Chapter 27
Alyssa stroked mascara onto her lashes with a straight wand. If you were using a curved wand, what even was the point? It was like using bumpers while bowling. Go big or go home.
She’d put enough mascara on that she could probably catch a bird with her lashes. At some point she needed to stop. She sighed and capped the tube and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eye makeup looked different, but not too strange. She’d just applied it with a heavier hand than usual. A guilty hand, connected to her guilty, guilty heart.
“I am a bad person,” she told the mirror. It mouthed it back at her. She glanced at her watch. She was putting the final touches on Nick’s apartment, and then he was going to meet her there for a walk-through when he was done lifting weights. Which meant that he would be even more muscley, and that didn’t seem fair. She had taken some chances with his apartment, and not counting getting the right shade of green for the living room, the risks were all in the accessories, which could go horribly, horribly wrong. He’d been living with most of the furniture for a couple of weeks now and seemed happy enough. But she had a few surprises in store and was regretting it.
And then she had to tell him about the commercial and how her mistake with the contract had made it possible.
Alyssa cleaned out the rest of her office at the agency that morning, gave stiff hugs to a couple of other designers who were in, and left her key on the front desk. She remembered after she was in her car that her polka-dot umbrella was behind the door, but she didn’t go back for it. She drove to Nick’s apartment building, a route that was familiar by now. She parked and carried a box up, terrified that she would trip and break all the contents. She rapped lightly on the door, just in case, and scraped the key he’d given her in the lock. And then she walked into his apartment and took a deep breath. It smelled like man. She put the box on his antique French country dining table and ran a finger over the gorgeous patina. If she could be reincarnated as furniture, she was pretty sure she wanted to be that table.
Alyssa made four more trips to her car, then unboxed everything. She spread an autumnal runner down the length of his table and set it for two, thought it looked lonely and added two more plates, then decided that pressured him to have more people over, and he clearly was not a guy who entertained. She put the two extra place settings away. The centerpiece was a small yellow mum in a green plastic pot that she’d wrapped with burlap shot through with gold and amber metallic threads and tied with raffia. It would last longer than a floral arrangement.
She installed the lamp she’d been waiting on and pulled the first framed print out of the stack. They’d talked about it—she wasn’t comfortable choosing paintings for a guy with an art history degree, so he’d chosen the art himself. He had educated taste, and where she might choose a Paul Klee print for him, he might have preferred …
Michelangelo.
Oh gosh. She could never again look at the Sistine Chapel ceiling without having impure thoughts. She pulled out her steel measuring tape and found the center of his bedroom wall and hung a pastoral landscape at the foot of his bed. It showed a farmer with a worn face heading home with a herd of sheep on a hill. The style was modern and masculine, but the effect was comforting. Nick could literally count sheep if he wanted.
Alyssa added a couple of throw pillows to his bed, even though she was pretty sure they’d wind up in the closet, and angled a chunky knit afghan over the back of a chair. She nailed up pictures, a mix of abstract and nineteenth-century European reproductions, in the bathroom and kitchen, and propped one up on the front of the living-room bookcase. The main wall space in the living room had a bold modern painting that Nick had purchased at a gallery a couple of weeks ago. He’d texted to tell her it worked with the wall color. Based on his description she had been sure it wouldn’t, but when she got there and found it leaning against the wall, four feet by four feet, she had to admit that he was right. It added some masculine energy to the space.
She had sculptural reproductions too, mostly Greek and a small Nike of Samothrace with her wings spread for his kitchen counter. The goddess of victory could watch over his cooking efforts.
Alyssa got all the art up—and it was a lot—including photos of his parents in his bedroom, and a photo of him and a cousin laughing, a candid he’d shown her when she demanded to see family photos. She’d blown it up and positioned it so he’d see it when he walked in. He had a family that loved him. He hadn’t lost everything, and he had more left than some people ever had to begin with.
Then she went back to the car, retrieved a bottle of wine with a bow and put it on the counter, and installed the plants—in the kitchen, living room, dining room, and bedroom. He’d said he would kill houseplants, but she was going to make him prove it. He had been so drawn to landscapes at the museum. Besides, taking care of something was important, even if the something was a sago palm in the corner—it was a step back toward living. And the foliage added to the calm, country feel of the place.
The bathroom didn’t have a window or much counter space, so she left it alone, and he’d told her not to go in the spare bedroom, which was such a waste. She would have liked to have made it a studio or put a whole garden for him there—the light was good enough. She could have installed a water feature, maybe on the wall. It would have been a beautiful space to meditate. But for some reason Nick insisted that it stay empty.
Why pay for a two-bedroom apartment and only use one bedroom?
The last touches were things she’d pulled from storage: a Greek bust she’d seen in the article about Nick and Sammy that he’d shown her on his laptop, and three large shells with twinkle lights inside that made them glow softly. She arranged them on top of the bookcase, the way they’d been in his Boston apartment.
