Chapter 9
DESIREE
I talk big shit but I miss the hell out of Theodore when he’s not home. Everything’s in place, but it just doesn’t feel right.
He left his coffee mug in the sink because apparently this morning included emotional warfare but not basic dish responsibility. His overly expensive ass cologne is still hanging around too, which is rude as hell because the man isn’t even ten minutes gone and I already feel the difference.
My phone buzzes before I make it downstairs.
Theodore
In the car.
I stare at the message with my hand on the railing, still irritated, still in love, and fully aware this man said he would call from the car but he decided to text me instead. In his mind, it’s one and the same.
Well I would assume so. You just left. Congratulations.
Theodore
Always got something smart to say.
I’m needlepoint-close to smiling but I refuse. I refuse because I’m committed to the bit, and the bit that is Theodore Joseph Kelly has worked my everlasting nerve beyond reasonable repair.
Safe travels, Alpha.
Theodore
That’s better.
I lock the phone because I have nothing else productive to say, and I have my clinic to get to before my attitude starts making decisions.
Downstairs, I make myself eat half a piece of toast and drink enough coffee to qualify as a person. I rinse Theodore’s mug because apparently I’m in love with a man who can leave the country and still have me cleaning up after his fine ass. Then I grab my bag, lock the house, and head to work.
The city’s so pretty this morning. The sky is clean, the landscaping looks expensive, and everything outside is way too put together for me to be this close to spiraling.
A booking request. An international flight.
Theodore putting his tongue in my mouth on his way out the door and still having the audacity to leave.
After pulling into my reserved space behind the clinic roughly about twenty minutes later, I sit there for three full breaths, and put my professional face where it belongs.
Desiree Perkins, owner and founder, the woman rich women pay for skin, body, and beauty work that helps them stop fighting their reflection.
Not Desi, the woman currently sexually frustrated and emotionally harassed by a man with a passport.
I walk in through the staff entrance. Jetta’s already at the front desk with an iced coffee, a headset, and that look on her face that says she’s been waiting for me to arrive so she can ask something she knows she might not need to ask.
“Morning, my gorgeous boss.”
“Morning.”
Her eyes move over me. “Black scrubs, diamond studs, full beat before ten. Okay, Boss lady.”
“Jetta.”
“Dang, Boss lady. I was just giving you a compliment. Geesh.”
“You said it with commentary.”
“Because I am a woman of depth.”
“You’re a woman on payroll.”
“And extremely grateful for employment.” She spins back toward the computer, but not fast enough to hide the way her fingers hover over the mouse.
I stop beside the desk. “What is it?”
She looks up. “What’s what?”
“Whatever’s making you sit there like your spine has gossip in it.”
Her mouth twitches. “You are so dang mean when you look good.”
“Girl—”
“Okay.” She clicks once. “That B. Kinsley request is still pending.”
“Oh, I know.”
“I didn’t touch it though.”
“Good.”
“But you know the system sent the automatic reminder to complete intake because the request is sitting there.”
My hand stops on the strap of my bag. “Did the client complete it?”
“No.”
“Any changes to the request?”
“Not a one.”
I pull my tablet from my bag and wake the screen. “Print it.”
“Already did.” She reaches under the desk and hands me a single sheet, face down, because Jetta is a lot of things, but careless is not one of them.
I take it. “Thank you.”
“You want me to block the slot for now?”
“No. No. Just. Just leave it pending.”
“Okay. Like. Do I need to be worried? This seems to be bothering you more than I like.”
I start toward my office, then stop. “Just don’t say that name out loud where clients can hear you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” she says again, softer. “Private means private.”
As much as she irritates my soul, this is why she still works here.
In my office, I close the door, set the paper on my desk, and stare at it without sitting down.
Kinsley is a pretty common last name.
B is a common initial.
Private Wellness Consultation is a service we offer, even if I’m selective about who gets on my calendar for it.
But see…T. J. Kelly is not common by a long shot.
And Theodore does not hand out my clinic like a business card.
I fold the paper once, slide it into the side drawer, and lock it.
For the next four hours, I do exactly what I’m good at.
I talk a forty-six-year-old client out of overfilling her lips because grief has her trying to change her face instead of admitting she’s lonely.
I explain to a new member why she cannot use a retinol peel two days after waxing unless she wants to fight her own skin in public.
I approve payroll, sign off on an inventory order, and correct Jetta’s product display because if one more serum ends up next to the wrong moisturizer, I’m going to start charging emotional damages.
By lunch, Theodore has texted twice.
Theodore
Boarding.