, his face a snarl of rage. He twists the door handle in his gnarled hand, but thankfully he is standing in front of the sofa with his back to Landry, and doesn’t see her lying there. She startles and begins to sit up, but I make a cautioning wave with one hand so she won’t make a sound.
“You know Cyrus Finnigan?” Lou starts in.
“Um, sure I do,” I stammer. “Jaguar Plaza. We were just talking about—”
“We just lost him!” Lou barks.
At first I think Cyrus must have died or something. He’s about ninety years old, after all. A huge developer on the West Side. But by the look on Lou’s face, I don’t think Cyrus is dead.
“You want me to call Maxwell? Let’s go in the conference room…”
Like a sheepdog, I head for the doorway and herd Lou safely away from Landry and toward the conference room down the hall. With a hand signal, I catch Maxwell’s attention as he stands near Fred’s cubicle. He seems to immediately understand and breaks away so he can join us.
“What’s up?” Maxwell asks as he closes the conference room door behind us. Lou walks to the head of the conference table, his natural place, and pounds his fist on the heavy wooden surface.
“Greg swiped Cyrus Finnigan away from us. Third one this month!”
Maxwell looks alarmed, and my stomach clenches with guilt. Three in a month? I feel like I should have known. After Isaac mentioned his name… I should have followed the thread. I should have realized.
“I’m sorry, Lou, this is my fault,” Maxwell offers, cutting off my train of thought. “I’ll take care of this.”
Lou points a bony finger in Maxwell’s direction. “Yeah, you better take care of this! Greg has a non-compete arrangement with us. I will rain legal hell on him that his grandkids will never recover from!”
Maxwell straightens, lifting his hands in the air in a gesture that I have seen before. He’s trying to lower the temperature in the room. Trying to calm Lou down.
“Okay, do we know which projects these were?” he asks in a measured, calm voice.
“Yes, the Jaguar Plaza,” I explain. “That is one of Cyrus Finnigan’s projects.”
His eyes flicker toward mine, instantly understanding.
“Lou, we have this handled,” he declares reassuringly. “We have a plan. Things are already in the works…”
“Don’t you try to manage me!” Lou snarls, surprising me with his anger. I’ve never seen him like this.
Maxwell physically pivots, trying a new tack. I can’t help but be impressed with the way he is trying to manage Lou, even as Lou tells him not to. Now that I think of it, it is something that I both love and hate about him too.
“What are the other two projects?”
“Already closed!” Lou growls, rubbing the bald top of his head with his palm. “Fast-track closing. Greg knows he is in the shit. He knows!”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do,” Maxwell nods, his voice low and steady, sounding confident and reliable.
“Don’t give me that passive bullshit!” Lou barks. “This needs to be handled, Maxwell! You understand me?”
“Perfectly, Lou,” Maxwell answers, crossing his arms over his chest.
I get the sense that Maxwell has reached the end of the amount of crap he feels he needs to take from Lou. Sure, Lou demands respect, but that only goes so far. Maxwell is declaring that he has already said he will handle it, and it will be handled. No more discussion necessary.
“Yeah, well, fine,” Lou grumbles, slumping slightly.<
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He seems to understand that the conversation is over as well. Muttering to himself, he leaves conference room, but slams the door behind him as a final declaration of his power.
Silence settles into the room between us, though the energy still buzzes in here. I move toward the door, and Maxwell steps in front of me, his eyes flashing.
“I’ll get started on the Plaza plan,” I explain, trying to shift out of his way.
But when I step to the side, he matches me. It seems he doesn’t intend on letting me leave.
“We need to talk about this,” he begins.
“The Plaza?” I dodge. “We are already talking about it. I just said I would go to my office and get the—”
He steps close to me. His breath is hot and musky, a distinctly manly smell that bathes my lips and nose, triggering some primal part of my brain.
“No, not the Plaza,” he says in a low voice.
“All right then,” I counter, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Let’s talk. Why did you pull away from me at Sunny’s cottage?”
He flinches slightly. Apparently this is not precisely the thing he wanted to talk about after all.
“Well, to be honest, I am not accustomed to being kissed first. Simple as that.”
I have to bite the inside of my cheeks from smiling at this. Seriously? What is he, fifteen years old?
He glares at me, scowling. “And you? Why did you pull away from me? Was it because you were angry, or because you hated the kiss?”
“Both,” I declare stubbornly, but I’m not sure he believes me.
He raises his eyebrows in challenge.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he counters.
“Well… It is.”
I want to step away from him, but I don’t have anywhere to go. He seems to get even taller, even broader. He takes up a lot of room.
“Prove it.”
“Fine,” I hear myself say.
Fine?
Wasting no time, he steps forward into my personal space, and before I can draw breath, his arms are around me. He crashes me into him, and my hands slide up his strong shoulders to the back of his neck. Nature takes over as our lips mash together, kissing the rest of our argument into oblivion.
His lips are strong and thick, and I find myself giving in to him, letting him pry open my lips, letting his tongue explore the area just behind my teeth.
I want to hold back, but I can’t. My body wants this, my lips want this.
Before I know it I am arching against him, aligning my belly to his, pushing up on my toes to edge ever closer. My fingers knot in his thick, wavy hair. He walks me back to the conference table and leans me against it, then lifts me onto it , nudging my legs apart with his hips. Following a primal urge I open my thighs and wriggle against him, teasing my body with the prospect of a connection. My belly clenches with longing. He groans into my mouth as he matches me, want for want.
I open my eyes slightly so that I can see his face and realize he has done the same thing. We are watching each other...
We pause.
We freeze, mid-gyration.
