by Susan Hatler
Instead of relenting, he flashed a grin. “We both know it’s customary to keep the client happy. What makes me happy is being with you. Looks like you’re not getting rid of me.”
Oh, man. He’d beat me by using the most basic rule in customer service.
“Whatever the client says.” I relented, then glanced down at my paint-splattered outfit. “But I have to change first.”
“That’s approved.” He opened the door but, before I could slip out, he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me until my knees turned to noodles. Once. Twice. Three times. “I’ll be down to pick you up shortly.”
I lifted my lashes, feeling dazed. “Okay.”
As I hurried down the stairs, I had to hold the railing to keep steady. I knew I’d messed up again by kissing Greg. And I should have stood firm and not let him come furniture shopping. I really did know all of this. But, right now, I felt too freaking amazing to care.
****
As I swept my paintbrush down one corner of Greg’s living room walls Sunday afternoon, I wanted to pinch myself to make sure I was awake. I’d always maintained that help was overrated. But, after this weekend, I’d gained a new perspective.
With Greg, everything I needed to get done for the condo had been accomplished faster and had been more fun. Thinking about our war over picking out the new sofa and loveseat had my belly doing somersaults. I’d brought a list of sofa options to the furniture store that would work visually with the space, but he refused to listen to my researched ratings on customer feedback. Instead, he’d bounced from couch to couch, insisting on picking whichever sofa he could best imagine “watching a Ben Stiller movie on.”
So not rational.
But, Greg had won the argument—he was the client, after all—and I’d somehow promised to watch some movie called Zoolander with him even though I hadn’t looked up the reviews yet. In my defense, his delicious kisses had made my brain fuzzy again.
Another exciting revelation occurred when my muse returned last night. For my logo, I’d sketched a simple, white, antique chair with a paintbrush hovering over the seat’s cushion, turning it red like a magic wand. A splash of angel dust exploded around the paint bristles, finishing the logo off. I also purchased the domain name for my upcoming website, assigned an email address, and printed five hundred business cards. Nothing was going to stop me now.
Ping! Ping!
“Your phone’s beeping in the den.” Greg entered from the hallway, then picked up a paintbrush to join me.
“Thanks.” I considered ignoring the phone call, but climbed down the ladder and hurried to the den. I didn’t want to worry my friends by not answering. I’d already received calls from Jill, Kaitlin, Rach, Ellen, Kristen, and a handful of others checking to make sure I wasn’t going off the deep end after being handed my walking papers from Woodward Systems Corporation. Who was even left to phone me now? The new janitorial staff?
My cell screen showed four new text messages from Mary Ann, one missed call from my mother, and another missed call from a Sacramento number I didn’t recognize. I scanned my texts first.
Mary Ann: You know how you got the boot at work? That wasn’t top secret, right?
Mary Ann: Mom is sort of freaking out. You need to call and reassure her you’ve got a plan. You do have a plan, right? We need something and it’s called money.
Mary Ann: Are you ignoring me? I’m starting to get that impression. I may have told Mom, Dad, Liam, and the guy who edges the plants out front that you got terminated, but only cuz I have nobody else to vent to. Why won’t you call me? I’m so upset I almost canceled my facial.
Mary Ann: Don’t misdirect your anger. Your boss is the dodo brain. Not me. Dig?
My jaw tightened. Unbelievable. Why didn’t Mary Ann just broadcast my dismissal on the news? And how does she have money for a facial, but not rent? So not logical. I mean, I could use a facial right about now. Not to mention a manicure. Painting sure wreaked havoc on the nails.
I tapped the voicemail icon on my phone, then dialed my password: Ginger, this is your mother. Mary Ann told me you were fired on Friday and we’re disappointed you didn’t call us right away and that we had to find out through your sister, who is completely distraught. You know how sensitive she is. I’ve gone through the job listings in the paper and you’ll be pleased to know there are opportunities for an office manager. With your degree and experience, you’re a qualified candidate. We’ll send out your résumés on Monday and hope they don’t ask too many questions about why you were let go. I hope it didn’t have anything to do with the new signature procedure for the office supplies, which you were complaining to me about earlier in the week. You know, there’s a logical reason behind every business decision. Either way, setbacks are only stepping stones—as long as you don’t dawdle and apply for a new position right away. Call me when you get this. Bye.
