"No!" I squeal. "No, not you. My shit bag ex-husband—I blocked him last week, finally, and I felt so good—but he texted me from his new girlfriend or fiancée? I don't know who she is, actually. But I think he texted me from her phone asking about some stupid fucking baseball cards because he wants them for hisson."
"Oh, wow," he breathes. "Is this—did you know?"
"Of course, I didn't know!" God, I hope the soundproofing on this stupid conference room works. "That's how he told me. And I know I don't haveanythingleft of his. I moved out and only tookmythings. I'd never take his baseball bullshit. I don't even like sports."
"I know you don't," he mumbles. Before I know it, he pulls me out of my chair and his strong arms wrap around my shoulders. I bury my face in his cable-knit sweater and let out another sob. He smells so nice and clean. Like fresh laundry and that pine soap. It's not overbearing like how some men drench themselves in cologne. It's understated and classy.
Dustin hasalwaysbeen understated and classy. I'm just a big, loud, obnoxious jerk. And I'm getting snot on his sweater.
"I'm so sorry," I say as I push myself back. "God, I'm sorry."
"For what? Wait, don't answer that. You don't have anything to be sorry for." He trails the back ofhis hand on my cheek and wipes away my tears. "You're perfectly you."
Somewhere outside of the conference room, a desk phone rings and I freeze. I remember where we are. Fear grips my organs, and I shove myself back again. We're in the office, and we'renotdoing this. I grab another handful of napkins and clean up my face.
"My apologies for the unprofessional display, Mr. Sanders." I sniff again. "What can I do to help facilitate our onboarding?"
"Brooke, I—" He cuts himself off and looks down at his sweater with an affectionate half-smile. "If that's what you need right now, sure. But please know that I care about you. Professionally, I mean."
"Yes. Professionally. This is very professional. I am a businesswoman," I announce with a slightly unhinged giggle.
"Absolutely. A consummate professional, even." Ugh, his smile. Why does he have to be so cute? He really grew up and grew into his bone structure. The years have been kind to him. Even the little crow's feet near his temples make him look elegant, refined. A mature king.
And I feel like a dumb green-haired kid. Like I'm an immature woman flailing in the wind, trying to find my way in the world after the divorce. Apparently, that includes sobbing like a baby into my ex's sweater in the conference room.
"So, professionally speaking, you mentioned MIT licensing for some of your open-source code. Or was it all of your open source?" He reopens his laptop and taps away at the quiet keyboard.
"Most, yeah. I think some teams use Open BSD. Of course, it's all intermingled. I can assure you, though—all of our licenses are current and compliant." Icando this. The last of my tears dry up as I force myself into work mode.
"Excellent. I expect nothing less from you, Ms. Dunne."
"Please, it's Moore."
He looks up from his laptop, mouth slightly agape. After a beat, he smiles, and I stop myself from literally swooning at the affectionate joy in his eyes. "Of course. Thank you, Ms. Moore."
Huey's automatic feeder whirrs to life and deposits his one-third cup of kibble. My hefty boy—not fat, just thick—leaps from his cuddle spot on my lap and crunches on his dinner happily. As far as he knows, he's got it made. A human servant for warmth and under-chin scratches, a robot that feeds him twice a day, and another robot that cleans up his litter box.
I feel guilty whenever I spend the night at Janine's, though. My sweet boy always bonks his head against mine extra hard when I return. Eve, one of my roommates, always lets him sleep in her bed when I'm away. She grew up with cats and loves having him around. But she has a crazier schedule than I do and the auto-feeder was the best way to ensure my boy stays fed and happy.
Once he finishes off his dinner, he returns to my lap and slowly closes his golden eyes. I gently scratch under his chin in the perfect spot until he falls asleep. His blocky head tips to the side and little cat snores fill the relative silence of my bedroom. God, he's adorable. I swipe open my phone and snap a picture. Instinctively, I send it to Janine. My thumb hovers over Dustin's contact info.
Would he care about my snuggly boy? Is he a pet person now? What if hehatespets? He always doted on his family's dog, but that was years ago. People change.
Powering through my momentary anxiety, I send Dustin the photo. Seconds later, he sends back a heart-eyes emoji.
Dustin
Who's that pretty girl or handsome boy or distinguished gender-neutral friend?
"Yessss," I hiss out, and Huey cracks open his eyes to glare at me. I gently pat his little nose and smile at therumbling purr that erupts from his chest. "Apologies, king. Please return to your slumber."
This is Huey. He is the most important man in my life.
As he should be. Treat him well.
Holding my breath, I type out a rather risky message and squint my eyes shut as I hit "send."
Do you want to meet him?
