No Need to Ask

by Margo Candela

  “Don’t be like that, Jilly,” Owen said in a tone that implied Jillian was in the wrong instead of him. “Who is this guy anyway?”

  “Why do you care?” Jillian slammed her phone on the counter. “I don’t ask about the women you’re sleeping with.”

  “So you are fucking him,” Owen sneered. “He wouldn’t come out and admit it.”

  “It’s called being a decent person,” she snapped at him. “Not that you would know.”

  “I know a lot about you, Jillian,” Owen said, smiling ruefully at her. “Like how you love it when I spank your ass when you’re on top. Has he done that for you? If you want me to give him some pointers, let me know. We’ll grab a beer and talk about how my wife likes to be fucked.”

  “Shut up and get out!” Jillian brushed past him to open the kitchen door. Owen grabbed her wrist and pulled her, roughly, to him. “Let go, Owen. This isn’t funny.”

  “I’m not laughing,” he said as he lowered his lips toward hers and backed her toward the kitchen counter. “Are you laughing? Who’s laughing?”

  “Quit it, Owen.” Jillian turned her face away and felt his mouth on her neck. “I’m going to knee you in the balls.”

  Owen laughed and was about to speak when Jillian’s knee, as promised, connected with his crotch. She stepped over him as he writhed on the floor.

  “You fucking bitch,” he moaned.

  Jillian gasped as his hand shot out to grab her ankle. He tugged on her, trying to upset her balance. She grabbed the counter, aware that if he got her on the floor, she wouldn’t be getting up for a while.

  “Let go!” She kicked her leg, but he tightened his grip.

  “Hello?” Trudy called from the hallway. “Jillian?”

  “In here!” Jillian was shocked at the obvious sound of fear in her voice. Owen released her ankle and she gave him a sharp kick in the ribs before hurrying toward Trudy.

  “Are you okay?” Trudy asked. Her voice was heavy with concern. “What’s going on?”

  “Owen is here and he tried to—” Jillian jumped as she heard the kitchen door slam closed. She looked at her friend and felt tears come to her eyes. She took a breath to calm herself but instead broke out into sobs.

  Trudy’s arms instinctively opened to embrace Jillian. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “No, no.” Jillian, holding Trudy’s hand, walked back into the empty kitchen and quickly locked the door. “Can I stay over at your place tonight?”

  “Of course you can. We’ll pack you a bag and we’ll go,” Trudy said. “Come on.”

  “First, I have to call a locksmith.” Jillian wiped the tears from her eyes, knowing that Owen would be the cause of more before things were sorted out.

  ****

  Jillian sat behind the counter as Ives tutted over their cooling cups of tea. She’d gone to Habitat on her lunch break with no intention of sharing her relationship woes. But when Ives had mentioned that Ethan’s bill had already been settled, it was all it took for her to break into a fresh bout of tears.

  “He’ll get in touch,” Ives said, echoing Trudy’s words from the night before. “He was clearly besotted with you.”

  While Ives sounded sympathetic, Trudy had been annoyed with Ethan for not returning Jillian’s calls. And when they found out he’d left town, Jillian had to restrain her friend from booking a ticket to New York to give him a kick in the balls to knock some sense into him.

  “Who knows what Owen said to him? And knowing Owen, it couldn’t have been fun to hear,” Jillian said with a watery hiccup.

  “Owen is not a gentleman,” Ives sniffed disdainfully. “Ethan will see through the ruse. Give him time.”

  “It’s the one thing I don’t have.” Jillian sighed as she stood up. As miserable as she was, Jillian knew sorting through a new shipment would be a welcome distraction. “I promised Ethan I’d be done by tomorrow and whether he’s here to see his loft or not, I’m delivering on that promise.”

  ****

  Jillian arranged the pillows on the Maisy York bedroom set, consulting her notes to make sure it was the exact number that had been there during the morning shoot.