My forehead throbbed and I deleted the message, wishing I could erase it from my memory just as easily. She had the nerve to spout about office manager positions? Doesn’t the woman remember how bored out of my mind I was at my job? Does she want me to be miserable and comatose again?
Next, a monotone voice announced I had one more new message: Hi, Ginger. This is Liam, Mary Ann’s friend. Well, more than friend. Although, I’ve asked her out for a third time, and she hasn’t quite said yes. Even though we had a great evening dancing on Friday, she said she needs to think about a third date. Something about rules and strikes. I don’t know. Anyway, she’s worried you’re upset with her, so it would make her happy if you could give her a call. Also, if you would put in a good word for me, I’d appreciate it. I have tickets for a wine train in Napa and I know we’d have a good time. Bye now.
I pressed the delete button on my phone. Why was everyone worried about comforting my blabber-mouthed sister? I was the one who’d gotten fired, not her. There was no way I could cover rent, Mary Ann’s half and mine, without a salary. My severance and vacation would only last a month. After that, we were going to be hosed. Unless I nailed this project and obtained some clients. Talk about pressure.
Every muscle in my body tightened with tension. I set my cell down on the chest next to the kitty statue, inhaling deep supposed-to-be-calming-but-wasn’t-working breaths. I’d call Mary Ann later. Definitely not now or I’d surely go off on her, which would ruin the relaxation benefits of her facial.
My gaze fell to the framed photo on Greg’s wooden chest, sitting between the bronze kitten and the lamp. The man in the photo was handsome, and a little boy sat on his lap. In the photo, he peered down at the kid with raised brows and his hand was frozen over the child’s belly as if he’d been tickling him when the shot had been taken. The boy’s almond-brown eyes lit up, and he wore a huge gap-toothed smile. Greg.
Warmth filled my chest. I ran my fingers over his adorable boy face. He had a mouth full of straight, white teeth now, but his smile hadn’t changed. I found myself wishing I’d known him as a child. I’d bet he had been just as sweet. . . .
“Everything all right?” Greg’s voice echoed from behind me.
I jumped, startled, then slapped my hand over my pounding heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry.” He stepped closer, rubbing at a stripe of wet paint on his arm, and smearing it. “You were gone awhile. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” I set the frame back down, embarrassed that I’d been caught fondling his childhood photo. I fixed my gaze on his. “Your dad?”
“Yes.” Something flickered in his eyes, but I wasn’t sure what. “Your cheeks are flushed. Are you upset?”
“Yes. No.” I shook my head, trying to decide how much to tell him. “I got four texts from Mary Ann. She’s told everyone, including my mother that I lost my job. Now my mom’s railroading me into finding a new office position, which I don’t want. Like I don’t have enough problems right now.”
He reached for my hand. “Can I help?”
I stared
up at him. His gentle eyes tugged at something inside me. Part of me wanted to confide in him, but what would be the point? He’d still be an emergency room doctor, stressed and busy, who wanted children one day. Not a match made in a condo complex.
I swallowed, glancing away. “I should get back to work . . .”
“Ginger.” He lifted my chin, so I was looking up at him. “Talk to me. I’m here for you.”
Yeah, for the moment. But I knew what the future would hold. Long work hours. Broken promises.
I closed my eyes. “We have to stop this. Us. There’s no point.”
“There’s every point.” His eyes heated, his fingers brushing my cheek, leaving a tingling wake across my skin. “A lifetime of points, Ginger. Since the night we met, I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
I blinked. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, either.”
His mouth captured mine in a warm, sweet kiss, as if to confirm what we’d both admitted. Then he pulled back. “You told me you don’t do long distance relationships, but I sensed something more. I’m here now, and you’re still pushing me away. Why?”
