Missed Connections Box Set

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Something about the way he said that reverberated through me, more potency in it than any of the plans Brad and I had made. Brad, who I’d been meeting a week ago for drinks, and who’d asked me to marry him. This thing with Jon was going so fast.

  “So, you’re going to change for tonight at work?” he asked, as if I hadn’t fallen weirdly silent. He nodded at my garment bag in the back. So nice not to have to drag it onto the L.

  “Yes. Do you want to meet me there—or at the party?”

  A happy smile warmed his face. “I’d love to see where you work. And then you’ll have the opportunity to tweak anything I get wrong with the clothes you picked out.”

  “Oh.” Abruptly I felt kind of … picky. Amy the perfectionist. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “Seriously. I don’t want you to be ashamed to be seen with me.”

  A glimpse into his issues, there, I realized. And I felt all evolved to recognize that. I’d gotten my head out of my own messed-up thinking long enough to recognize when he was acting on old behavior. Go me. Jon, the scrawny kid who everyone had teased. Whose own mother had told him how ashamed he made her. She could never see the fine man he’d become.

  “I’d never be anything but proud to be on your arm,” I told him, meaning every word.

  His eyes crinkled with amusement, and he glanced at me, mouth opening to make a smart remark. But he must have seen in my face that I meant it. He pressed his lips together in a way I recognized, mastering the emotion, and he reached over and picked up my gloved hand, pressing a kiss to the back of the soft leather.

  “That means more to me than you’ll ever know,” he said, his voice gruff.

  But he was wrong. Because I did know.

  ~ 25 ~

  “Oh, Ms. Amanda T.” Flavio called from across the loft space working area. “Someone very yummy is here to see you!”

  I’d dressed for the party, but sat at my desk to clear out just one more email before I shut it down. The rest could wait until the new year, for good or ill. Glancing over the top of my monitor, I saw Jon, Flavio’s arm determinedly tucked through his as he sashayed alongside him in full flirt mode, coming toward us. He chatted amiably with Flavio, seeming unperturbed by the contact. Of course Jon wouldn’t have those brophobic tendencies, but it was still nice to see.

  Especially when Flavio—also dressed for the evening in an emerald satin tux that fit exquisitely but still went so far over the top that it left fashion sense in the dust—deposited Jon at my desk and gave him a kiss on the cheek, complete with sound effects. “Keeper!” Flavio sang out.

  “Begone, you overgrown elf,” I told him, standing to wrest Jon away from him, if necessary.

  “Jealous.” Flavio shimmied a little, posing, then danced off.

  “Definitely more colorful than my colleagues in the physics department,” Jon observed.

  “You have no idea.” Aware people were watching with avid interest, I straightened Jon’s collar, but resisted kissing him. He was clean-shaven. Maybe even a professional job. “I appreciate your tolerance.”

  “I’m secure in my sexuality,” he said quietly, with a smile that made me sure he was thinking about sex with me. “Though you look so incredible in that red dress that it gives me all sorts of workplace-inappropriate ideas.”

  “Oh, Jon,” I purred, pursing my lips and leaning in, enjoying the scent and baby-smoothness of his cheek, letting my breath whisper across his ear. “It’s scarlet.”

  He turned his head slightly, settling his hands on my waist. “Like the letter? That’s code for naughty, right?”

  I laughed. “It can be.”

  “My favorite color,” he decided. With a last squeeze of my waist, he stepped back taking me in. He held out a hand and, when I put mine in his, he coaxed me into a slow twirl, so the light silk of the very full, quite short skirt, flared out. Probably revealing plenty of the scarlet lace stockings above my over-the-knee boots. Those were a glossy ebony, with gold buckles, matching the fingerless gloves I’d made. Drawing on both punk and Victorian styles, the gloves added enough funky style to the outfit to make it frisky. It had been my New Year’s Eve dress, but why the hell not?

