Chapter Fifteen
Pepper
The office phone rings as I click print on an article I want to bring home to read tonight.
“I’m taking off,” Chris Wharton says as he appears in my office doorway. His curly brown hair is as messy as ever, his beard is unkempt, and his clothes are wrinkled, but his disheveled appearance is a small price to pay for his top-tier scientific brilliance.
The phone rings again. “One sec.” I hold up my finger as I answer it. “SynTech.”
“I have to run. I’ll email you the data from the simulation,” Chris says in a rushed voice as the guy on the other end of the phone says, “Is this… Wait …what company did you say this is?”
I give Chris a thumbs-up, and as he leaves, I say, “SynTech Research and Development,” into the phone.
“I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number,” the man says, and the line goes dead.
I hang up, and as I reach for the documents on the printer behind my desk, the phone rings again. I turn to grab it and knock a stack of papers onto the floor. I take a deep breath and put the phone to my ear. “SynTech.”
There’s grumbling on the other end of the line. “It’s me again,” the man says. “Sorry. I’m trying to reach Westerly Appliance Repair.”
“Their number is one digit off from ours. I believe you dialed a three instead of a five.” It happens just often enough to be annoying.
“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Not by you, maybe . “No worries. Have a good night.” I hang up the phone and pull up the email I’ve set up to receive résumés from the employment site where I listed the receptionist position. I’m pleased to see three responses and quickly peruse them. My hopes deflate. The first is overqualified and asking for twice the going rate. The second has no experience, and the cover letter from the third applicant is too poorly written to even consider.
I delete them all.
“ Open a business , they said. It’ll be great , they said.”
If I have to answer one more call…
As if the gods are testing me, my cell phone chimes with a text. I swear, if it’s one of my sisters again, I’m going to throw my phone into a sewer. They’ve been bugging me about Clay ever since they got back from overseas, asking if I’ve heard from him despite the fact that I have repeatedly told them we only hung out because they were all paired off. I don’t know if they can tell I’m lying, but thank God they haven’t found out that I stayed an extra night with him in Paris. I’d never hear the end of that.
I snag my phone from my desk, and my heart skips and aches at once at the sight of Clay’s name in the text bubble. The same way it has the last several times he texted. It’s been a week since I saw him, and one day since his last text. But he’s always on my mind. Not only does our time together play on repeat in my head like my favorite freaking movie, but Clay has been sending me gifts. Two days after I got home, I received a package of chocolates from the shop in Paris where we gorged ourselves with a note that read So you don’t forget how sweet it was. Two days later I received his football jersey with a note that read I thought you’d want to wear it to bed, since I’m sure you’re dreaming about me .
He’s not even in the same state, and I feel his presence like he’s right here with me all the time. And yes , I wear his stupid jersey to bed every night, and damn it, it’s his voice I hear lulling me to sleep and his face visiting me in my dreams. I’m pretty sure I’m on the fast track to losing my mind.
I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of emotions to come, and read his text.
Clay: I can feel you missing me.
I don’t want to like his sense of humor, but I can’t help it. I smile as I thumb out my response.
Me: I’m sorry, who is this?
Clay: The guy who can’t stop thinking about you.
Tingles chase up my chest.
Me: Ben or Jerry?
A picture of us kissing in front of the Wall of Love pops up. My insides melt, and the dull ache of missing him claws its way up to the surface. It’s torture, but I know how this will end. He has time off now, but then he’ll be traveling again with his team, and I’ll never be the kind of woman who will leave my work behind and follow a guy across the country. Not even a guy as wonderful as Clay. And I know there would be pressure to do that, and it would tear us apart.
Me: Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.
Another picture pops up. We’re in front of a gallery. Clay’s arm is hooked around my neck and he’s kissing my cheek, his eyes smiling at the camera as he snapped the selfie. The ache of missing him turns into a painful throb. I love flirting with him, but it’s not fair to either of us. My life is already overloaded. I could never fit a long-distance relationship into my schedule and make it work, and he deserves someone who can.
Me: Ah yes. I remember you now. The distracting guy I met through my brother-in-law.
A devil emoji pops up.
My pulse races, and I’m tempted to keep flirting, but I know this will lead to the same place his previous texts led. To him asking when he can see me again and me saying I’m too busy. I can’t keep riding this emotional roller coaster of wanting what I know will just hurt me in the end. Steeling myself against the lump forming in my throat, I force myself to do what needs to be done, thumbing out, I’m working like a madwoman and I have to run, but we’ll always have Paris. I read it again, and I know it’s not strong enough to get my point across. I have to stick to my guns. I delete the message and start over, hating every word I type.
Me: I’m really busy, and I know you probably are too. Neither of us needs to be distracted by something that won’t end well, so we should probably stop texting. But we’ll always have Paris.
I add a heart emoji.
Trying to swallow past the lump that is now clogging my throat, I push to my feet and shove my phone into my bag, knocking it off the credenza in my rush to leave my office before he texts again.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
My hands curl into fists. I’m not a crier. Until last week, I hadn’t cried over a boy since that unfortunate circumstance with that jerky jock in college. But I shed more than a few tears when I was sitting in the lap of luxury on Clay’s cousin’s private plane on the way home from Paris, and I swore I wouldn’t shed any more.
The sting of tears has me ducking into the bathroom.
I pace, reminding myself that I’m the one who ended it. Clay would be happy to continue our fling. Until he gets bored or it’s football season again, which is another reason I need to protect my heart. I stop pacing and look in the mirror, struck for the umpteenth time since returning from Paris by the woman staring back at me. Something about me is different. It’s like I left an invisible piece of myself behind, and it changed the way I see myself.
