by Becky Monson
“Thanks, Tiffany,” Jim says as he heads back to the complaints team’s—my team’s—office.
“It was good to see you, Holly. Let’s catch up soon! I want to hear all about that vacation of yours,” Tiffany says, her fake smile ramped up to a fever pitch.
I want to yell, “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I tell you, and also I hate you!” but instead I just give her a curt nod.
~*~
“Come in,” Marie says after I knock on her door.
I peek my head in and smile at her. It’s good to see Marie. Her smile is broad, her blond, sleek bob perfectly coiffed as always. She tells me to come in and have a seat.
“You look fantastic,” she says after I take a seat in one of the chairs opposite her desk.
“I feel pretty good,” I say, feeling my lips pull up as I think about where I was just the day before yesterday—roaming around Paris, hand-in-hand with Logan. Unexpected butterflies prance around in my stomach.
“I told you that you needed a vacation,” she says, pointing a manicured finger at me.
“And you were right,” I say.
“I like being right,” she says, giving me a wink, her hand landing flat on a pile of paperwork in front of her. “I want to hear all about it, but I have a meeting in five minutes, so you’ll have to fill me in later.”
“Sounds good,” I say. Then tentatively I ask, “How did everything go while I was gone?”
She pauses for the briefest of seconds, something crosses her features that instantly gives me an uncertain feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“It went . . . well,” Marie says, drawing out her words.
“That’s good,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and bright.
Marie leans forward, placing her elbows on her desk and intertwining her fingers. She exhales out her nose.
“Here’s the deal,” she says, my stomach sinking even more. No good news has ever started with “here’s the deal.”
“Okay,” I say, trepidation in my tone.
“I don’t have time right now to tell you everything, but Tiffany,” she pauses for a moment, like she’s trying to gather her words—the right words. “Well, she did a good job while you were gone.”
I don’t say anything, I just nod. I’m not sure if what she did with my team can be considered good. Okay fine, it might be good. But it also might be hypnosis. Or witchcraft.
“The executive team noticed,” Marie says, her lips pulling downward.
I swallow. The executive team noticed. All the cuss words.
“So what does this mean?” I ask.
She purses her lips together for a moment. “I’m not sure yet,” she says.
“So Mike’s position—the CCM job—”
“Mike’s given notice,” Marie says cutting me off. “But nothing else is set in stone.”
I place my hands flat on her desk, setting my shoulders. “Then I have work to do.”
She dips her chin once. “That’s my girl,” she says, giving me a wink.
Chapter 32
The following Monday, I find myself walking across the street to the Lava Java to find Logan. I’ve been doubling down at work, trying to get caught up, and he’s had a lot to catch up with as well, but we’ve found time to see each other a couple of times since getting back and we’ve been texting back and forth.
But today has been so frustrating that I needed to vent, and also see his handsome face, and maybe kiss him. But mostly I need to vent.
I walk past the counter, giving Denise the barista a quick wave, and then walk right over to Logan—who hasn’t noticed my presence—where I proceed to poke him twice in the shoulder.
He pulls off his earphones as he peers up at me and he gives me an odd look. It’s a half smile, half concerned expression, like he’s happy to see me, but also not sure about it. Perhaps it’s the look on my face right now that has him confused.
“That zip lining thing you made me do?” I say, without a greeting of any sort.
The half-smile that was there disappears and is now replaced by downturned lips and brows pulled inward. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice almost tentative.
“Well, it did something to my brain,” I say. “I think it might have jumbled it around or something.” I reach up and tap my head a few times with my fingers, possibly looking a bit psychotic, which might be the case.
“What’s going on?” he asks, stretching the words out and scooting over in his booth, away from the crazy redhead currently hovering above him.
On second glance, I realize he’s moved over for me to sit down.
Oh, well . . . okay, then.
I take a seat next to him, placing my hands in my lap. I look around. I’ve never sat here before, next to Logan. It’s the perfect vantage spot in the café, with a view of the counter and the entrance. It’s quiet in here right now, only the chatter of a couple of employees.
Logan nudges me with his elbow. Right. I came here for a reason.
“Something is wrong with me,” I say, an unmistakable hint of blame in my voice. Because I do blame Logan for this.
He looks at me, waiting for me to explain. I start to forget why I came over here as I stare into those sea blue eyes of his and a feeling takes front and center—one of me grabbing him and making out with him, right here at the Lava Java.
But no, I need to focus because I’m frustrated and it’s all Logan’s fault.
“What’s wrong?” he finally asks after I don’t answer fast enough.
I let out a breath. “I can’t do my job,” I finally say.
He pulls his brows in even more. “You can’t do your job?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say, reaching up and grabbing some hair to twirl around my finger. “I thought maybe it was a vacation hangover or something, but then . . .” I trail off, thinking of how I woke up this morning after working through the weekend trying to catch up. Really, I slogged through the weekend, not enjoying any of it. Except for the part when I saw Logan on Saturday night.
