Exmas

by Winter Renshaw

  I turn toward the train station just as he takes a phone call. He says a few words like, “Yes … okay … today … later.” And then he ends the call.

  “What are you auditing anyway?” I ask as I pull into the parking lot.

  “Not at liberty to say at this time,” he says, spoken like a true corporate finger puppet.

  He never used to be this way.

  He was casually arrogant, laidback, a good-time guy on his best of days and an infuriatingly sexy prick on his worst of days. But it was always something I could roll with.

  This … I can’t.

  We don’t speak for another ten minutes. And it’s only when we’ve settled into a shared bench on the train that he leans in and says, “You have a very lovely family, Joa. You’re extremely lucky.”

  I don’t know what to say to that other than, “Thanks.”

  The next few minutes are filled with track noise, people coughing, someone talking on their phone several notches too loud.

  “Reed?” I ask.

  He looks up from his phone. “Yes?”

  There are a thousand things I could ask him right now, but in this moment, I only have one. “What’s your thing with hotels? Why do you hate them so much?”

  He pulls in a slow breath, his chest rising beneath his black woolen coat, and then he stares ahead at the seatback in front of him, this blank look on his face. When I look to his lap, I notice the whites of his knuckles as he holds his phone too tight.

  I’m seconds from telling him he doesn’t have to answer, when he begins to speak.

  “My parents used to leave me alone in hotel rooms,” he says. “Hours at a time, sometimes sun up to sun down. I was probably three or four the first time. Or maybe that’s the first time I was old enough to realize what was going on. They’d just plop me in front of a TV and point me toward the snacks in the mini bar.”

  For a moment, I think he’s kidding. I can’t imagine millionaires taking exotic vacations and being so careless with their precious cargo. I’d expect that kind of behavior from someone strung out on meth—not from a glamourous couple living the high life in the upper echelon of society.

  “My god, Reed.” I lift my fingers to my mouth, horrified. “You mentioned before that you had nannies growing up. Your parents didn’t bring them along?”

  “The nannies came along after Bijou was born. Apparently it was a status symbol in my mother’s circle back then to not have a nanny,” he says. “To prove that you could do it all. But when my sister arrived, my mother threw up her white flag and hired an entire team to handle the two of us.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I’m not sure what else I can say. I can’t imagine how that must have been for him as a small child. He must have been terrified. No wonder he avoids hotel rooms now—they’re tiny prison cells, and he doesn’t want to feel that abandonment all over again.

  My heart softens for him—for the little boy he once was and for the kind of grown man he never got a chance to become.

  Everything makes sense now—the heartlessness. The callousness. The selfishness.

  It’s how he was raised.

  The rest of our commute is silent.

  When I get to work, I’ll text my mom and ask if she knows anything, and then I’ll pray she doesn’t read into my curiosity, call me, and then keep me on the phone for twenty-six minutes trying to convince me to give him a chance.

  Locking myself in my office, I text my mom and fire up my computer. My emails load, and I glance up at the screen, half scanning the senders as they populate, but it’s the last one that catches my eye.

  An email from our Manhattan branch sits at the top of my inbox with a little red exclamation point beside it.

  My heart races.

  A month ago, on a whim, I’d applied for a temporary position out there, filling in for one of the division coordinators while she took a twelve-week maternity leave. I was in a funk, craving a change of scenery, a change of routine. a bit of an adventure, and I’ve never lived in New York.

  To: joa.jolivet@genesisfinancialsecurities.com

  From: ian.iaconelli@genesisfinancialsecurities.com

  Subject: Manhattan Offer

  Joa,

  I hope this email finds you well and that you enjoyed the holidays with your family in Chicago.

  I wanted to touch base with you regarding your interest in filling in for Jolene while she goes on maternity leave next month.

  As it turns out, Jolene has decided not to return once she has the baby, so we are looking for a permanent replacement.

  I’ve spoken to Harold and reviewed your accounts and I think you’d be a great fit for our Manhattan team, not to mention this position is a stepping stone to senior management in the long-term if that’s something that interests you.

  If you’re interested in accepting my offer, please give me a call at your earliest convenience.

  I hope to hear from you, Joa.

  Respectfully,

  Ian Iaconelli

  Manhattan Branch Manager

  Genesis Financial Securities

  Before I have a chance to read it a second time, my office phone rings.

  “Yes, Pam?” I answer.

  “Your mother is on line two,” she says.

  I press the two key and hope we can keep this brief. Love her to pieces, but I think she forgets that not everyone is retired and has all the time in the world to chit-chat.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  “Joa,” she says. “I got your text message … the one about Reed.”

  “So what’s going on? Why did he leave?” I ask.

  “He just said a place came open over by the office, and he felt bad imposing. I told him he wasn’t imposing at all, but he said he’d already paid or something.”

  I wait for her to continue with her story, but there’s nothing more.

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “That’s it.”

  “He didn’t say anything else?” I ask.