He would recognize them. They’d be easy enough to put back in storage, but if it angered him it would be hard to justify. I thought you needed a baby step like this. A small link to your past.
She had the whole place looking beautiful. She smoothed the wrinkles out of a rug in the entryway and took photos of her work. She wouldn’t use them for advertising, but she did like to keep track of her designs.
She had stacked the boxes by the door, to carry back down to her car, and was standing in his bedroom, checking things one last time, when he pushed the apartment door open. Startled, she rushed out of his bedroom, as though she’d been doing something wrong. Which she wasn’t. It was normal to inhale deeply. Oxygenation was important.
“Hey!” he said. He sounded happy to see her. She blushed and tried not to think about pirate pants. “How’s Mrs. Gilroy?” Her blush deepened.
“Oh, she’s seen things.”
He laughed and looked around the room. “This looks fantastic. Seriously, Alyssa. When the coach made me do this, I was pretty pissed, but he was right. It feels different in here.” She beamed. “I’m gonna make the plants sign a legal waiver, though.” He grinned at her, and the world’s supply of handsome went way up.
“Oh, I got you something!” He walked to his refrigerator and pulled a mug out from behind a glass container of chopped broccoli. “This was the only place I was sure you wouldn’t look.” She laughed and he handed the mug over. It said “Zamboni Driver” above a picture of a Zamboni. “It’s for your fancy coffee in your own agency. To remind you that you’re good at this, and you should be in the driver’s seat.”
“Ah,” she said, tucking the mug into her bag. “Thank you.” Her eyes misted. “That was actually incredibly sweet.”
“Right?” She laughed. He tilted his head and looked at her appraisingly. “Your problem is you’ve never read your own scouting report.” She cocked an eyebrow and gave him squint eye. “No, seriously. A scout would say you have good design IQ, move very well, and are solid in your own zone.”
“I am?” She felt slightly breathless.
“Yeah. You have the potential to play upward of twenty minutes every night at an extraordinary level.” She flushed. Why was this sexy?
Nick went on. “Alyssa Compton plays well on the periphery but will also go straight to the net and get her nose dirty.”
“I will not!” Alyssa said, then added, “Although I don’t actually know what that means.”
He waggled an eyebrow at her. “Compton changes gears effortlessly and works equally well on the forehand and backhand. She’s able to keep playing hard on a long shift.” Her face and neck felt hot, and she wondered if she had invented a new shade of red. “Imaginative offensive player with an arsenal of moves and superior balance …” He stopped and his mouth pulled sideways. “I may have strayed from your professional abilities.”
“I kind of had that impression,” Alyssa said.
Nick rubbed his cheek ruefully, and his stubble rasped. “But seriously, it can help to see your strengths written down. You’re good at this, Alyssa. The only criticism a scout would make is that you need more confidence.”
“Hmm.” She absently touched the outline of the cup in her bag and thought about that, then looked around the room. It was good. He was right—she was solid in her zone.
He glanced around the room too, then his eyes flickered and locked on the top of the bookcase. The shells. He gave her a sober look, then walked across the living room and looked at them, his back to her. She couldn’t see his expression, but his body was absolutely still. She had made a horrible, horrible mistake.
He reached a hand up, tentative, and touched a shell as though to see if it were real, had substance—that it wasn’t a ghost. Then he lifted it down and cradled it in both hands. He said nothing. Alyssa stopped herself from speaking four times before he turned to her.
“Tyler’s dad has a fishing boat, and he grew up by the ocean. He was weirdly interested in it. Whales, fish, seaweed, coral reefs—any of that. He spent most of a plane ride once expounding on the different types of sand—and we were flying to San Jose, so it took hours. We almost threw him out over Colorado.” He smiled at the memory.
“After Sammy and I got our new apartment—the last one we had—Tyler showed up with this big box. He put it on the table and said it was a housewarming gift, and beamed at us. So Sammy and I looked at each other, right? And Sammy opened the box, and there were three big shells in it. And he said, ‘Wow, this is amazing!’ And Tyler was so pleased with himself. He picked them off the shore himself and told us all about them. These, as it turns out, are queen conch shells, which are made of calcium carbonate and occasionally have pearls. Non-nacreous pearls.”
“Very impressive,” Alyssa said softly. Nick’s eyes hadn’t moved from the shell in his hand. He was seeing the memory, and she didn’t want to jar him away from it.
“Oh, indeed. So Tyler finally left, and Sammy said, ‘What the fuck are we supposed to do with these?’ And we about fell over laughing. It seemed like such a random gift.” His eyes were wet. “Tyler was giving us the ocean, which he loved more than anything. He was sharing his passion. I wish we’d been nicer about it.”
“You didn’t say anything mean, though.”
“No, but we laughed our asses off after he left. I walked over to the bookcase and put them on top just to get them out of the way, and said, ‘There.’ Then we just shook our heads.”
“Who put the lights in?” Alyssa asked.
