Missed Connections (17 page)

I let cool water flow over my wrists and blot my face after drying my hands. I’ve never been the jealous type, but… Wait a minute. I don’t have to be jealous at all.

We’re not dating. We’re fucking.

I shouldn’t feel bad that other women want my date. I should be proud that I’m the one he’s going home with. Me. The only one here whose family never summered in the Hamptons, whose name will never be on the list for a crocodile Birkin.

Me.

Little nobody me is here with one of the hottest new up-and-comers.

Head up, I stride out of the powder room and head for the terrace. Jack’s shaking the hand of a fiftysomething guy in a suit and catches my eye. I jerk my head toward the door and walk outside.

The door opens and closes behind me, giving a flash of voices and crystal glasses tinkling in toasts and casual cheers.

I head around the corner of the wall of the great room and into a little alcove. Leaning on the railing, I take in the sight of SoHo at night—a rare, gorgeous view. I didn’t know there were views like this in real life. My hands are bracketed with his a second before he presses against me. “The party’s inside, Sarah.”

I arch my back, pressing my ass more firmly into his crotch. “Have you seen the stars, Jack? They’re so pretty tonight.” I don’t give a rat’s ass about the stars.

His hands dig into my hips as he pulls me closer and nibbles my earlobe. Jealousy over what those women said—at seeing him charming everyone in the room—is stupid, but I still feel it like a rock in my shoe. I can pretend it’s not there all I want, but nothing will take that feeling away.

Nothing but his mouth on mine. I tip my head back and he kisses me deeply, firmly. Jack kisses like in the movies. It’s intense and makes me feel like I’m the only one in his world and he’s claiming me in case we’re torn away from each other. He pulls back and I’m breathless, dizzy for more.

What we have is physical. It’s amazing and the best sex I’ve ever had, but that’s as far as it will go. He doesn’t let me in, and I’m tired of trying to dig deeper.

I’ll appreciate this for the intense physical connection it is. He pulls me into the shadows of the terrace and kisses the smile off my lips.

Chapter 18

Ziggy has screwed up four messages today and dropped a full cup in reception, shattering it and sending Madagascar spice herbal tea everywhere, but nothing can kill the smile Jack put on my face last night.

And again this morning.

I hum happily as I pick up the shattered remains of the cup and mop up the tea. Screw meditation and yoga—all it took to unwind the past couple of months of stress was a little naked time with Jack. He was so cute on the way out the door. I asked him if he had everything. He started patting himself and called it his ready-to-go grope. He keeps his phone and keys in the same pocket every time, so he pats himself while running out the door. It saves time and he knows right away if he’s missing something.

I offered to do it for him, which led to another round of sexy shenanigans that almost made me late to work. God, it was even better than I’d imagined. The memory alone is enough to bring a smile to my face again.

Phyllis strides in with a razor-thin blond with sharp features, mean eyes, and three children. “This is the office, Marjorie. Would you like a tea before we start?”

“You don’t have coffee, do you?” She turns her nose up at the selection of teas.

“Of course. Sarah.”

“Yes?” I squat to sweep the bits of Ziggy’s shattered cup into the dustpan.

“Coffee.” She says it like I’m simple and do this every day but have mysteriously forgotten that it’s an expected duty. But I don’t have time to be running to buy drinks for people when the phone is ringing and there are people in the lobby.

“We don’t have any, but the bodega next door has an amazing French roast.” I smile up at Phyllis and continue cleaning up the tiny slivers of glass. Man, Ziggy really broke that cup good.
Opa!
I chuckle.

“Wow. Is she always this unprofessional?”

My head snaps up. Marjorie glares at me while her kids run amok, throwing magazines on the floor. One’s found a pen from my desk and is drawing on the wall. “Can you…” I motion to the burgeoning artist.

Marjorie ignores her kid, crosses her arms, and moves closer to Phyllis. They just stand there, glaring at me. I don’t know who I dislike more between the pair of them. Same crappy attitudes, but at least Phyllis doesn’t come with a posse of destruction.