My sisters would have a field day with that.
There’s no room in my life for these kinds of distractions. I have a business to run, and the bottom line is, I don’t make good decisions when I’m with Clay. I don’t regret staying in Paris with him. That was the happiest day of my life, but it wasn’t the smartest decision. I was so jet-lagged when I got home last week, it took me three days to catch up, and I was less than my best at the kickoff meeting. I can’t afford to not be on top of my game.
I draw my shoulders back, shoving all those feelings down deep for the hundredth time in the last week. It takes an enormous amount of effort to force my thoughts away from Clay and back to work.
Feeling a little more in control, I leave the bathroom in search of my staff, because if I return to my office, the precarious lid I put on those feelings might pop off.
I find Ravi shutting down a computer in the lab where we work on prototypes and simulations. Unlike Chris, Ravi has impeccable taste, and he’s always well put together. Today he’s wearing a fitted dress shirt and slacks that show off his lean runner’s frame. With thick black hair, a peppering of manicured scruff, and coal-dark eyes, Ravi is strikingly handsome and a dead ringer for the actor Manish Dayal. But his good looks are background noise to me. When I look at him, I see the friend who has been there for me through the hardest and the best times in my life. The lanky teen who, like me, wanted to see what all the hype was about and treated sex like an experiment. I see my best friend and the perfect distraction from the fissure in my chest.
He looks up as I walk in, his pearly whites gleaming against his dark skin. “Hey, Pep. What’s up?”
“I thought I’d come check on things. Did you reach Dr. Bowry?” Dr. Bowry is a neurologist consulting on one of our projects.
“Yes. We have a meeting scheduled with him Friday afternoon. I put it on the group calendar.”
“Great. I’ll be ready. Was Min able to help with the coding issue you were trying to work out?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. I’d like to see this week’s progress report before—”
“Before we submit it. I know .” He looks amused and slightly annoyed, which is par for the course when I ask to review data before it’s given to our funding sources.
I look around the lab, filling with pride as my gaze skates over the worktables, computers, and neatly organized supply shelves.
“Nothing is out of place,” Ravi says with exasperation as he steps beside me.
“I wasn’t looking at that.”
He arches a brow. “You’ve been extra neurotic since you got back from Paris.”
“I have not. We just have a lot going on.”
“We always have a lot going on. Maybe you should go see Clay for a little stress relief.”
I roll my eyes, regretting divulging our fling to him, but Ravi was a big part of the reason I went on the trip in the first place. We had a lot going on at work, and I almost canceled my trip, but he refused to let me. “I never should have told you about that.”
“You were dying to tell someone, and you knew your dirty little secret would be safe with me.”
That is true. Ravi knows more of my secrets than Sable does. In fact, Sable doesn’t know about what happened between me and Clay yet. She and I haven’t spoken since we saw each other in Paris. Her tour was extended, and I’m trying desperately not to think about Clay. Hopefully she’s doing better with the tour than I am with my efforts.
Ravi nudges me. “So? Any more gifts from your hot European fling?”
“No, but he’s texted a few times,” I say more casually than I feel.
“And?” he asks eagerly.
“I told him the same thing I told you. I don’t have time for whatever it is he’s looking for. Why are we talking about him anyway? We’ve got work to do.”
“We’ve been here until after nine every night since the kickoff. My eyes feel like sandpaper. I’m heading out to grab some dinner. Come with me. Min and Chris already left, so there are no more whips to crack.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I didn’t eat lunch until after three. I want to look for a few more employment sites where I can list the receptionist job, and I want to go over the data files Chris is working on, and a few other things.”
“You can do all of that in the comfort of your own home after we eat dinner.”
Yes, but I think about Clay even more when I’m home. At least in the office I’ve got visual cues applying silent pressure to focus on business. “It’s easier here.”
“Want me to stick around?”
“No. Go enjoy your night.”
“All right, but for the record, I think you should give fling boy another go.”
I cross my arms. “Why would you say that? You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t need to.” He cocks a grin. “Any guy who can get you to blow off work and rattle the unflappable Dr. Montgomery must have rocked your world.”
“Did I ask for your advice?” I snap.
“That’s the great thing about our friendship. You don’t have to ask. But that testiness is a definite indicator that you could use a little more rattling.”
“Out.” I point to the door, trying to keep a straight face.
“I’m just saying—”
“Ten. Nine. ” I stalk toward him like I did when we were kids and he would say things just to yank my chain.
He grabs his jacket from the chair and walks backward, laughing. “He really did rattle you.”
“Eight.” I speed up my steps. “Seven.”
He stumbles into the hall, walking faster as I close in on him. “Can you just give me his number?”
“Why? Are you suddenly into hot guys?”
“ No . I haven’t seen you this worked up since we were kids. I want to thank him.”
“I swear on all that is holy, Ravi Bhandara, I will give you the mother of all titty twisters if you say one more word about that man.” Another childhood threat. My favorite, because he hates it.
“Okay, fine,” he relents. “I’ll get his number from Dash!” He turns and bolts down the hall, his laughter trailing behind him as he flees out the office door, setting off the chimes above.
“Fool.” I laugh and head back to my office.
As I come around my desk, I nearly step on the contents of my bag strewn across the floor. The mess is far too similar to my chaotic thoughts lately. I kneel and start gathering my things. My gaze catches on the strip of pictures Clay and I took in the photo booth.
I pick it up, taking in the black-and-white images of us laughing, kissing, and making silly faces. I miss him so much, it hurts. I don’t understand how it happened so fast. Tears spring to my eyes, and just like that, he’s rattled my world again.