Drunk in Love

by Anthology

  Sitting across from her after toasting their success, he cocked his head to the side.

  “Ted from HR has a thing for you,” he said, trying to segue the conversation into a bit of flirtation to gauge whether or not his growing feelings for her might someday be reciprocated.

  “Ted!” she exclaimed, grinning at him as she wrinkled her nose. “No way!”

  “Yes, way!” he said. “He’s always checking you out.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “I highly doubt it. Besides, it doesn’t matter. I could never date Ted. We work together.”

  “So what?”

  “So I wouldn’t risk my job. I couldn’t. I have car payments and rent. I need this job.”

  Taken aback, he stared at her, uncertain if she realized that, by sidelining Ted, she was precluding the possibility of dating every man who worked at Global, including him.

  “Are you serious?”

  She nodded forcefully. “It’s in the employee handbook.”

  He chuckled softly, amused for a moment by the seriousness of her tone. But the brief levity was soon replaced by the heaviness of knowing he couldn’t have what he wanted—that his feelings for her, were he to confess them, would be unwelcome and would likely strain their working relationship. Still, he had to be sure there was no hope for them.

  “You’d never date anyone you work with?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “If I broke the rules, I could be fired.”

  And that was that.

  They finished their beers and ordered another round, but the evening had lost all its hope and promise. Claire had no interest in dating him. No matter how much he cared for her, he needed to move on.

  And Phoebe, who’d shown up later that week to retain Global’s services, was the perfect distraction.

  “I bought doughnuts.”

  Jamie looked up to see Claire walk back into the office and plunk down in her chair.

  “I noticed.”

  “Your favorite kind,” she said, giving him the wobbly smile he adored.

  He grinned at her. He highly doubted that Phoebe knew that doughnuts were his favorite sweet treat, and even if she did, she certainly wouldn’t approve.

  “Thanks, love.”

  Her smile faded and her eyes widened for a moment as she stared at him. “Oh. You’re . . . you’re welcome.”

  It was tiny gestures like that—her reaction to his use of the word love—that had kept him wondering about her long after the night she’d destroyed his hopes. From time to time, he would tease her about Ted—“When’re you going to put Ted out of his misery and ask him out to dinner?”—but she always responded the same way, reminding him to read the employee handbook, which also reminded him that his advances would be unwelcome.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting Fiona,” she said, taking a doughnut when he offered her the bag.

  He took one for himself and bit into the sweet pastry. “She’s one of my favorite people in the world.”

  “I know,” said Claire. “Has she gotten over her breakup?”

  “With Kent? He was a wanker, for sure.”

  “A wanker,” repeated Claire.

  Jamie chuckled. “Och, yer accent is shite, Clara.”

  She shrugged through giggles, taking another bite of doughnut. “Someday I’ll master it.”

  “When?”

  “When I’ve finally earned three full weeks of vacation and I can go spend some time there.”

  “And where’ll you go?”

  This was one of his favorite conversations—co-planning Claire’s fictional vacation to his homeland.

  “I’ll start in Edinburgh,” she said, “and then go to Saint Andrews.”

  He nodded. “Well done. Don’t skip Aberdeen.”

  “I widnae skip it,” she said, knowing it was where he’d grown up.

  “Shite accent,” he said. “Then up to Inverness?”

  “Aye. To visit the Loch Ness Monster,” she said as some confectioners’ sugar dusted her chin.

  “Ol’ Nessie. Then what?”

  “Down the West Highland Way.”

  “The Campbell lands.”

  “Aye.”

  “At least your aye is right enough.”

  “Not all shite then.”

  “Ah. But your shite is shite, lass.”

  She shook her head, her smile sweet and achingly familiar. “And then to Glasgow.”

  “Beware the gangs.”

  “The street thugs o’ Glasgow,” she said darkly, feigning fright.

  “Lord save us all from Americans tryin’ to speak like Scots,” he said in an exaggerated brogue. “And damn Mel Gibson for startin’ it!”