Nick finally looked up at her. “I did. About three days later I thought about it, ran past the hardware store, and got some tiny lights and rigged them up. I’d turn them on in the evening, and they gave the most beautiful soft glow—like if you could see butter.”
“You can see butter,” Alyssa said, and instantly regretted it.
He gave her a wan smile. “I mean if the taste were a form of light—the softness and smoothness.”
“Creamy light,” Alyssa said, and he brightened.
“Yes, that’s it. They gave creamy light, and the shells became one of our favorite things in that apartment.” He turned the conch over in his hand. “And we never told him. I never one fucking time told him how much we enjoyed them.”
He walked back to the bookcase, looked intently at the shell on the right, then moved it to the empty center spot and replaced it with the shell in his hand.
“You can tell which is which?” Alyssa asked.
He nodded, then took a deep breath, shoved his hands in his pockets, and glanced over at the large bust she’d paired with a Boston fern in the corner. “You know I’m gonna flip those fronds over his head so he has green hair.”
“Poor old Greek dude. First the Persians invaded, and now this.”
Nick gave her a smile. “Somebody took Western Civ.”
She polished her fingernails on her blouse and gave him a smug look.
Nick stepped toward her and said, “Seriously, this is really amazing. It looks like a home.” He nodded to himself, then stepped into the bathroom and bedroom to look around. “The living room has more modern accessories with traditional furniture, and the bedroom’s straight …” He looked for the word.
“It’s European country. Casual, but refined. An undertone of elegance.”
“Totally what I was going to say,” he said with a wink. “Seriously, though, it feels more restful in the bedroom. Less energy in the accessories.”
“I wanted to play it safe in the bedroom,” she said, then blushed furiously, thinking of the pirate shirt he had hanging in the closet.
He saw the flush and smirked. “I owe you a final installment.” She named the figure and pulled out her card reader, and he handed her his credit card. Once she’d processed the transaction and had shoved the reader back in her bag, he said, “So that concludes our business relationship, right?”
She nodded. It was a strange way to put it. “I’ve enjoyed doing your apartment so much, Nick.” Also doing you. “Thanks for the opportunity.” She gave him a warm smile, but her stomach clenched.
“There’s something I …” They said at the same time and stopped.
“You first,” she said. When he heard what she had to say, he wouldn’t want to speak to her again.
He ran his hand through his hair and left his elbow pointing up. “I wondered if I could take you to dinner sometime.”
Her heart exploded in valentines and violin solos. She could see them dancing on a veranda under the stars, her in a red dress cut to here, and him in a black tux. Or sitting beside each other on his sofa, reading, with their stocking feet propped on the coffee table. And every once in a while, he would tap her foot with his just because he was glad she was there. And she would tap his foot back. She could be happy with this man.
And then she crashed back to reality. If she’d ever had a chance with this guy, Stacey had blown it for her.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s …” He looked surprised. Clearly he’d thought he had this in the bag—just because he was funny and gorgeous and smart and, well, she’d already slept with him twice. “Nick, I made a terrible mistake at the very beginning of us working together.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, and she paused, confused.
“Oh! I don’t mean … That wasn’t …” She took a breath and plunged ahead. “The agency—Stacey—uses one contract, and I typically use another. One that I feel is a bit more fair to the client. And when you dropped by that day and I chased you to your car, she handed me a contract. And it was hers.”
“So she gets credit for your work or something?” He looked confused.
“No, it’s worse than that.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Her contract says the work can be used in advertising.” She waited for him to catch on, but he just stood there. At least he’d taken his hand off his head. “She wants to do a commercial showing your apartment.”
He screwed his mouth sideways. “She hasn’t even seen my apartment.” Then his eyes opened wide. “Wait. Has she been here?”
“No! No. But … she will be.”
“I’m not doing that. My home is”—he hesitated—“a retreat. I have a pretty high profile in Detroit. I get recognized buying laxatives, you know? I don’t want the world seeing my conch shells. It’s a personal space.” He paused again. “What I have left of Sammy is here.” She waited for him to explain what that meant, but he opened his mouth, shut it, and then just said, “I don’t want strangers in my space, even digitally.”
“I know,” she said miserably. “But the contract says she can.”
He shrugged and his shirt hugged his shoulders and skimmed his stomach, and her eyes pricked. She wasn’t just losing a chance at happiness with this man—she had hurt him. He’d opened up to her, and she’d exposed him to this violation of his privacy, and now he was going to hate her.
“I’m going to hire a lawyer,” he said. “I’ll sue if I need to.”
Oh god. This was a nightmare. “I understand,” she said. “I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry I handed you the wrong contract. But you know, you could have read it.” He looked surprised. “Did you read your contract with the Red Wheels before you signed it?”
“Not really,” he said. “My agent checked it out. He said it had everything we wanted and I was clear to sign. So I did.”
She shook her head. This was not entirely her fault—Stacey had set her up, and Nick hadn’t done his due diligence. But she was the one who’d gotten fired. So she turned and fled, leaving the boxes for him to throw away because the tears were starting, and she needed to get out of there.