  “Oh. You’re wanting to know if this has to do with you,” she says with a chuckle. “I knew you had an eye for him, Joa Marie.”

  I clasp my palm over my forehead and rest my elbow on my desk.

  Do truly I care right now or is this nothing more than innocent curiosity?

  “Hey, Mom, thanks for getting back to me. I’ve got a few things to take care of, so I’ll let you go,” I say, holding my breath as I wait for her response.

  “Sounds good, sweetheart. Talk to you later.” Mom hangs up.

  She’s never been a woman of few words.

  Either they had a secret heart-to-heart about me, or she’s actually respecting my wishes and letting this go.

  A knock on my door pulls my attention away, and when I glance up, I find Reed York himself showing himself in and closing the door behind him. Guess he couldn’t be bothered to wait for me to say, “Come in.”

  “Can I help you?” I ask, sitting back in my chair and crossing my legs tight.

  The New York email is displayed across my screen, but I don’t bother hiding it. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, and even if I decide to go, it’s not like that choice would have anything to do with him.

  Reed runs a hand through his sandy hair, pacing slightly before staring past me and out to the wintry city beyond my window.

  “What are you doing? Why are you acting so weird?” I ask.

  He bites his lip before his diamond eyes snap to mine. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said yesterday.”

  “I said a lot of things yesterday. Can you be more specific?”

  Reed swallows, resting his hands on his angled hips. “When you said there was a time you thought you could see yourself dating me.”

  I laugh. “Out of everything I said yesterday, that’s the one thing you can't stop thinking about?”

  He nods.

  “Is that why you were so quiet on the ride in?”

  “Part of it. Yeah,” he says, studying me. “Is it true,
what you said?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does. I wouldn’t be standing here, willing to make an ass of myself if it didn’t.”

  “You make an ass of yourself every day.” I roll my eyes. “How is this any different?”

  “Touché.”

  “Seriously, though, just let it go.”

  He comes around my desk.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, looking him up and down.

  “Just tell me, Joa. Yes or no. Did you mean what you said?”

  I wait a beat, then another before finally answering.

  “Yes,” I say. “I meant it.”

  I watch as relief pours over his expression in real time.

  “You liked me,” he says, his lips cocked into a tentative smirk.

  I push a breath through pursed lips. “Don’t go getting a big head about it. Not like it means anything now, anyway.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Joa,” he says. “It means everything.”

  I’m two seconds from laughing in his face and popping his hope-filled balloon when suddenly he takes my hands in his and pulls me to standing.

  “Joa.” My name is soft on his cinnamon breath, and my heart beats so hard in my ears that I can’t think straight.

  Reed’s fingers find my hair and before I realize it, my mouth aligns with his.

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about that kiss we shared in my room dozens of times in the past twenty-four hours.

  But it was reckless of me to allow that to happen.

  And foolish of me to secretly want it.

  “My life hasn’t been the same without you,” he says, his voice like a whisper. “I miss you. I miss us.”

  “There never was an us, Reed,” I say. “You’re idealizing.”

  “There was always an us, Joa, and you know it.”

  Before I can protest, his mouth crushes mine and he lifts me up onto my desk. I crane my neck to ensure the blinds and closed—they are, thank God—before my lips return to his.

  I want to stop.

  I know I should stop.

  But I can’t.

  I’m powerless at his touch.

  He pushes my skirt up my sides before reaching up and sliding my silk panties down my thighs. His lips press into my neck, his cologne filling my lungs. My fingertips graze the side of his cheek before slipping to the nape of his neck, and I brace myself with my other hand as he pushes his body against mine with an animalistic fervor.

  His slacks are unzipped and the outline of his rock-hard cock bulges through his boxers, and the sensation of wet heat invades the space between my legs, where his fingertips work my slit and his thumb circles my clit.

  He was always so gentle, so steady, so intentional in the way he touched me—like he actually cared about my pleasure.

  “There hasn’t been anyone since you,” he whispers into my ear before our gazes lock. He doesn’t say it, but he’s hoping I’ll say the same.

  And I do.

  Because it’s true.

  “I haven’t been with anyone else either,” I say between kisses. It’s a truth that both confuses and upsets me.

  I tried to move on.

  I tried blind dates and dating apps and after-hours network functions. I put myself out there. I made the connections.

  None of them had half the chemistry I had with Reed.

  I hated him for it.

  But mostly, I hated myself for comparing all of them to the one man who broke my heart into a billion pieces without so much as an inkling that it was coming.

  I should’ve been looking for the antidote to Reed York. Instead, I found myself looking for a replacement. Or at least someone to give me a fix.

  But none of them kissed like him.

  None of them pushed my buttons the way he did.

  None of them looked at me the way he always did, like he was two seconds from devouring me, like I was the most magnificent thing in the world.

  He kisses my neck and I exhale, widening my thighs as he lowers himself onto me. I gasp when he enters me, and I feel it in every part of my body.

  My skin is on fire, my lungs empty.