  “Och,” she said, sticking out her chin. “Lord also save us from Scots who think they’re the only ones who know how to speak English.”

  He laughed, finished his doughnut, and grabbed another. His mouth was stuffed to the gills, and powdered sugar rained onto his lap as he said, “A stop in Glasgow. Then where’ll you go, smart-ass?”

  “Oh! A compliment. My ass is smart, you know.”

  “Yer ass is . . .” He stopped himself from saying “verra fine” and gave her a look. “Enough about yer ass, lassie. Where next?”

  “After Glasgow?” she asked. “Who cares? I’ve seen it all.”

  “Hardly!” he exclaimed. “Ye’ll’ve seen nothin’ of Dumfries or Stirling. Nothin’ of the Northern Isles. And what about Pitlochry? Aviemore? Sunrises on Dornoch? There’s a whole beautiful world there, and if ye go, ye’ve got to see it all. Everything it has to offer. Promise me, Clara. Promise.”

  He only realized the change in his tone when her eyes widened. He wasn’t just bantering anymore. He was pleading with her.

  “I promise,” she whispered.

  She stared at him, her blue eyes boring into his as her smile wavered, then fell, all of the playfulness ebbing from her expression.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she added, flinching as if someone had jabbed her with a pin. “I doubt I’ll ever get there.”

  “Sure you will,” he said gently.

  She took a deep breath and held it, staring down at her keyboard. “Are you all ready for tomorrow?”

  He didn’t know how to answer her. He’d had more fun in the past five minutes with her than he’d had in days.

  Suddenly his cell phone buzzed, cutting through their shared melancholy. Jamie turned away from her. “Jamie here.”

  “It’s Fiona.”

  “Fee!” He glanced at his watch. “Is everythin’ okay? You should be in the air!”

  “They offered me an earlier flight. Just landed.”

  “And Mum?”

  “Didn’t come. Said she’ll meet ‘this Phoebe’ when you come across.”

  His mother, a well-known Scottish socialite who’d never had much time for her children, wasn’t particularly impressed with his quick decision to marry an American.

  “Don’t let it trouble you, Jamie. You ken how she is.”

  “Aye. I do.” He sighed. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here, Fee.”

  “I’ll find a taxi and have it take me to Greenwich.”

  “None of that. I’ll leave now to collect you.”

  “I can fend for myself.”

  “I’ll be there by the time you get through customs.”

  “If you insist. Terminal 3”

  “That’s grand. See you in a bit.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to Claire. “My sister’s here early.”

  She nodded. “I heard.”

  He stood and grabbed his coat from the back of his desk chair. “Claire . . .”

  She was still looking up at him, her eyes fixed on his, and he felt such a sharp wave of misery overtake him, it left him momentarily breathless. “You’ll be there tonight?”

  She swallowed and blinked her eyes before nodding.

  “Phoebe’s planned a whole cocktail thing.” He frowned. “It’ll be a bloody circus with a hundred people I don’t know. I�
��ll be lookin’ for you . . . I want you to meet Fiona and . . .”

  “I’ll be there,” she said softly.

  Stepping around his desk, he reached for one of her hands, pulling it away from the keyboard and holding it gently. “Clara, I just want to say . . .”

  He heard the raggedness of her breathing as she inhaled slowly. He watched her eyes water as she looked up at him. She blinked twice and squeezed his hand, those big blue eyes trained on him, waiting for him to speak, but he had no idea what to say.

  “You’ve been . . . Clara, you’ve been a wonderful friend to me.”

  Her lips twitched up a little, then flattened back down. “And you to me.”

  “I feel like maybe we should have—”

  “Jamie or Claire, can one of you take a look at this?”

  Mariah stood leaning against the door, staring down at her iPad. “It’s not letting me open pictures, and I need to review the latest photo shoot.”

  Claire dropped his hand quickly, just as Mariah looked up, waiting for one of them to volunteer.

  “Jamie’s headed to the airport to pick up his family.” Claire reached for the iPad. “I’m happy to look at it.”