My throat tightened. I glanced down at the photo of him with his dad, thought about his mom remodeling his kitchen as a housewarming gift, then I shook my head. “I didn’t grow up in the perfect family like you did.”
His jaw tensed. “How do you mean?”
“My dad was an emergency room doctor,” I blurted. Just like that, a leash inside me broke free, and the words began tumbling out. “He worked long hours. We hardly ever saw him. And when we did . . . he was hard, and sad, and miserable.” My throat constricted. I fought my burning eyes but a hot tear escaped, sliding down my cheek. “Losing patients tore my dad up inside. He’d talked about the losses with my mom at first, but later he turned to alcohol. Scotch.”
“Ginger . . .” He swiped my cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry for your dad. And for you. But I’m not like him.”
“Not yet.” My teeth clenched. “He changed his career, moved into hospital administration, but the memories haunt him. So does the bottle. He’s promised to go to rehab many times, but it never sticks.”
His eyes sparked with recognition. “Your living room painting. He’s the one who broke his promise to you.”
My jaw nearly dropped. “I can’t believe you remember me saying that.”
“Sunshine, when will you realize I listen to everything you say?” He squeezed my hand, then his eyes clouded. “I didn’t have the childhood you seem to think I did.”
I glanced at the perfect father/son photo, then my eyes grew large. “What do you mean?”
His facial muscles tightened. “My dad died when I was nine years old.”
The air left my lungs, and I struggled to form words. “I-I’m so sorry.”
He nodded slightly. “He had a heart attack, while I was kicking the ball around in our backyard. My mom had gone to the grocery store, so I’m the one who found him.”
My stomach twisted. “That must’ve been awful.”
His brown eyes flooded with emotion. “I didn’t know CPR, so I blamed myself. Took me a long time to accept there wasn’t anything I could’ve done.” His temple throbbed, and he blew out a breath—almost as if he were reliving it. “Then, early one morning, I watched the sunrise.”
I stood completely still, mesmerized. “What happened?”
“The darkness faded, colors appeared in the sky, and the sun rose up to meet the day.” His gaze latched onto mine. “That’s when I knew I wanted to be a doctor. That any man I saved could be a dad going home to his son.”
My eyes burned from what I knew too well. “You can’t save everyone.”
“No.” He pulled me closer to him, fingered a loose strand of hair that had fallen against my cheek. “Those are the mornings I need the sunrise the most, because there will always be another day. Another person I can send home to their family.”
I bit my lip, pieces coming together. “You’re right. You’re not like my dad.”
He shook his head. “I’m here for you. If you’ll let me be . . .”
My heart tugged, squeezed, the pain unbearable. “Thank you for opening up to me. I’m here for you, too, as a friend.”
“Ginger—”
“I don’t want to have children,” I said, the truth finally out.
He appeared stunned a moment. “I hope The Skipper didn’t hear you say that.”
“I’m serious.” My voice steeled. I had to be resolute for Greg’s sake, so I didn’t lead him on. “I’m not right for you. I don’t want kids. I’m not going to stick around and destroy your dreams.”
He appeared unimpressed. “Well, you weren’t right about my job or my childhood. You’ve been wrong about a lot of things. What makes you think you’re not wrong about this too?”
I sucked in a breath, deciding to be completely honest. “The thought of being responsible for a child terrifies me. I can barely take care of myself.”
“Maybe life wouldn’t be so hard if you stopped trying to take care of everyone else.” He tucked his chin, his voice softening. “Or if you let people help you. Like me. I practically had to force you to let me paint my own condo. People help each other, and maybe you’re not used to that. But that’s what people do when they care about each other.”
I stared him in the eye. “I could never give you the life you want, and you deserve to have everything. I hope we can still be friends, but I’m not going to argue about this anymore. My decision is final.”
Hurt flickered across his face, then his features hardened. “You can only push somebody away so many times before they don’t come back.”