  After lunch, and a consultation with her life coach, Maisy had decided she didn’t like the pajamas Trudy had put her in and demanded a reshoot with her wearing a clingy slip. She had barricaded herself in her dressing room, refusing to come out until Trudy presented her with the perfect one.

  Jillian set a glass of water on the nightstand next to a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude, the novel Maisy York as her character, Maisy York, had been “reading” on the show for much of the season, after pretending to read it in real life.

  “Are you Jillian?” An unfamiliar production assistant hovered by the fake window.

  “Yeah.” Jillian recognized the stressed-out look and assumed she’d been assigned to Maisy duty. “Do you need something?”

  “Ms. York wants me to give you this.” She held out a sleek black box from Net-A-Porter and a sealed envelope though the nonexistent pane of glass. “I can’t come back until you give me an answer.”

  “Have a seat.” Jillian gestured toward the cozy arm chair as she settled herself on the foot of the bed. “Just be careful about moving anything.”

  “No. Thank you. I have to wait for your answer.”

  “Okay, then.” Jillian opened the box, moved aside the tissue and found a cheerfully-colored silk print Marni scarf. “Pretty.”

  “There’s a note,” the production assistant said, her eyes glued to Maisy’s closed dressing room door.

  “I’d better read it, then, because we both know the scarf wasn’t the point of this,” Jillian sighed. She quickly scanned the note, looked up at the almost distraught girl and then read it again. “Is she fucking serious? She wants me to help her design a charity room for an auction? After she screwed me over the last time I helped her?”

  “That’s not an answer,” the production assistant yelped. “You have to say yes. She won’t let me have my car keys back until you say yes.”

  Jillian twirled the scarf around her fist. She looked over at the PA who was on verge of tears. “I don’t have to say yes, but I will.”

  Seven

  Jillian sat in the passenger seat of Trudy’s car, balancing a tray of coffee and various baked goods. Even though it had been only eight days since she’d met Ethan and seven since she'd started his loft, she felt like she’d lived a lifetime. She still hadn’t heard from him, but it was her deadline day and she wanted to finish and leave his key.

  “It’s just common sense that laptops get hot and a hot laptop on his lap will curdle his spunk,” Trudy said, continuing a steady stream of comforting chatter. “Everyone knows that. So I got him this wedge-type thing that keeps it off of his lap and away from his balls. You know those? Anyway, big surprise, he refuses to use it.”

  “You don’t want your future baby coming from curdled spunk,” Jillian said as she stared straight ahead. She was more nervous than melancholy. Despite everything that had happened between her and Ethan (and Ethan and Owen), Jillian wanted Ethan to fall in love with what she’d done to his loft.

  “So are you going to tell me about this Maisy thing or do I have to pretend I already didn’t squeeze the details out of that production assistant?” Trudy stopped at a yellow light, rather than run it, a block away from Ethan’s loft.

  “I made Maisy sign a design contract—a real one—and got a check for everything she owed me for doing her house. Her PR agency has me on speed dial so I can approve any releases that go out on the project. And I get extra tickets so I expect you and Valerie to take the night off and come with me.” Jillian smiled, remembering how good it had felt to come to Maisy’s dressing room with a clear advantage over the star. “Should I have asked for more?”

  “It’s a start,” Trudy nodded. “Once you get your website up, she can tape a glowing testimonial about your decorating genius.”

  “Good idea.” Jillian felt her sto
mach tighten as Trudy pulled up to the underground parking garage and punched in the code. “This won’t take long.”

  “I’ve got all day,” Trudy said. “Don’t worry about anything.”

  “What’s there to worry about?” Jillian attempted to smile, knowing how morose she sounded. “Anything I could have worried about happening already has.”

  ****

  His loft was perfect without looking contrived and fussed over, from the vintage Wellsville dishes stacked in the glass front cupboards to the freshly-laundered Frette sheets on the bed. Still, as Jillian stepped back to look at the bedroom, she couldn’t help frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” Trudy asked, her coat already on and ready to go. “This place looks awesome. I’d live here in a second. Which is my way of saying, come over to my house and redo it again. You busy tomorrow?”