“Sarah, I’ve got Marjorie in for the next hour and a half. Keep an eye on her kids.”

What the hell? “Um, no?”

“Excuse me?” Phyllis straightens to her full height. She’s taller and larger than I am, but she’s too addled to intimidate me. “Look, bitch, Marjorie is my friend, and…she’s a client. You need to do your very best to see that she gets the most relaxing Inner Space experience we can provide for her.”

“What’s this?”

Ziggy’s appearance behind me explains Phyllis’s sudden professionalism.

“Slight disagreement, Ziggy. Phyllis’s client is here, and Phyllis asked that I watch her kids while they’re in session.” I raise my eyebrows and smirk at Phyllis, knowing Ziggy can’t see my face. He’ll back me up on this at least. I’m his receptionist, not a babysitter.

“Well, what’s the issue?”

He can’t be serious. I have thirty-seven things to do, none of which will get done if I have to sit here and watch Marjorie’s hell-spawn—now tearing pages out of the magazines and tossing the pieces about like confetti. “The laundry won’t get done if I’m stuck to the desk.”

Ziggy gives me the look an indulgent parent gives to a child. “The laundry can wait, Sarah. It’s not the end of the world if the towels don’t get folded the very second the dryer buzzes.”

They all laugh and I try to look affable, taking my seat behind the desk. Ziggy disappears into a room as his next client shows up. Drizella and Anastasia head into a room, and I start trying to mitigate the damage the kids have caused. Unfortunately, I need a mop, because one of the kids figured out how to work the cooler and has been flinging tiny cups of water all over the floor.

Kids suck.

“Excuse me?”

I look up at the tall lady with a blond side-shave. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Phyllis for a massage. I’m a couple minutes late.”

Crap.

* * *

Five minutes before my shift ends, Fern walks into reception. “Sarah, I think we need to have a talk about your performance today.”

I haven’t technically done anything wrong, but unease still stiffens my limbs and heats my face. “Okay.”

Fern hauls a chair next to me. “We have to be really careful with the schedule when we’re booking people.”

Her use of “we” doesn’t escape me, though we both know she’s referring to me alone. “I wasn’t the one who booked Phyllis’s friend. Callie was in the schedule. I pulled her file last night and put it in Phyllis’s tray. Phyllis brought her friend Marjorie in today out of the blue.”

Fern frowns and closes her eyes as if she’s in actual pain. “Sarah, we’re a team here. When you make a mistake, we all make a mistake.”

“But I didn’t make a mistake.”

She waves her hands around me. “There’s that defensive energy again.”

“I’m not trying to be defensive. I’m trying to explain what happened.”

“No, you aren’t trying to explain the truth. You’re trying to be right.”

I feel my eyes become two different sizes. “It’s the same thing.”

She stands. “You need to decide which is more important: being right, or being here.”

“But Phyllis double-booked the clients.”

“Perception is reality, Sarah.” She walks to the cooler and pours a cup of water.

“What does that even mean?”

She takes a few deep breaths and comes back to her chair. “It means that to you, Phyllis booked the appointment. And it means to Phyllis, you are the one who booked it. You perceive your version to be the right one. So does she.”

“Yes, but one of us is telling the truth.”

“When there are two radically differing opinions, the truth always lies right in the middle.”

What?
“Not always.”

“Always.”

It bloody well does not always lie right in the middle. Sometimes people are just lying or wrong. How do I respond to this?

My mind spins and Fern continues. “What you really need to do in these situations is ask yourself, ‘What am
I
doing to make these situations worse? What can
I
do in these circumstances to make the outcome better?’”

Slam Phyllis’s stupid face into the counter and run screaming from the building? “I see what you mean, Fern.”

“Just try to keep that in mind. Instead of gathering this prickly, defensive energy around you, try to be soft and welcoming.”

I smile and nod because I can’t unclench my jaw enough to speak.