I’d figured my feelings toward work would change by now, or at least I’d start to feel inklings of the old me—the me who gets up on Mondays ready for the week. I’ve never been a Monday-hater. But I didn’t wake up feeling motivated in the slightest this morning. I just felt . . . blah. I went for a run, hoping to clear my head, but that didn’t seem to help.
It also didn’t help that when I finally got to work, the first thing I had to do was my Monday meeting with my team, and they did not seem happy to have me there. It was like it had been before I left. Back to their old ways. Jim was even back to wearing his ratty jeans and overly-worn polo and Brad’s hair looked like he’d stuck his finger in a socket. And the Sarahs hardly paid attention to anything.
It was when—toward the end of the meeting—Brad raised his hand to ask me if I could “get tips” from Tiffany regarding her management style, making me almost throw up in my mouth, that the thought occurred to me: Tiffany is a better manager than me.
This thought also made me almost throw up in my mouth.
I don’t want to admit this, but it might be true. I mean, in ten days she whipped my team into shape. I haven’t been able to accomplish that in the two years I’ve been their manager. What does that say about me? I can see the CCM job slipping through my fingers and being snatched up by Tiffany’s perfectly manicured ones.
Then I had another thought. If I do—by some miracle—snag this promotion, I won’t be managing my team anymore—instead I’ll be managing an entire floor of people. Possibly more Jims, and Sarahs, and Brads. It would be a lot more drama, more people to make sure they’re doing their jobs, more employees to be in charge of. Is this what I really want?
I tell Logan all this and he just sits there watching me intently.
“So I think that zip lining thing you made me do—I think it messed with my brain.” It’s the only explanation.
One corner of Logan’s lip pulls up ever so slightly. “I d
oubt it,” he says.
I huff out my nose. “Then how do you explain it? This . . . this . . .” I trail off, tapping the side of my head with my fingers again.
He looks at me, his eyes searching my face. “It didn’t jumble your brain,” he says. “I think it made you realize things.”
“Realize things?”
“Sure,” he says. “Like the fact that you find me irresistible.”
This makes me snort out a laugh. “Is there alcohol in that drink?” I point to the coffee cup on the table near us.
He puts one arm over the back of the booth and rests his other hand on the table, his body angled toward me like he’s surrounding me. I could scoot just a few inches toward him, and maybe he’d wrap those arms around me.
Oh, man, maybe I do find Logan irresistible. I almost laugh at the strangeness of that thought.
“Maybe,” he says, his voice low and rough sounding—it does maddening things to my insides when he talks like this. “Maybe getting away from here and trying something different made you realize there’s a whole world out there. And you’ve been stuck in yours.”
“Oh, look at you, Mr. Psychoanalyzer,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
This makes both corners of Logan’s mouth turn up.
“Did you miss your work while you were gone?” he asks.
I pause for a second, taking in his question. “Yes,” I say pseudo-confidently.
He angles his head to the side, a disbelieving expression on his face. I twist my lips back and forth and I try to think of a time while I was gone that I missed work. That I missed being back here. And I can’t think of one. In fact, in Paris, when I was with this man I’m sitting with right now, I kept forgetting I had a job at all.
“Well, maybe I didn’t miss it,” I say.
“So it might not have been the zip lining then,” he says.
I swallow. “I’m tired, Logan,” I finally say, leaning my head back against the booth. I feel his hand—the one he had rested behind me—move so that his fingers could caress my hair.
“So what do you want to do?”
I turn my head toward him. “What do you mean?”
“What is it that you want to do?”
I let out a breath, feeling safe and happy sitting right here letting Logan play with my hair. Can that be my answer? Just stay here?
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “Obviously, I’ll get to work and keep pushing forward.”
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“What?”
“If you don’t like it—and it sounds like you haven’t in a while—maybe it’s not what you really want.”
“So, what, I just quit?”
He lifts his shoulders in a brief shrug. “Why not?”
I let out a sardonic laugh. “I can’t quit.”
“Sure you can. No one’s making you stay.”
“I’m making me,” I say, sitting up, and I immediately regret it as the hair caressing stops. “I’ve worked too hard for this.”
He ponders this for a moment. “It’s okay to work hard at something and not have it turn out how you expected it.”
“Says the super-successful app designer,” I say, holding a hand out toward him, palm up.
And then before I forget, I ask him, “Did you find out about AppLee?” I’ve been carrying a weight around regarding that and all Logan sacrificed for me. I don’t want him to regret coming to Paris. I can’t help but wonder if he will, given the stakes.
He shakes his head. “We haven’t heard yet. But it doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” I say.
“There’ll be other AppLees.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because,” he says. “I know there will be.”
Therein lies the problem for me. I don’t know that there will be more promotions on the horizon if I don’t get this one. I don’t know what I’ll do if the job goes to someone else—or heaven forbid, Tiffany.
“And,” he says, “it doesn’t matter, because I made my choice.”
I look up at him, his face serious, his eyes full of . . . I don’t know what, but something not very Logan-like.
“I hear you say that,” I say, turning my eyes away from him and focusing on the table in front of us. “But I worry you’ll regret it.”