  He tastes my mouth as he fucks me, his thrusts alternating between greedy and needy and slow and steady. He can't decide if he wants all of me right this instant or if he wants to savor this moment.

  Deep down, I think we both know this is it.

  A farewell fuck, as unpoetic as that may seem.

  Hate sex.

  Though I’m pretty sure the hate part is extremely one-sided.

  Reed drives himself into me, deeper, harder, and I hold on tight, my knees braced against his sides. It isn’t until later that I realize there’s a stapler jammed against my back. We used to be pros at this office sex thing. This is just sloppy.

  The flutter in my middle and the building intensity between my legs signals I’m getting close. I squeeze the back of his arm and kiss him harder—it was always my tell, and his thrusts grow quicker.

  We come at the same time, just like old times.

  The release is epic.

  The aftershocks of the orgasmic wave radiate through every part of me.

  But when we’re finished, we’re just a couple of broken, breathless souls in wrinkled office wear with nothing to say as we put ourselves back together.

  Our eyes hold in the moment before he leaves.

  I wait for him to speak, but all he gives me is silence and a stare that I can't possibly read.

  I’m not sure who I hate more: him for hurting me a year ago and weaseling his way back into my life? Or me for letting it happen after I promised myself it wouldn't.

  Past

  Joa

  My office looks like a war zone by the time we’re finished. Papers everywhere. Pens littering the floor. Chair shoved against the door so the cleaning crew wouldn’t accidentally barge in.

  I’m trying to piece my dress back together, turning it right-side in, but the attached slip is caught on something.

  Reed is perched on the edge of my desk, a few feet from me, the lucky bastard is already fully clothed. I'm sure he’s enjoying the view right now—me struggling in nothing but a demi-lace bra and matching thong.

  The smell of arousal lingers in the air, mixing with his Creed cologne.

  My body misses his body already.

  “How much longer are you going to stare?” I ask when I finally fix my dress situation.

  He reaches for me, wrapping his hand around my wrist and pulling me against him. His hands slide down the small of my back before making a detour at my ass and giving it a hard squeeze.

  “You have no idea how sexy you are, do you?” he asks.

  I don’t think I’m much different from most other women. When I look in the mirror, there are parts I don’t mind and parts that have always bothered me, though they bother me less the older I get. But I’ve never once looked at myself and wallowed in my sexiness with unabashed confidence.

  But he makes me feel sexy, the way he worships my body with his hands, the way he tastes every tender spot with his tongue … unafraid to explore every inch like he owns it all.

  I suppose in a way, he does.

  18

  Reed

  “Are you going to take it?” Lucy Clarke’s voice drifts into the hall.

  I’m passing Joa’s office Friday afternoon. I need some fresh air. A breather. Next week is going to be brutal on everyone, and my mind is heavy.

  I heard back from Scott with the Securities and Exchange Commission.

  It’s happening.

  And I’d give anything to warn these people, but when a government official tells you to keep your mouth shut under any and all circumstances, you keep your damn mouth shut.

  Glancing in, I spot Lucy sitting in Joa’s guest chair, leaning forward and reading an email as Joa careens the computer monitor toward her.

  “I think I will,” I hear Joa say. “New York could be fun, you know? And it�
�s not all that different from Chicago.”

  Wait. She applied for a position in New York?

  I knock on the door, interrupting their little chat. “Running out to grab some coffee. Anyone want anything?”

  “I’d love one. Mocha frappe for me please, skinny, no whip,” Lucy says.

  Joa’s eyes are smiling. This New York offer apparently has her in good spirits.

  Lucy’s curious stare passes between us before she pops out of her seat. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me ...”

  “You’re moving to New York?” I ask.

  “You were eavesdropping?” The smile fades from her baby blues.

  “Your door was open. I was passing by. Happened to hear,” I say. “Regardless … you’re leaving Chicago? I thought you loved Chicago.”

  She shrugs. “I do love Chicago. And it’ll always be home. And I can always come back. I’m just getting that itch again, the urge to spread my wings a bit. I haven’t been on vacation since ...”

  She doesn’t finish her thought. She doesn’t have to.

  “Anyway, Ian offered me a position out there,” she says. “And I’m taking it.”

  “Ian?” I ask. “Iaconelli? From the Manhattan branch?”

  “Yes. That Ian.”

  I thought she was taking some random job out there—I didn’t realize it was an internal transfer.

  “My lease is due for a renewal at the end of the month anyway, so the timing is perfect,” she says. “And I’ve already spoken to Harold. He says if I’m not feeling it, I’ll always have a place back here.”

  “Don’t take it.”

  She laughs. “What?”

  “Don’t take it.”

  “Yeah. I heard you. I just … what is this? What are you doing?” Her eyes squint and she rises from her chair, arms folding. “Do you think this is about you?”

  “No, I—”

  “—you do. Why else would you care? Why else would you want to stop me?” she asks.

  “Just … you have to trust me.”

  “That’s the funniest thing I think you've ever said, Reed,” she says, shutting down her computer.