  Judging by the look on Jon’s face, the outfit had been well-targeted. “Can I get one question out of the way?” he asked me, so seriously that I paused, suddenly wary. He noticed and rubbed a hand on my bare arm. “Sorry—didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just wondering if you’ll come home with me tonight? Because if I’m not going to get to put my hands up that skirt and find out where the stockings end, I need to start talking myself down now.”

  My God. The man made my heart turn over with a few salacious words. “I’d love to, but I can tell you that they—”

  “No, no!” He cut me off, then grinned. “Let me do the unwrapping and find out. I love that part.”

  “Good surprise?” I asked archly, and he considered me.

  He finally nodded slightly. “Maybe there is such a thing, huh?”

  “Maybe so,” I conceded. After all, he’d been the biggest surprise of the season. All good so far.

  I gave Jon the tour, showing him first the high-ceilinged workspace where our desks clustered in teams, then the other side of the floor where we cut fabric and assembled samples. Because he wanted to see it, I took him to the other floor where we stored fabric of all varieties, along with both sewing and display mannequins that Jon declared suitable for a horror flick.

  I shut down my computer and Jon called a Lyft for us. “Where’s your coat?” he asked.

  “In my garment bag.” I nodded at the bag, which he carried for me. “No—don’t get it out. It doesn’t go with the outfit.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “Seriously, Amy? It’s fucking freezing out there, to quote a friend. You can’t go out like that.” He gestured at the ebony polished leather bolero jacket I’d put on over the sleeveless dress. Which looked awesome, if I did say so myself.

  “I’ll run really fast between the car and Somerset.”

  “Remind me to explain wind chill to you.” He draped my garment bag over the table by the elevator and shrugged out of his top coat. A good black cashmere one I’d been beyond surprised to discover in the back of his closet. Too big for him, but I could fix that. He held it out for me, and I slipped my arms in, the residual warmth a delicious comfort. A scent enveloped me that I recognized as essentially him, one so familiar I hadn’t consciously noticed it until that moment.

  “What’s that face?” Jon asked.

  “Nothing. I was impressed you had this coat in your closet.”

  “It was my dad’s.” He brushed something off the shoulder. “Found it in a storage unit my mom had and kept it. It sat in the back of my closet until you dug it out.”

  “That explains the wrinkles.”

  “I had it dry cleaned. You didn’t tell me to, but I had everything you picked out cleaned and pressed, in case it was a test.”

  “Not everything is a test, Jon,” I said softly.

  His thoughtful frown dissolved into a smile. “Did I mention I have issues?”

  The phone pinged with the Lyft car arrival, so I put my arm through Jon’s proffered elbow and hit the elevator button. “At least we have different ones.”

  “A match made in heaven,” he agreed.

  * * *

  I had fun at the party. The setting was beyond glam, of course, and the food amazing. But I had a good time with Jon. He got along with the colorful crew that made up Adelina’s company of assorted creative geniuses, asking his serious questions that elicited thoughtful answers—some of them things I’d never thought to ask my colleagues.

  He also never left my side. Something I hadn’t realized how much I liked until I had it.

  Adelina gave her toast, breaking out the really good champagne. As we left, she complimented me on my style choices, making it sound like she was talking about the outfit, but I knew she meant the plus one. “Don’t spend the entire holiday hanging stockin
gs by the fire or whatever you people do,” she told me. “I expect some tangible designs from you come January second. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. And gave her a cheeky curtsey. I’d had more than a little champagne. Fortunately, she laughed.

  It occurred to me as we walked out that I could remake the tuxedo I’d planned for Brad. Without him in mind, I could rework it, make it something… else. I didn’t know what, but it felt like with each day that passed I gained a bit more clarity. Like I’d been walking around with that haze Jon had talked about, but mine had been diamond-colored. My glasses shading life weren’t rose-colored, but sported faceted lenses from Tiffany. And they’d distorted everything.

  In the Lyft car on the way to Jon’s I leaned against him, his top coat draped over the both of us like a blanket. He had his hand on my stocking-clad thigh, caressing it thoughtfully as he looked out the window at the passing lights, though not going higher than would have been socially acceptable, even without the cloaking cashmere.

