It’s just fantasies. Fantasies that will have no life. Fantasies that only belong in private moments between myself and my fingers, my toys, my showerhead. Eventually, I’ll have someone new, someone who will steal my heart and take over my mind and erase all of these ridiculous thoughts.
I reach and turn the handheld off, closing my eyes and stepping under the overhead’s hot spray.
A month later, the woman sits quietly before me, her heels crossed at the ankles, her hands in her lap. She is a few years younger than me, and I can see it in her innocence, her nervous eyes, the tap of her dark nails against her black jeans, the fidget with her smartwatch. I look down at her resume, one fairly impressive, and that aligns well with the graphic designer job. I ask about her current employer, and she begins to speak, pausing when there is a gentle knock on my office door.
“Good morning,” Trey’s voice fills my office, and I glance sharply at him.
“Good morning,” I say mildly, in an attempt to mask my irritation. “I’ll be through in a few minutes.”
He steps inside, and I stifle a groan. “Ms. Cone, this is Trey Marks, our owner. Trey, this is Chelsea Cone.”
“We’ve met before.” He extends a hand and she rises to her feet, her cheeks flaring bright pink. I watch in interest. “It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for coming in.”
“My pleasure.” She keeps standing and I look at Trey.
“I’m almost done here, Trey.”
“Of course.” He smiles at me, and there is something there, a message of some kind, but I miss it. “Could you see me when you wrap up? There’s an issue with the Brazil order, I just need you to look at it.”
The ‘Brazil order’ is our code. Something is wrong, and I cycle through the morning’s events, the outstanding issues, all of the things that might have gone wrong. I nod. “I’ll be there shortly.”
When he leaves, the color in her cheeks fades to normal, her return to her seat almost more of a collapse, and I eye her carefully. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling lightheaded.”
I close the binder holding her resume. She’s the strongest candidate so far, and I choose my words carefully, my mind distracted by Trey and his Brazil order. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll make a decision on this position by the end of the week.”
She rises, and I walk her to reception, then head straight to Trey’s office.
“What’s wrong?” I pull the door closed, thinking of our factory shipment, the pending patent on our new hook closures, the civil lawsuit against our silk manufacturer.
“Don’t hire her.” He sits in his leather office chair, one elbow on the arm, his hand playing with the stubble on his jaw.
It is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to catch up. “Who? Chelsea?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His hand falls from his mouth and grips his desk, pulling his chair forward. “I have a history with her.”
Between Vicka and Mira, I’ve seen the women Trey has histories with. They are strong, confident women, nothing like sweet, meek Chelsea. “What kind of history?” I ask carefully. “You dated?”
“No. Just a one-time thing.” He nods toward one of his chairs. “Sit down. You’re freaking me out, looming over me like this.”
“You had a one-night stand with her?” I laugh uncertainly. “Really? Are you sure?”
“It wasn’t exactly a one-night stand, and yes, I’m quite sure of who I have fucked, Kate.” The emphasis he gives the word sends a dark tingle down my spine.
“So … you don’t want me to hire her?” I have so many questions, all inappropriate for this moment.
“I think I’ve made my opinion on interoffice fraternization clear.”
I meet his eyes, and something thicker than tension passes between us. Yes, his position on that is clear. Crystal clear.
I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll find someone else.”
“Thank you, Kate.”
Just the way he says my name hurts.
Her
The restaurant is one of those places that takes farm-to-table a little too seriously, the waiter launching into an extended monologue as soon as we sit down. He delivers us each mini-plates with something from the chef designed to “awaken our palates,” something we should think of as a “delightful journey for the tongue.” I automatically glance at Trey, ready for his dirty take on the phrase, but he isn’t looking at me. The smirk is there, but it’s directed at his date—Chelsea—who blushes, her hand nervously playing with the end of her braid. I move to Stephen, who dubiously lifts the cracker and dips it into the gooey caramel-colored sauce. I look down at my own sampling, and the knot in my stomach fully forms.
The wine is delivered, along with a second monologue about the appetizer options, one Trey fully ignores, his mouth at the blonde’s ear, his arm draped over her chair, the edge of those fingers playing with her bare shoulder. When he finally looks up, the speech is over, and the wine is poured. I reach for my glass and Trey stands, stilling my action.
“A toast,” he says, lifting his glass. “It’s been three months for the two of you, correct?” He glances from Stephen to me and smiles warmly.
“That’s correct.” Stephen extends his glass and half-rises in his seat.
“To three months, and many more.” Trey lifts his glass, and we toast, my eyes meeting his as our glasses touch. I narrow my eyes slightly but he only smiles. “Congrats, Kate.”
“It’s three months,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. “Not exactly toast-worthy.” We all return to our seats and I watch Chelsea cup both sides of her wine glass as if it’s a warm mug of coffee. I don’t need to ask how long they have been dating. I can tell you that with psychotic clarity. Two and a half months. Two weeks after Stephen and I became official, she showed up at the office, a Kate Spade slung over her shoulder, yoga pants and a midriff-baring tank top on. She had waved a cheery hello at me and bounced into Trey’s office, his door quickly shut, blinds drawn. Apparently Trey hadn’t wanted to hire her, yet had wanted to rekindle their past. I had stared at an inventory report and tried to think of anything other than what was happening in there. It had been the longest twenty-two minutes of my life. And that afternoon, after he’d taken a ninety-minute-lunch with her, when I had asked him about it? He had only shrugged. She’s fun, he had said. When I’d asked him if he liked her, he had cocked an eyebrow at me and questioned if we were all still in high school. Since then, I’ve kept my Chelsea questions to myself.
It’s strange, seeing him in this role, seeing the tenderness come through all of the layers of playboy. How he sweeps a loose tendril of her hair and tucks it into her braid. How he lowers his head to listen to her words, and watches her when she walks through the room. I’ve had his undivided attention for so long—seeing it directed at another woman is disconcerting. I feel lost when I look at him and don’t have his gaze, when I say something to him and it takes a moment to get his attention. I reach under the table and slide my hand into Stephen’s, needing to feel something, a connection, filled with a sudden yearning to be held, cupped against a man’s chest, the feel of arms wrapped around me. Stephen’s arms, I remind myself, lifting my eyes from Trey’s hand, from the slow slide of his index finger around the lip of his bread plate. I move my gaze up Trey’s chest, his jacket open, his dark V-neck shirt snug to his body, light stubble across his neck and jaw. His lips twitch and I flip my gaze to his eyes. They study me, and there is a moment where I can’t swallow, where a bit of bread just sits on my tongue. He slowly palms his glass, and I can only watch as he lifts it to his mouth. The simple act of sipping a drink shouldn’t be seductive, it shouldn’t make a woman clench her thighs or swallow in need. I’m suddenly thirsty, and hot, and I look away, reaching for my ice water, smiling when Stephen glances my way.
Chelsea asks me something about my dress, and I answer, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to respond in kind, to have some stupid conversation about an episode of The View, one I haven’t seen but that she seems desperate to chat about.