Chapter 10
“Count me in,” Cynthia murmured mockingly to herself that night, her strained eyes burning as she slouched against the headboard of her bed.
She gave the laptop propped crookedly on her lap a glare before pushing it aside.
She was loath to admit it but it was quite possible she’d bitten off more than she could chew.
Possibly. Even after hours of fruitlessly combing the internet and scavenging through her large network of local business owners for team-building activities, she couldn’t allow herself to admit total defeat. Not after she’d lied outright to Rohit’s face and stood him up.
Cynthia ignored the nagging little flutter at the base of her sternum when she thought about the downturn of Rohit’s lips, the disappointed crinkle in his forehead when he realized she wasn’t going to show. Hopefully he hadn’t waited long.
Not that I care , she quickly reassured herself.
For all she knew, maybe one of the women who hung around his office all day, like that long-legged Darcy or Lavinia, with her cutesy, breathy voice, had run into Rohit on her way out of the office and offered to cheer him up without her pants on, or something.
Great. Now she was annoyed with herself and grumpy. With a huff, Cynthia reached for her laptop again and kicked the covers off her legs. Working late into the night in bed was not an unusual occurrence for her, but coming up empty-handed was new and she didn’t like it.
“Stupid Rohit,” she murmured to herself, well aware she was being irrational. Reluctantly, Cynthia reached for her cell phone and unlocked the screen. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for until her eyes fell on the contacts icon.
“Stupid Rohit, who probably has hair plugs,” she added, glaring at the screen as her finger moved, as if of its own accord, to place a call. Her muttering continued as the phone rang.
“Cynthia? Is everything okay?” Naomi asked.
Pushing herself off the bed, Cynthia jammed her feet into a pair of thick-soled slippers. “Of course everything is okay,” she grumbled, padding toward the kitchen. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Because it’s half past ten on a Wednesday night.”
In the midst of opening her pantry cupboard, Cynthia paused to glance at the stove timer and grimaced. “Oh my God, it is.”
“Is everything all right?” Naomi’s voice was gentle.
It was the second time someone had asked this exact question in the last twelve hours, and Cynthia wasn’t sure if the new lump in her throat was from embarrassment or something else. Something that made her stare into the neatly organized interior of her pantry and feel overwhelmed by the choices.
“I…I was stuck on a problem at work,” she said, closing the cupboard door and turning to lean against it. “And I called you without even looking at the time.”
“That’s okay,” Naomi said in a reassuring voice that made Cynthia’s chest tighten. “I’m glad you called. What can I do? What’s the problem?”
Cynthia kicked her slippers off. Put them back on.
She’d spent all evening combing through her contacts, messaging corporate trainers, wellness coaches, and influential speakers, but so far, none of them could commit to delivering some kind of team-building activity on such short notice.
When that hadn’t panned out, she’d even hit up local boutique owners, mediation lawyers, and even a bookseller because, with the right ambience, group story hour could be healing, right?
No dice.
She’d been coaching herself to not lose hope all night, but now, with Naomi on the other end of the line—likely in pajamas and getting ready for bed—Cynthia felt heat climbing up the sides of her throat.
Had she ever felt this way when tasked with a work project?
Even in her current state of embarrassment and panic, the answer was clear: no, she always delivered perfection.
Alone.
“You know what, don’t worry about it,” Cynthia said, making her way back to her bedroom. “I can figure this out.”
“Cynthia, if you need help, I want to—”
Help. The word made her shoulder blades tighten. “No,” Cynthia said hastily. “I mean, no thank you. I hadn’t realized it was so late. I shouldn’t have called.”
“But…” Naomi paused.
In the background, Cynthia thought she heard Dev’s quiet murmur, and it was enough to strengthen her resolve. She could fix her own problems. “I’m sure. Forget this whole conversation.”
“Okay,” Naomi said slowly, “but you can call me anytime.”
After a quick goodbye, Cynthia tossed the phone near the foot of her bed before crawling back in.
She wouldn’t let herself dwell on this baffling moment of weakness—garbled cries for help were not her style.