  I moved under his stroking hand, shifting so my thighs opened a bit, making his hand slide higher. He glanced down at me, giving me that analytical look that I’d come to find bizarrely seductive. Wiggling a bit more, I got his hand up to the part where the lace-edged thigh-high met my bare skin—and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows wing up, and his eyes intensify.

  He didn’t say anything, just traced the line of the lace edging around the outside of my thigh, then back. All the way around to my inner thigh. I waited, breathless and growing wetter, for him to take the next logical step and go up. But, with that thoughtful expression, he slipped his finger under the lace, pinching the silicone that gripped it to my skin, then nodded slightly, confirming something to himself.

  I busted out laughing. “Only you,” I said.

  “I wondered how they stayed up,” he replied quietly, slightly defensive.

  “Oh, honey—believe me. I figured that out.”

  He smiled, uncertain at first, then wider when he decided I wasn’t annoyed. Snuggling up to me and moving his fingers back above the stocking, he lightly caressed that sensitive skin at the very top of my thigh, then brushed the lace of my panties. “Was this what you expected?” he murmured against my cheek.

  “Closer,” I breathed. Then gasped when he slipped a finger inside the lace, delicately tracing along the folds of my labia.

  “Labia menorah,” he whispered into my ear, making me giggle, then bury my face against him when he pushed his finger past the slight barrier to stroke my clit, skidding on the slickness. If we’d been alone, I could’ve come pretty fast. As it was… oh, wow, I nearly did lose it. I clamped my thighs together on his hand, trapping it into immobility. Though he still twitched his finger, so I had to seize his wrist and forcibly move his hand from under my skirt, lest I come in the back of some rando Lyft driver’s car.

  “Mess with the bull and you get the horns,” Jon said knowingly, turning his hand to hold mine.

  “Breakfast Club quotes—really? We need to update your streaming library.”

  “I can be taught.” He laced our fingers together. “Let’s do a movie binge fest this weekend.”

  “Sunday is Christmas Eve,” I replied automatically. Then realized I had no plans and it didn’t matter.

  Jon was watching my face. “Are you going home then?”

  “God, no.” My stomach twisted with anxiety just contemplating it. Then it occurred to me that Jon didn’t have any family to go to anymore, so that had been a thoughtless response. “What are your plans?”

  He took a breath, looking out the window, then back at me. “I was hoping we could spend it together.”

  “That seems…” Intense. Too soon.

  And attractive. Better than what I’d be doing otherwise.

  “If it’s too soon, we could—” he started.

  “I’d like that. Low key, though.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  ~ 26 ~

  I woke up in the dark, confused—and with a mild anxiety that I’d be late. Then remembered it was Saturday. And I was in Jon’s bed. I looked at my Fitbit for the time. Five-twenty-nine. Figured.

  “No,” Jon murmured sleepily, snaking an arm around me and bringing me close. “We’ve only been asleep a few hours.”

  “I want to—”

  “You don’t have any running clothes here yet. You’d have to go home. If you go back to sleep, I promise to go with you later.”

  I hesitated. Run later, huh?

  “You can borrow clothes and I’ll buy you running shoes,” he coaxed. “We could run by the lake. In the sunshine, even.”

  That did sound nice. “I don’t think I can go back to sleep. You do, though, and—” I squeaked when he rolled me over to straddle him.

  “Let me help with that.” He still sounded sleepy, kind of growly, then made a pleased sound when he slipped a hand between my parted thighs and found me wet. Lifting me by the hips, he settled me on his ready erection, then cupped my breasts, fondling them. “Since you’re so chipper, you can do the work.”

  Only fair, so I rocked myself on him, surprised by the sweetness of the pleasure. Less high-pitched than at night—especially the frenzy of the night before, when we’d all but fallen on each other the moment we shut his apartment door. Brad had never been much for morning sex, largely because I was always up and gone before he woke up. Other guys had liked it, but tended to be more wham-bam about it.

  This… this was kind of lovely. Slow and gentle and intimate.