  “That’s what I’m giving you for your birthday.” Jillian circled the bed and came to a stop by one of the nightstands. “I can’t deal with these lamps.”

  “What’s wrong with them?” Trudy sat on the edge of the bed, checking her phone. “They’re great.”

  “They are, but they’re just not perfect.”

  Jillian picked one up, knowing she’d have to wipe her fingerprints off the tear-shaped, clear glass base. The simple, dark grey drum shade complemented the color scheme, but, even as good as it looked, the lamps were nothing special. She’d picked them up hoping she’d find something else, but, as with her own search for the perfect bedside lamp, it hadn’t happened.

  With a sigh, she set the lamp back down and polished it with the hem of her t-shirt. “I guess they’ll have to do. Okay, I guess we’re done.”

  “Um, I think there’s one more box you haven’t looked in,” Trudy said from behind her.

  “Where? I went through all the closets.” Jillian looked toward the small stack of neatly broken down and stacked boxes, ready for the recycling bin, positive that everything had been unpacked and put where it belonged. “Did I miss one?”

  Jillian turned around to face Trudy but instead it was Ethan who met her eyes. He stood a few feet from her, holding a new medium-sized moving box, looking as vulnerable as she’d ever seen anyone look in her life.

  “I missed you,” Ethan said. “And even though I don’t deserve it, I hope you missed me to and can forgive me for being the world’s biggest jerk.” “What are you doing here? I mean, I know what you’re doing here… I thought you had left.”

  “I did and I’m sorry about the way I did. I needed, or thought I needed, to give you some space.” Ethan took a few steps toward her, still holding the box. “It took a good friend of both of ours threatening to kick me in the balls to get me to listen to what my gut and my heart told me from the second I saw you.”

  It all fell into place for her at that moment. Ethan was the friend Trudy had tried to set her up with, he hadn’t shown up at Habitat just by chance, and, despite what her ex-husband may have said to him, he was back. Instead of feeling duped, Jillian was filled her to the brim with gratitude at having meddlesome friend like Trudy in her life.

  “What’s that?” Jillian moved to the side of the bed, stopping to smooth out the duvet cover to give suddenly trembling hands something to do.

  “That I love you,” he said in a soft voice. “And I love you even more because you pretended to work at Habitat, because you did this for me and because you are… you.”

  “What am I supposed to say to that?” Jillian looked down at her hands.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he answered. “I’m sorry that I left, that I didn’t call and that I let your jerk ex-husband’s bullshitting get between us. I know what you had with him is in the past. I never should have doubted what I hope you still might feel for me. And if you never want to see or talk to me, I understand, but I want you to know that there will never be a need to ask me how I feel about you. That I love you.”

  Jillian was silent, letting his words wash over her, filling the void she’d felt since he’d left, one she hadn’t known existed until she met him.

  “Say something, please. Anything,” Ethan pleaded.

  “What’s in the box?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “It’s for you.” Ethan set it on the bed and opened it. Jillian came closer, curious to see what was buried in between the wads of crumpled newspaper. “While I was in New York, I visited my grandparents upstate. I used to spend summers there as a kid and they always let me stay in the main guestroom, even when an older cousin or grownup aunt or uncle was staying over, too.”

  “Oh,” Jillian said, her eyes on his smooth, strong hands. “Sounds like they doted on you.”

  “They did. Spoiled me rotten. What I remember most is how they’d let me stay up late reading comic books, making shadow puppets. I couldn’t bring the room with me, but I thought you could work a little piece of it into my new life.”

  Ethan pulled out a red metal goosenecked table lamp. The color had mellowed into a dull but pleasant patina. She could tell that it was solid and heavy, but had been well-looked-after as well as loved. The lamp was vintage, the real thing, not some quality facsimile. Channeling Ives, she mentally dated it to the early 1930s, most likely French. It would look right at home on the desk of an industrious Jazz Age accountant working late into the night in his Left Bank office or on the nightstand beside Ethan’s very modern bed.