Somewhere along the way, her ambition, independence, and grit had become something more than a suit of armor.
It was all she knew, all she had to depend on to get her to where she wanted to go.
If her father could work his way to the top all by himself, then so would she.
In the dimly lit confines of her tidy, uncluttered bedroom, Cynthia pulled her laptop back onto her lap and pressed her palm on its cold, flat surface.
If only things could be different. She’d be lying to herself if she blamed everything entirely on being born a girl because, once upon a time, it hadn’t mattered.
My little spitfire , her dad used to call her when she presented her straight-A report card or beat out her entire track team in the eighth grade.
Back then, her father had doted on her, pushing her to be the best in everything she tried.
And she’d risen to every occasion, much to his delight.
Often, Cynthia would hear her mother, who watched them from afar with a faint crease in her forehead (this was before the Botox, obviously), telling friends in a fond voice that their daughter was definitely Daddy’s little girl.
It had been a point of pride in Cynthia’s life, making it easier to ignore whispers from the other girls that she was stuck-up and keep a stiff upper lip when the insecure little boys refused her entry onto the soccer field at recess.
She hadn’t needed anyone in those days, either.
But then Jimmy Reilly had walked into fifteen-year-old Cynthia Kumar’s life, and she had fallen hard .
Hard enough to barely register that her grades were slipping, to stop caring if she showed up for track practice.
She’d stopped spending time with her father, too, unaware that the growing distance between them was pushing him away.
How could she have known the irreparable damage that infatuation over a sixteen-year-old boyfriend with a car and a real job at the sunglass kiosk at the mall could do?
That first misguided shot at love had ruined everything.
With a deep breath that was more self-admonishing than cleansing, Cynthia opened her laptop. It was time for a plan of action.
What she needed was to find a vendor— any vendor—who was enthusiastic and passionate enough about their product that staff wouldn’t question how something irrelevant like flower arrangements or Fabergé egg painting could have any influence whatsoever on low morale.
She needed someone desperate for business. Someone who—
Aha. Gotcha. Buried deep in her direct messages was a long-forgotten note from a girl she’d gone to high school with, one that Cynthia had barely talked to, who occasionally sent her messages about her business with the offer to co-host small- or large-group parties to share whatever her organization did.
Cynthia’s eyes bounced to halfway down the screen and found the organization’s name: TeamStart.
Perfect. And while Cynthia wasn’t entirely sure what TeamStart was, the words sounded exactly right for the situation at hand.
Cynthia skimmed the rest of the message until she found the one sentence in Sahara McMillan’s last message, unread and sent over five months ago, that clinched the deal.
Sahara: Contact me anytime and I’ll make myself available!
Cynthia’s fingers hovered nervously over the keyboard. It was almost eleven o’clock…but Sahara had said contact her “anytime,” hadn’t she? Besides, a quick late-night message over social media was nowhere as desperate as calling someone in full-on panic mode.
Cynthia: Hey, Sahara. I’m really sorry for the late notice, but I’m looking to co-host one of those events you’ve mentioned in previous messages tomorrow morning for a team-building type of activity. Is that something you can accommodate? I know it’s last minute.
Cynthia’s eyes flicked to the clock at the bottom corner of her laptop screen as she waited for Sahara to answer. After a few minutes, the most wonderful words appeared before Cynthia’s eyes.
Sahara is typing…
All traces of fatigue flitted away as Cynthia waited for Sahara’s message. Impatiently, she began closing the dozens of tabs she’d opened as she waited for the response that could potentially seal her fate.
Sahara: Omg, Cynthia Kumar!!!!! What a TREAT to hear from YOU. YES I can accommodate your request! IT WOULD BE MY PLEASURE! TeamStart just introduced a new line of HEALTHY, ORGANIC, and INVIGORATING breakfast smoothies and I could arrange a TASTING for you and your coworkers!!
Relief ebbed through Cynthia’s limbs, and any lingering panic cooled from simmering to tepid.
She relaxed back against the headboard, snuggling down in her bed.
This newfound calmness was like a sedative, potent enough to allow Cynthia to overlook Sahara’s weird use of capitalization and exclamation marks.