We slowly, mechanically, retreat from the kiss: tongues retracted, lips unconnected, eyes fully open as I remove my hands from his hair. My feet find the floor again. I stand. He straightens his shirt.
Like matched predators we watch each other warily, conscious of the unanswered question between us. What just happened?
“Yes?” he finally asks.
But I don’t know what to say. Yes what? Everything? Just everything? Just like that?
“I… I need to check on Landry,” I stammer.
The muscle in his jaw knots as he clenches his teeth in frustration.
“Yes. Fine. You should,” he growls.
Wobbly and breathless, I force myself to leave the conference room. Back in my office, Landry looks up with alarm when I open the door again.
“Are we in trouble? Do I need to go?”
Snatching my bag from the hook behind the door, I shake my head reassuringly.
“No, we are fine,” I say, though my voice sounds shaky and unconvincing. “But it’s late. Why don’t we just go? I can finish the rest of this at home.”
“Great,” she sighs. “I’m starving. Spaghetti?”
Hearing her easy distraction fills me with relief. I feel like I’m keeping her from the worst of this, keeping her mind on other things while we figure this out. If spaghetti makes her happy, let’s do it.
Back at home, we move easily throughout the kitchen, like the other thousands of times we have made dinner together. I even have a loaf of garlic bread in the freezer, and Landry pops her lips in delight as she tears open the crinkly cellophane.
“I swear I could eat this entire loaf,” she confesses, giggling.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I quip, trying to control my reaction when I look at her and see those bruises again. They take me by surprise every time.
Landry leans down and stares at her waistline.
“I hope you like garlic bread!” she declares to the fetus buried somewhere in her abdomen. “You are going to get a lot of it!”
Smiling grimly, I don’t say anything. I just get the plates and arrange them on the counter. A jar of premade sauce and some dried noodles doesn’t sound like a lot, but it is a good time for us to be together. Simple things like this make up a surprising bulk of normal family life.
“Pretty soon I’ll have to start coming up with names,” Landry muses, her cheeks stuffed with noodles. “What do you think of Charles? Too stuffy? How about Reggie or Blaine?”
Forcing myself to smile, I take a swallow of iced tea so I don’t have to say anything.
“Of course it could be a girl too. But I already have that name picked out. Loretta. Then she can be called Lori or Retta or Etta, her choice.”
Landry really does eat most of the loaf of garlic bread. I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.
“Clarissa? What do you think?”
I just shrug. “I don’t know. Probably better to wait. Maybe?”
Landry places her fork carefully on the plate. “Because you think I should give the baby up for adoption. Because you think the adopted parents should name the baby,” she declares accusingly.
Picking my plate up, I find an excuse to go over to the sink and not look at her directly. “I didn’t say anything like that.”
“But you are thinking it!”
The water pops on, and I rinse the plate.
“Clarissa! You’re thinking it. Right? Why don’t you just admit it?”
I can’t avoid her forever, so I turn around, trying to piece it all together in a way that won’t drive her away immediately.
“I’m just thinking about you, Landry, about your happiness. I’m just thinking about how hard it is with school, and work, and a baby. It’s hard.”
“I already know that,” she sulks.
“Do you, though? How could you know?”
She takes a breath and sits up straight, trying not to seem like a disagreeable child, I know. She is taking this adult thing very seriously.
“I do know. People do it all the time. What I don’t know I will figure out.”
“I know you will,” I answer gently. “But it’s going to be really hard. You’re going to end up totally overworked, totally responsible for everything. Remember how tired Mom was all the time? After Dad died? I mean, it won’t be exactly like that...”
“No, because I will have you!” she adds brightly, the humor hollow in her voice.
“Of course you will, sweetie,” I sigh, unsure what else to say.
Dinner is over, and the conversation withers and falls away. But for now, what else is there to say? Landry covers her mouth and yawns hugely, and finally excuses herself to go to bed. Even though I feel like I didn’t get anywhere with her, I don’t have any reason to keep her here, so I just kiss her good night.
Chapter 13
Maxwell
The Tesla needed to be driven more, was my excuse. As though taking the Mustang to Sunny’s cottage meant the Tesla had been somehow neglected. I knew it was ludicrous, but there you have it.
On the highway, I could hit eighty in just a few seconds, which is really impressive for an electric engine. It felt good to see other drivers glancing at me with surprise, wondering what kind of car this is, realizing what it represents.
The miles flew by, but after circling on-ramps and off-ramps, I realized I had driven myself in a sort of spiral that ended up in Clarissa’s neighborhood, coincidentally. At first I drove on the street parallel to hers, but somehow here I am, just past midnight, stopped outside her front door. A parking spot happens to be available, right there. It’s fate. What can I do.
I knock softly, reaching between the security bars to the door glass. I don’t want to ring the bell. Landry is probably asleep. But I saw a light somewhere within the house. Maybe she is still awake.
It isn’t long before I see her shadow in the hallway beyond. My chest tightens. She opens the interior door and we stand there with the bars of the security gate separating us.
“I have an idea,” I say before she can object.
Scowling, Clarissa opens the security door without a word and stands aside, her arms crossed. She’s already dressed for bed, in a long, purple robe cinched tightly at the waist. Through the open collar, I can just make out the scallop of a bit of lace.
“All right, just hear me out,” I begin quickly, before she can kick me back out onto the sidewalk. “Sunny seems fine, I know, but she really could use some help. She loves that house and giving it up must mean it’s more than she can manage. If we are listing the cottage and she’s moving, it’s a big job.”
“All right…” Clarissa murmurs, her voice wary.
“What if Landry went to live with her? Get her out of the city. No one would know where she is. Sunny wouldn’t have to ask for help. Everyone could breathe easy and clear their heads.”