“Do you regret it? Going to Paris?”
The thought did cross my mind Sunday morning as I was trudging my way through my work hardly taking breaks to eat since I’ve been back. The thought that maybe if I would have just left and not let Logan talk me into going to Paris, or maybe if I hadn’t gone at all, none of this would be happening.
But even as I had those thoughts, they were quickly pushed away. I don’t regret any part of Paris. I don’t even regret London with Nate because all of it got me to Paris. Funny how life works like that.
“I don’t,” I say, pulling my lips up into a smile. “And I hope you get AppLee so you won’t either.”
He shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turned up thoughtfully. “It won’t matter,” he says. “I won’t regret it.”
I snuffle and look away from him. Out toward the entrance of the coffee shop. “You can’t know that.”
The hand that was on the table moves to the side of my jaw, lightly touching it as he nudges my head to move toward him, to see his face. I let him, and he leaves his fingers there, running a thumb over my cheek.
“I won’t regret it,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
He huffs a frustrated breath out his nose. “I’m in love with you, Holly.”
Say what? My eyes go wide at his confession.
“I think I fell in love with you the moment Nathan first introduced me to you.”
“I . . . you . . . but . . .” I stammer out, my breath picking up speed, my heart beating practically out of my chest.
His fingers that were caressing my face move slowly, inching their way behind my ear and weaving into my hair. Logan leans into me, bringing his lips to mine in a soft kiss that makes me tingle all over. I reach up and lightly wrap my hand around his forearm.
“No regrets,” he says after he pulls his lips from mine. Then he leans in and kisses me again.
~*~
“I’m totally lost right now,” Quinn says after I’ve filled in my friends on the events of my life for the past two weeks.
The gang’s all here—Quinn, Bree, Alex, and Thomas. I haven’t been able to see them, or my dad, since I got back, since I was doubling my efforts at work, trying to prove myself.
I told them everything that happened before the Mugshot Mondays incident—giving Thomas a small but firm lecture on the importance of never pulling a stunt like that again, which, to his credit, he did look somewhat ashamed about. Then I told them everything that happened after. After confronting Nate, and after Logan showed up.
“You zip lined off the Eiffel Tower,” Alex says, repeating the last thing I told them, disbelief in his voice.
“I did,” I say, feeling quite proud of myself as I tell them this. If for nothing else, the shock value has made it worth it. And they’re definitely shocked.
Thomas reaches over and pokes me in the arm like he thinks I’m not real. Like maybe I’m an apparition.
“And then what happened?” Bree asks. She’s the member of the group who’s the least shocked by this. I think she’s still having a hard time getting over the fact that I ditched hottie Nate.
“Then . . .” I trail off, thinking of that kiss with Logan. The one right after the zip lining. The one that made me forget about everything and just be in that moment with him. That was, until we got some catcalling from people in the park. That was sort of embarrassing.
“You’re blushing,” Quinn says, letting her jaw hang down, her voice accusatory.
Of all my friends, I wish I could have talked to Quinn before we got here. About the trip, about everything. But she only got back from fat camp—or whatever that was—l
ast night, and this was the first time either of us had a moment to talk.
“So, you and Logan . . .” Bree trails off, her eyes going wide.
“Oh, my gosh, this is agonizing,” Thomas says, leaning his head back dramatically. “I actually can’t remember a time before you started telling us about this trip.”
“Shut up, Thomas,” Quinn says, waving his words away with her hand.
“Did you make out with Logan or not?” Thomas asks.
I try to stifle a smile, but it’s no use. They can all see the truth written on my face.
“You did!” Quinn yells loudly, which gets us looks from the surrounding tables.
“And are you like a thing now?” Thomas asks, frustration in his voice.
I nibble on my bottom lip.
“You are!” Quinn yells, possibly even louder this time.
“You’re so freaking loud,” Thomas says to Quinn. And she gives him a finger—the middle one.
“It’s all new, you guys,” I say, keeping my voice low. So new that I didn’t bring him with me tonight. I knew I needed to let my friends get the crazy out before I invited Logan to hang out at Hester’s with us again.
“Oh, my gosh,” Quinn says. “Look at you. You’re like . . . glowing. I’d like to take some credit for all this.” She gives me a crap-eating smile.
I give her one back. “Yes, you do get all the credit for Nate.”
“That was Jerry’s fault, not mine,” she says.
“But it was your idea.”
“Yes, but it all worked out and that’s what you should thank me for.” She sticks her tongue out at me.
“You’re lucky it did,” I say.
“Hey, you saved me, and I can’t thank you enough for that,” she reaches her arm around me and gives me a quick, tight, side hug.
The whole trip did work in Quinn’s favor—the news station seems to be off her back over the viral video and are thrilled with the ratings the whole trip brought in. They never mentioned on air anything about Nate or what happened there. As far as the viewers know, we had a great time and that was that.
“So what about work?” Alex asks. “Word around the office is that Mike is leaving and it’s between you and Tiffany for the job.”