Had she been that enthusiastic in high school?
It didn’t matter. The only thing that Cynthia cared about as she sent Sahara the address and number of employees to expect was that she’d gotten the job done—and all by herself, at that.
Rohit is the man, my ass , she thought smugly.
After dashing a quick email to the junior and entry-level staff at Kumar Construction requesting their presence at an impromptu team-building activity the next morning, Cynthia put her laptop away and sank into her Egyptian cotton sheets.
They felt especially soft against her skin in this moment, the perfect amount of crispness and comfort.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, was the echo of a nudge that she should probably do a quick search for StartTeam or whatever Sahara’s company was called for the sake of due diligence, blah, blah, blah , but the thought trickled away in the waterfall of freshly washed cotton hugging her everywhere.
She couldn’t wait to see Rohit’s face tomorrow.
What she wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when he read her email and realized she’d single-handedly conquered the task her father had assigned them.
Maybe he was sitting in his apartment—surrounded by douche-bro things like a pyramid of beer cans in the corner—shirtless and wearing worn-in gray sweatpants, his long muscular legs propped up on some tasteless coffee table, opening her email right now.
Cynthia snuggled into her pillow and pulled her lavender—and very tasteful—comforter up to her chin.
The weight of satisfaction sank her into the mattress, the tension around her shoulders uncoiling for the first time all night.
But despite her exhaustion, Cynthia’s legs shifted restlessly underneath the blanket.
Rohit, shirtless in gray sweatpants. Warmth stirred in Cynthia’s belly.
It’s the heat of victory , she assured herself, and she turned onto her side and welcomed the coolness of her pillowcase against her cheek.
But her mind’s eye was locked several inches below Rohit’s crestfallen face in the mental image she’d idiotically conjured for herself.
He had a great chest. Her hands remembered the firm planes against her palms, the delicious ridges of muscle bumping along her fingertips when she’d trailed her hand down his stomach.
A light dusting of chest hair had teased her nipples when he’d thrust into her for the first time, the subtle musk of citrus and amber from his cologne sharpening the toe-curling frissons of pleasure shooting through her as he slowly stretched her out in careful, wonderfully painstaking inches.
She’d been frantic for release that night, perhaps even a touch desperate, but Rohit had welcomed her energy, met her head-on in ways she hadn’t expected.
In the dark of that damn motel room, his eyes had glittered with reverence and desire.
Wrap your legs around me , he’d whispered, pumping deep, as if he, too, had felt that weird, exhilarating surge crackling in the air, urging them closer. Binding them.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cynthia said out loud now, flipping onto her back and glaring at the ceiling.
It wasn’t the first time her traitorous mind had stumbled back to that night, had replayed the too-perfect sequence of events from the moment he’d thrown stolen pickup lines at her in the bar to him gently gathering her against his chest after their first round, as if they hadn’t just met only hours ago.
He had lulled her to sleep drawing light patterns on her arm as if he couldn’t stop touching her—as if he’d been searching for her his entire life.
More than a year later and her mind—and body—wouldn’t let her forget.
Rolling onto her side again, Cynthia curled into a ball and closed her eyes tight.
She didn’t want to linger on the tender way he held her afterward; it was always easier to focus on the heat.
The roll of writhing bodies, her leg hiked over his shoulder as he sank deep.
Cynthia reflexively touched the skin behind her earlobe with a shiver.
He’d scraped his teeth numerous times over that sensitive spot, and the nip of pain had ignited a fiery path down her body, arching her hips on the soft mattress, spreading her legs wider to accept everything he had to offer.
And he’d given it to her. Four times.
Once again, Cynthia kicked the blanket off her overheated body and tentatively traced the sliver of skin exposed just above the waistband of her silk pajama shorts.
She didn’t need to venture lower to know she was wet and achy.
Ever so slightly, the fingers on her other hand flexed against the soft sheets and Cynthia bit her lip.
No one would know— Rohit would never know.
With a defeated sigh, Cynthia reached over the side of the bed and grabbed her vibrator from the bedside table.