Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
J ay touches a spot on his lower lip. “You’ve got some ketchup here.”
I dab my napkin on the same area on my face, then lift my eyebrows, looking for confirmation.
He nods, a shock of his curly blond locks falling across his pale blue eyes. “Back to your ridiculously gorgeous self.”
Before I can respond, his gaze shifts behind me, smoldering, as he finger-combs his hair into place. “Oh. My. Cheese. And. Crackers.” His hushed tone is effused with praise, wonder, and the inflection that is decidedly Jay.
I’m going to assume my coworker has spotted yet another man who’s stoked the always-burning fires of his libido.
“Who is that ?” he purrs, mostly to himself.
I pivot and find the object of his desire. He’s handsome alright. And Jay’s type. The verdict’s out on whether he’s also gay. “You’re drooling.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “I could and would do a lot more with that hunk of male virility in the flesh.”
“Mm-hmm. How are things with Rory, by the way?”
Jay rolls his eyes. “It’s not illegal to look. And he’s fine, nosey Parker. What’s happening with your love life? Are you still dating what’s-his-name?”
I fight a sigh, using my straw like a plunger to agitate the sugar pooling on the bottom of my iced tea. “Nope. I’m not sure a guy in finance is ever going to be the right fit for me.”
A guffaw erupts from Jay. “Oh honey, was he too small?”
Flashing him a flat look, I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. “We didn’t get that far. He bored me to near tears.” And I’m not exaggerating. Much. “Why do the numbers guys always want to talk about the nitty-gritty details of their boring-ass jobs? Math is not sexy.”
“Unless he’s nine inches with a girth that would choke a whale.” Jay’s eyes flare as he checks out the cute guy behind me again.
I stifle a smile. “Is sex all you think about?”
He shrugs. “It’s the only thing worth thinking about. And you need some good dick more than anyone I know.”
“Whatever,” I dismiss, trying not to think about the good dick I’ve had…and lost.
I’ve tried to move on, to get out there , as everyone says. No one ever comes close to doing it for me. Mick and Remy ruined me for life. The longest I’ve stayed interested in a man is under four weeks, and the one time I caved on sex… I shudder remembering that disappointing debacle.
I glance at my watch. “You about ready? I need to get back to the office.”
“Me too. I’ve got an art department meeting in twenty.”
We stand and clean up our mess, dumping everything into the trash. As we pass the nice-looking male my colleague ogled, the guy does a double take, appraising me top to bottom.
“Bitch,” Jay mutters when we emerge onto the bustling streets of San Francisco.
I laugh. “When you’re hot, you’re hot… ”
“The worst part is you won’t even sample that gloriousness.”
“He’s not a slab of meat.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong—and why you’re single, Jacqui.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“But right,” he singsongs.
I’m elbows deep proofreading the June issue of the magazine when my phone beeps, one of the squares lighting up with an incoming call. “Jacqui,” I answer, eyes glued to the spread showcasing where to find the best sushi in the city.
“Need you in my office,” Eleanor says, all-business.
When I began working here, my no-nonsense boss freaked me out a tad. Fresh out of college, I had zero professional experience and barely interacted with the few employers I’d had. She intimidated me until I understood her better and found my rhythm as her assistant.
“On my way.”
I snag a notepad and pen and walk to her corner office. She’s focused on writing in a thick tome she calls her “work bible.”
When I rap my knuckles on the dense door, Eleanor waves me in. “Close the door.”
My insides twinge. Have I done something wrong?
“Have a seat, Jacqui.”
Nervous flutters amplify as I drop into one of her contemporary lime chairs. Through her window, a slice of the deep blue bay cuts through the skyscrapers.
She steeples her hands, elbows resting on her black metal desk. “I have an opportunity for you.” A small smile plays at her lips .
Maybe I’m getting another story. I’ve had a dozen so far while balancing my editorial assistant responsibilities.
“One of the five publications in our group, Virginia Now , has an opening, and it’s an editorial position for the Travel & Culture section. As much as I hate to lose you, I think you’d be perfect for it.”
My heart trips so hard, a thud reverberates in my chest. My mouth forms a silent O as my thoughts riot. Virginia. Writing. The travel section . “Wow, th-that’s…amazing,” I finally sputter.
She acknowledges with a terse nod. “Had a hunch you’d like it. You’ll have to fly out for a formal interview, but with our endorsement, you should be a front runner. And if you get the job, they’ll pay a stipend for relocation costs.”
This is a dream come true, and it’s not like I’m tied to California. Even though…it’s my home, embedded in my cells, containing some of my favorite people.
“Thank you, Eleanor. Your faith in me means a lot. I love working at San Francisco Life .”
“It shows. You’re eager and talented. And it’s probably unfair I’ve kept you straddling two positions all this time, but people like you are tough to find—or replace.”
I’m still technically her assistant, but also write for the various sections, which is Eleanor’s way of keeping me incentivized. It’s worked, and in my dual role, I’ve had my fingers in all slices of the magazine pie. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.
I grin. “I’m almost speechless.”
“I’m going to set this in motion, but please keep it between us for now.”
“I will.”
“How far are you through the June issue?”
“Over halfway. I’ll have it on your desk by close of business.” That term is a misnomer. We may shut the doors at 5 p.m., but that rarely means our workday’s over. Publishing is a living, breathing animal, one where deadlines and emergencies rule the landscape.
“Great.”
I stand, beaming. “Thank you again.”
My boss nods, returning an uncharacteristically sentimental smile.
Stealing outside, I grant myself ten minutes to absorb this revelation.
My hands press against my cheeks and that consuming smile, then I walk down the block, letting out an unbridled whoop and not caring who stares.
I’m dying to tell someone. My friends and Mrs. Callahan, whose job in this very niche inspired me from the minute Mick told me she wrote for a travel publication.
Mick would be proud of me, too. Really fucking proud. But how would he feel about me moving across the country? Taking that step seals the deal for us, solidly shuts that door.
It’s shut, girl. And locked.
We’ve had no contact since our breakup—other than his graduation bouquet—and it’s clear we’re not going to.
I have no clue what’s happening in his life and whether he’s still beholden to Remy or if the former Three Musketeers could ever share friendship again now that everything’s so convoluted.
But Mick knows where I stand. I would have waited for him.
I would have given him anything he needed—and all of me.
I’ve got to move on.
And this is a damned good way to do so.