  Jon had his eyes mostly closed, only the sweep of his thumbs and slow mimicking of my rolling movement making it clear he was right with me. When the orgasm came, it felt like a long, slow, and sinuous stretch. Jon arched his throat, mouth falling open into a smile, of all things. And I fell over him, kissing along his Adam’s apple, scraping my teeth in the overnight stubble, letting the last shivers of pleasure roll through me.

  Jon wrapped his arms around me, cuddling me close. And, miraculously, I fell asleep.

  * * *

  When I awoke again, it was much later. I looked at my Fitbit. Nine-thirty. Whoa.

  I rolled over to find Jon had gone, his side of the bed cool. He’d managed to slip out without waking me. Another Christmas miracle. Sitting up, I found a man’s robe draped over the end of the bed. Taking it as an invitation, I put it on over my nakedness and wandered down the hallway to the living room. The Christmas tree lights were on, and now a little toy train had been added, running ’round and ’round the tracks that encircled the bottom. It made me smile with the kind of giddy delight I imagined most kids felt at Christmas.

  No Jon anywhere.

  Coffee perked in the kitchen, filling the air with the lovely scent. I like the smell of coffee, but not the taste, so I rummaged in the cabinets, looking for tea. He had a box of supermarket tea in the bags that looked years old, but better than nothing. No tea kettle, just one of those insta-hot things, which always taste funky to me. So I found a saucepan, filled it with filtered water from the fridge door, and started heating it.

  The locks turned on the apartment door, and I called out a hi as Jon entered. He came into the kitchen, carrying bags from Teavana and a discount shoe store. “She’s awake,” he said, with a sunny smile. “I hoped to get back before you did.” He handed me the big Teavana bag. “Merry Christmas.”

  I peered inside to find several boxes. “Jon, you didn’t need to—”

  “Spare you heating your tea water in a saucepan?” He cocked his head at my improvisation. “I can only imagine what you’ve been muttering to yourself about my stale tea.”

  “I don’t mutter,” I said with dignity, pulling out the boxes. Tea kettle. Thermometer—one for tea, not like the candy one of Julie’s I always used. Ceramic pot with warmer. Extra candles. A tea strainer for brewing. And a bag of their holiday blend. At least a couple hundred dollars of stuff. “This is too much.”

  “Of the tea? Yeah, but I’ll drink it if you don
’t like it. I didn’t know what all kinds to get for you to make your own witch’s brew, so I let them talk me into this one. The sample the girl gave me tasted good, but what do I know?”

  “Too much money,” I said, a bit more loudly than I meant to. I waved a hand at the array of stuff. “This is crazy.”

  He gave me a long look, calculating in his head. “It’s an investment. If you’re going to spend nights with me, then you’ll want your precision tea-making supplies. It’s too soon to think about you moving in here or me moving in with you, and you can hardly drag your teapots back and forth. This is logical.”

  I gaped at him a moment. “We’ve been sleeping together for two days and you’re thinking about moving in together?”

  “Technically it’s five days since the kiss—a year on top of that since the first one, since last Christmas—and almost ten years since we became friends. That all counts for something.” He took the box with the tea kettle from me and began unpacking it. “And, no, I’m thinking about what we do until we can think about moving in together.”

  “I can’t even with you.” I wanted to sound exasperated, but I was… touched. He’d bought all this for me, so I’d be comfortable at his place. No one had done that for me before.

  “You can with me,” he said, washing out the tea kettle, then filling it with the filtered fridge water and handing it to me. “Oh, and I got this. It’s little, but I figure it’ll grow.” He reached into the shoe store bag and pulled out a small potted geranium. “You can decide where it should be. And I got that Rykä brand of shoes you like, but I don’t know if the size will be right. I looked at your boots, but I have this idea that women’s heels and running shoe sizes might be—hey, what’s wrong?”

  I waved my hands, then gave up and wiped away the tears. “I don’t know.”

  He put his hands on my waist. “Bad surprise?”

  “I think it’s good surprise and maybe I don’t know how to deal with that.”

  Smiling gently, he kissed my forehead. “Make your tea. Then we can go for a run, and you’ll feel more yourself.”