“You may go now. See you tomorrow.”

No time is wasted as I grab my purse and get the hell out of there as fast as possible, eschewing the subway. I need to stomp off some of this frustration, and a nice, long walk is a good start. Everything started out so well today, and now it’s like the color has been sucked from it. How can Fern and Ziggy completely disregard the truth when that’s all they talk about?

The blaring horns and sirens going off are a welcome change from the stupid Tibetan singing bowl CD my hippie bosses had playing, and I welcome the cacophony like a long-lost friend. The muggy air coats my skin, making my tank top cling to me. That makes a few guys catcall and another tell me to smile—but something in my eyes shuts them up and makes people give me a little breathing room on the normally crowded sidewalk.

Heat radiates up from the asphalt in hazy waves, and a trickle of sweat tickles my spine. Six blocks and too much sun later, I feel no better about my conversation with Fern.

The complete lack of logic crawls beneath my skin and chafes against my bones. Guess they mean their personal truths, which is another way of saying, “I believe what I believe in, and
my
version of the truth is
everyone’s
reality.”

Perception, my ass.

I cram myself on the subway with the rest of the working crowd. I really should have taken a cab.

When I get home much later, my feet ache and my annoyance hasn’t faded. I slam the door and shove the dead bolt into place, then kick my shoes off, liking the way they sound hitting the wall. To the bottom of my toenails, I know that Phyllis double-booked on purpose, but Fern would hear none of it.

Pete doesn’t pick up when I call, and I don’t bother leaving a message. I’d just spew everything onto his voice mail and not get the benefit of his sympathetic comments.

I’m typing in my computer’s password before I realize I’ve turned it on. Skype loads with a cheery zoom. He’s online. And he’s left me a message.

Him: Message me when you get home.

Seeing that message from him puts a dent in the frustration.

Me: Hey.

His status was Away, but it changes to Online immediately.
How are you today?

Shitty.
I delete it before sending and type something else.
Is your other clinic hiring?
Deleted unsent. I hate today.

Him: What’s wrong, Sarah? I can tell something’s up.

What do I even say? The truth? Isn’t that overwhelming? My phone rings—a call, but it’s Jack. I don’t answer. We parted on a high note, and I don’t want to spoil those feelings by unloading all my hippie bullshit on him. Besides, that’s a bit more domestic than I care to get with him. We’re sleeping together, and that’s all. We’re not each other’s support systems. Leaning on him when I have problems isn’t the smart thing to do. Instead, I reply to Blake.
Work.

Him: Ah. What did they do now?

I love how he automatically assumes I wasn’t the one screwing up. Feeling like he’s on my side wraps me in warmth and security.
Evil coworker brought an evil friend to work. Friend had three evil kids who destroyed reception for two hours while I was forced to watch them.

Him: That sucks. You’re not a babysitter.

Me: That’s what I said! Unfortunately, boss didn’t agree. And there was a scheduling mishap because of the coworker, which was resolved, but somehow I got in trouble for it.

Him: I hate hippies.

I like you.
I hit Enter, then blush. I hadn’t meant to type it, even though it’s true.

Him: I like you too.

Me: Thanks for letting me vent.

Him: That wasn’t venting. That was barely a leak.

I laugh.
LOL.

Him: What are you up to tonight?

Is he going to ask me to meet up in person? Do I want that?
Licking my wounds.

His reply seems to take forever.
Care for some company?

Online, or in person?
Which do I even want?

Him: Online. I don’t think we’re ready for in person yet.

Relief and disappointment spiral through me. Then again, he didn’t say anything about online.

Him: So. What are you wearing?

I giggle.
A sweaty tank top I really need to strip out of.

Him: You’re bad. What are your plans for the weekend?

Why, you want to come meet the nightie?
He’s really not joining in this sexy talk, despite my prompts.

Him: I think the nightie and I should wait awhile. In person or online.

Well, he closed that door firmly.
Oh.