  “It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for,” she breathed, reaching out to touch it before taking it out of his hands to feel the reassuring weight of it.

  “I was hoping you’d say that because…” Ethan reached into the box and pulled out its twin. “One for my side of the bed… the other for yours.”

  Jillian stared at him, her mind buzzing with a million ways to answer him, but none coming close to conveying what she felt.

  “Jillian?” he asked, naked uncertainty in his voice. “Do you love me? Can you love me?”

  “I love you, Ethan. I do,” she said. “There’s no need to ask why or how much. Just know that I do and always will.”

  Ethan took the lamp out of her hands, setting them both back in the box. His hands came around her waist, lifting her off her feet to meet his hungry kiss.

  ****

  Even though she was blinded by the steady bursts of light from the swarm of paparazzi taking her picture, Jillian remembered what Trudy had told her about making small movements and keeping her smile relaxed, if not real.

  The six weeks of buildup to the unveiling of the InStyle living room she’d designed to benefit the Boys and Girls Club of America had been intense and unrelenting. After Maisy’s PR firm had discovered they much preferred working with Jillian instead of their demanding client, she’d been put front and center on the project.

  She’d shot a web feature on putting the room together for the magazine’s site, had been asked to contribute to their decorating issue, and her new agent was negotiating the final details of her decorating advice column as a regular feature both on the site and in the magazine.

  Jillian knew that her name was getting passed around some very exclusive living rooms, but her first official clients would be designing a nursery for the newly-pregnant Trudy and helping Ethan give Alimente some personality to match the delicious food.

  From the corner of her eye, Jillian saw Maisy start her walk down the red carpet. Jillian gave the photographers one last smile and quickly made her way to where Ethan was waiting for her. He held out his hand to take hers, his fingers brushing over the 3-carat Ashoka-cut diamond engagement ring he’d slipped on her finger a week before.

  “So? What do you think?” he asked, making sure his mouth was near her ear so she could hear him over the clamor of the paparazzi and screaming fans. He pressed a kiss onto her lobe. “You ready for this kind of crazy?”

  “This is crazy, but it’s good crazy.” Jillian leaned into Ethan’s solid, steady frame, grateful he was there along with Ives, Trudy and Valerie. “I still can’t wait to get ho
me, crawl into bed and…”

  “And?” Ethan asked as he wrapped his arms around her.

  Jillian looked up at him as her own arms entwined themselves around him with no intention of ever letting go.

  “And flip on my very own rare best reading lamp,” she answered with a teasing smile.

  Now Available:

  Leslie Quinn might have been dumped by her longtime boyfriend, but she still has her determination to make it as a top stylist at an exclusive Manhattan department store.

  Busy dodging knives from her back stabbing co-workers, Leslie keeps her focus on doing the best job possible and going on the occasional (and unsuccessful) blind date to keep her friends off her back. When her manager offers her a last minute plum assignment, Leslie packs her bags to meet a mysterious client who is in need of a complete wardrobe overhaul.

  She soon realizes that this mystery man holds the key to her success at work and also to her heart.

  Also by Margo Candela

  Just Like That (A SweetSpots Contemporary Romance)

  The Brenda Diaries

  Life Observed: reality meets fiction

  Good-bye To All That

  More Than This

  Life Over Easy

  Underneath It All

  About the Author

  Margo Candela is the author of The Brenda Diaries (SugarMissile, Oct. '11) Good-bye To All That (Touchstone, July '10), More Than This (Touchstone, Aug '08), Life Over Easy (Kensington, Oct '07), Underneath It All (Kensington, Jan '07) and the short story and essay collection, Life Observed (June '11).

  More Than This was a Target stores Breakout Book and an American Association of Publishers national book club selection at Borders Books. Good-bye To All That (Touchstone, July '10) was the only novel picked by Los Angeles Magazine for its 2010 Best of L.A. list.