  As Mariah launched into a tirade about shitty technology, Jamie caught Claire’s eyes for one last second before shrugging into his coat and leaving.

  3

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You look really nice,” said Ted, checking out her breasts again.

  “Thanks, Ted.”

  “I’ve never seen you in a dress. Not even at the Christmas party.”

  “Yeah. Not really my style, I guess.”

  He waggled his eyebrows, stepping closer. “Maybe it’s time to try something new, huh?”

  She chuckled awkwardly and shifted back a step, sipping her Champagne and scanning the restaurant for Jamie.

  Whatever had possessed her to wear the low-cut, light blue cocktail dress? It had been a Christmas present from her sister three years ago and was one of the only dresses she owned.

  “It’s the same color as your eyes,” Lina had said when Claire opened the box, then flicked a confused glance to her sister. “And you can’t wear jeans and combat boots everywhere, Claire.”

  It turned out Lina had been right. She couldn’t wear jeans and combat boots to Jamie’s rehearsal dinner, and part of her was even grateful for her sister’s foresight, though she would have preferred something simpler, darker, and more modest.

  The front of the strapless dress was shaped like a heart, which covered her breasts but allowed a deep plunge between them. She’d thrown on a navy blue cardigan that Lina called a shrug and twisted her dark hair into a bun. Thankfully, she still had the navy blue ballet flats she’d bought at an airport last summer when one of her flip-flops snapped.

  It wasn’t a typical rehearsal dinner, as far as she could tell. There was no rehearsal and no dinner. Frankly, it felt more like a mixer—a way for wedding guests to mix and mingle over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in the swanky hotel that would be hosting the ceremony tomorrow. If anything, it was a pre-wedding reception . . . and the Champagne was flowing freely.

  She drained her glass, placed it on a passing tray, and managed to grab a full glass as the waiter walked by.

  “Didn’t realize you were such a lush!” exclaimed Ted.

  “I’m not.”

  “Three glasses of Champagne in ten minutes says you might be.”

  “Just thirsty.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  No, she wanted to say. Everything is definitely not okay.

  Across the room, Jamie stood in a small group, which included Phoebe and Jamie’s sister, Fiona, and Mariah and her husband. Phoebe and Mariah spoke animatedly with each other, laughing and talking gregariously, while Jamie seemed to be speaking only to his sister, who occasionally shot a thoughtful glance at her future sister-in-law.

  Fiona wasn’t what Claire had expected.

  Unlike her brother, she was blonde, with tiny freckles dusted over an uneven complexion. She wore glasses and a simple black dress, her light hair resting without fuss on the nape of her neck. She glanced over at Claire and waved. Turning back to her brother, she stood on tiptoe and whispered something close to his ear before making her way to the bar.

  “Hi again,” she said. “Claire-who-works-with-my-brother, right?”

  Claire nodded. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Mmm.” Fiona flicked her eyes to Ted. “And you are . . .?”

  “Ted Stephens. HR.”

  Fiona blinked at him, and Claire had the feeling she was trying not to giggle. “Ted, be a lamb and grab us two fresh glasses, eh?”

  Ted glanced back and forth between the women before tossing Claire a very betrayed glare. “I guess I can take a hint.”

  As he stomped away, Fiona’s shoulders trembled. “I didna mean any harm.” She held up her own glass, then looked at Claire’s. “We’re both out.”

  Her accent was so like Jamie’s, Claire’s insides twisted up in pain. “How, um, how was your trip?”

  “Verra fine, thanks. Though neither of us saw this comin’. The weddin’, I mean. The only person we ever heard a word about, Claire, was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye.” A kind, confident smile brightened her homely face. “All the time.”

  “Me?” Claire repeated, feeling her forehead crease.

  Fiona giggled. “Is that so unbelievable? You’ve become good friends, haven’t you, now?”

  “We have,” Claire said.

  “You work closely together, all day, every day. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why shouldn’t he mention you?”

  “Because I’m not . . . ” Her glance shifted easily to where Jamie stood beside Phoebe, who looked like she’d just walked off the page of a magazine. She smiled her beautiful, brilliant smile at Mariah, who was enthralled with whatever Phoebe was saying.