My chest went hollow. “Painting together obviously isn’t going to make this easier. I’ll come back tomorrow and finish up. Alone.”
“You’re the boss.” He walked me to the door, pulled it open for me to slip through, then he hesitated. “Of course, I’ll be your friend. I’m always here if you need me.”
“Me, too.” His words were comforting, but his eyes were cold and distant. “Good night, Greg.”
“Good-bye, Ginger,” he said, then closed the door.
Pain sliced through me, burning across my chest. Suddenly, I felt very alone, which was what I’d wanted all along. Just myself to take care of, and no one else. But now I didn’t feel self-reliant—I felt like I’d lost something precious.
Make that someone precious.
Chapter Seven
When I left Greg’s house, I knew things had ended the only way they could, but my heart felt like it had been ripped from my chest, and I honestly didn’t think I could feel any worse. I was wrong.
As soon as I stepped inside my condo, I saw my mother sitting on the couch next to Mary Ann.
My mom stood. “Well, there you are. I assume your cell phone is broken or you’ve been mugged. At least I hope there’s a good reason why you haven’t called your mother when I’ve been worried sick about you.”
“We both have been.” Mary Ann’s face scrunched up in her infamous pout, and she crossed her arms. “Didn’t you get my texts?”
“Yes.” I’d read her texts, then Greg had opened up to me about his dad. His words spun through my head, making me dizzy. I’d had to push him away, but that didn’t make losing him easy. Far from it. Nausea rolled up inside me and I held onto the back of the couch for support. “I’ve been upstairs working.”
Mom’s mouth pursed. “Working on what?”
“I told you about Ginger’s project when we were fabric shopping this morning for that quilt you’re making.” Mary Ann curled her legs underneath her, then gaped at me in faux horror. “If I have to look at another roll of floral patterns, I might set it on fire.”
“The charity project.” Mom snapped her fingers. “You’re being interviewed about the home you’re bringing up to date. Right?”
My brows knitted in confusion. She actually seemed excited for me, which I knew wasn’t possible. A career in art did not
equal stability. I’d heard these words come out of her mouth a million times.
“I was painting the living room walls ‘Urban Café,’ which is a basic beige I’m using throughout the condo.” I dropped my handbag on the sofa table, then inched closer to her, stunned that she was showing interest in my creative interests for the first time in my life. “This weekend, I picked out furniture with my client, which will be delivered tomorrow. Now I just need to finish painting the artwork to add a final splash of color.”
“That sounds wonderful, dear.” Mom’s mouth spread into a grin, and she turned toward Mary Ann. “She doesn’t seem like she’s two inches away from losing her mind.”
Mary Ann scoffed. “You didn’t see her on Friday.”
“You can all stop being concerned, because I’m fine.” I held my palms up. “Nobody’s going to lose anything.”
Except I’d lost Greg. By choice, for his own good. Argh. I shook my head, knowing my reasons weren’t making any of this easier. I needed to think happy thoughts. “Do you want to see the painting I’m working on for the project?”
“Can’t.” Mary Ann jumped off the couch. “I have an appointment with a bubble bath. Glad you’re alive. Next time call.”
I watched her scamper off, then I gestured toward my room and my mom followed me in there. We stopped next to the work in progress on my easel. “It’s not finished yet, but it will go in my client’s living room. What do you think?”
“It’s . . . colorful.” Mom smiled at my painting as if she were admiring a puppy. “But, in truth, I came over to help you with your résumé. We should send them out first thing tomorrow morning.”
My mouth opened in horror as I realized she was still talking about those office manager positions. “Mom, I’m not applying to any of those jobs you told me about. I’m starting my own business. This woman from Sacramento Living is running a six-page article on the condo I’m decorating and she already wants to refer me to her friends.”
“Art’s a nice hobby, dear.” Mom’s mouth pursed. “But you need a real job with a steady income.”
My blood hummed. “Decorating is going to be my real job. My client loves my work. The woman doing the spread also loves my stuff. She said I have a unique flair. I’m doing this, Mom, whether you approve or not.”