  “Take a closer look,” said Fiona, inclining her head toward Claire’s. “She’s not talkin’ to him. I’ve been here for most of today, and from what I can tell, she’s never talkin’ to him. It makes a mind wonder if it matters who’s standin’ beside her.”

  Claire had, of course, noticed the very same thing several months ago, but it hadn’t been her place to share such an unwanted, and possibly unwelcome, observation with Jamie.

  “He loves her,” she said softly, watching his face as he looked up to catch her gaping.

  His eyes, warm and deep, met hers, held them with an intimacy that had taken almost a year to forge, creating a bubble around them that had nothing to do with fishbowl offices and desks in close proximity.

  She felt her cheeks flush with the power of her longing, and dropped her eyes.

  “Does he?” asked Fiona softly. “Does he love Phoebe?”

  Claire took a shaking breath and held it as she nodded at Fiona. “He must. He’s marrying her.”

  Fiona nodded slowly, no trace of a smile lingering now. “Aye, he is. He’s marryin’ her tomorrow, isn’t he?”

  Claire’s eyes burned so painfully, she started blinking, which made them well faster and fuller. She winced, holding out her empty Champagne glass, grateful when someone—Fiona, surely—took it from her shaking fingers.

  “Yes, he . . . I, um, I have to go,” Claire murmured, backing away. “Please . . . please . . .”

  She meant to ask Fiona to say good-bye to Jamie for her, but she couldn’t form the words, and her tears wouldn’t be stopped. Turning away from Fiona and Jamie, from perfect Phoebe and the sheer hell of her love’s impending nuptials, she ran from the room.

  Stopping at the coat check for her jacket, she sniffled softly and wiped the tears from her cheeks, wishing she was anywhere but here.

  She took her coat from the attendant, shrugged it on, walked quickly outside, and handed her ticket to the valet. It was snowing, and, even under the porte cochere, the flakes dusted her hair and shoulders, melting as they touched
the hot skin of her cheeks, blending with her tears.

  “What happened?”

  Strong fingers clasped her arm, turning her around, and suddenly she was face-to-face with Jamie, who searched her eyes, his own dark with concern.

  “Why are you leavin’?” He looked closer. “Wait. Are you . . . are you cryin’, Clara? What . . . what did my sister say t’make ye—”

  “She didn’t . . . it wasn’t Fiona,” she said quickly, savoring this last moment with him, her heart breaking as she stared up at him. “I . . .”

  His fingers skimmed down her sleeve to her hand, clasping it, warming her icy skin. “You . . . what?”

  She felt the words swirling up, the words she’d heard in her head so many times, the words she’d said in the rearview mirror and to her reflection and into the wind. But could she say them? And even if she could, what use was it now? By tomorrow he would be a married man.

  “I wish you the best,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed for a moment. “That’s all?”

  She clenched her jaw and looked down at her little shoes, now covered with a light dusting of snow. “Yes. Because you deserve the best.”

  The hum of an approaching motor made her wiggle her hand from his, and she stepped away as the valet parked her car beside them.

  “Good night, Jamie,” she said softly, walking to her door.

  “Am I gettin’ the best, Clara?” he asked her over the roof of the car.

  His voice had an edge she couldn’t remember ever hearing, and it made her stop and look at him. His face was tight, angry even, his beautiful lips in an unhappy line.

  “She’s beautiful,” said Claire.

  “Aye, she is.”

  “Rich.”

  “Aye. Right again.”

  She bit her top lip, willing herself not to cry until she was safely in her car and pulling away from this horrible hotel.

  “What else do you need, Jamie?”

  Her voice broke on his name, and she felt a tear slip from the corner of her eye and trail slowly down her cheek.

  “You,” he said softly.

  “What?” she gasped, her lips parting in shock.

  “You, Clara, my darlin’. I need you.”

  She gulped, suppressing the urge to pinch herself because it wasn’t possible that she had heard him right.