FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER,I walk into Elaine’s office, a Peppermint Mocha in one hand and a Gingerbread Latte in the other, fully aware I’m hedging my bets. I set them down on the sitting table by the loveseat (good lord, this woman can decorate a room), careful to ensure that the drinks stay a safe distance from all electronics. Elaine looks at me and blinks. Opens her gorgeous, full mouth and then closes it.
I clear my throat. “You were right. I was a total dick. I’m here to apologize and to listen to whatever you want to say to me.” I smile sheepishly. “And I come bearing gifts. I meant to replace your drink from earlier, because you left it in the conference room, so I brought the half-empty cup to Starbucks because I couldn’t read the writing, and the girl there said you always get a Peppermint Mocha this time of year. But then the other girl said that you also like the gingerbread one. And I was going to text you, but that would ruin the surprise, so I got both. And I find it both charming and mildly alarming that they totally know you by name at the Starbucks on 8th. And can you please say something? Because if you do, I’ll probably stop talking.”
She walks over and sits down on the loveseat, and I sit across from her in a ladderback chair. “Simon, you…” She shakes her head. “That was really sweet. You didn’t have to bring me drinks, especially because I’m pretty sure they’re your nemesis.” She sips the Gingerbread Latte and looks up at me. “Apology accepted. And thank you. And I’m sorry. And…”
An awkward silence descends, and it hits me that in a matter of a few short weeks we’ve gone from friends to lovers to strangers who don’t know what to say to each other. And that sucks. It completely sucks that I lost one of my favorite people. And wouldn’t we still be friends if I hadn’t let my lust get the best of me? If I had just left things alone, we’d be in the middle of easy conversation right now, instead of staring at each other, at the floor, at the framed pictures on the wall…
What’s that line?‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
And yet, if I hadn’t asked her out, I’d never have really known her. And I wouldn’t have a broken heart.
But I wouldn’t have the memory of her falling asleep in my arms. Or her falling apart on my Formica countertop.
Turns out Tennyson was right, that fucker.
She toys with the straw of the gingerbread drink, pumping it in and out of the whipped cream, and God save me from accidental sexual innuendo.
In an attempt to save myself from having to explain the tent I’m two seconds from pitching in my cords, I relieve her from the awkward silence by diving headfirst into it. “Yeah. And… We need to figure out where we go from here.” I laugh mirthlessly at my words. “I guess that’s what our meeting was for, huh? And I botched it with my assholery. So…”
“So…” She continues to absentmindedly twirl the whipped cream with her straw, draw it out, and lick it off. This woman has no idea what she does to me. “How soon do you want to be out of here, and what kind of crazy hours am I going to have to work to make sure that happens?” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Ideally? By Christmas. Do you remember when I told you that my time here at Chesapeake Shores was temporary? That I had a project going with my buddy in New York? Well, it turns out that we’re ready to get it off the ground. Drew just moved back to town, and we’re in the process of lining up our final investors, and my deal with Daryl hinges on me finishing this before I leave.”
“Wow. That’s super exciting! Sucks for Chesapeake Shores, but I really am happy for you. So...back to those crazy hours. What are we talking about here? I could totally fit a daybed in here if I needed to.” She punctuates that statement with a laugh, but it floats into the air and dies a swift death. Yea, judging from the heat on her cheeks, we’re both imagining just how much “work” we could get done if Elaine had a bed in her office…
She clears her throat, as if realizing her misstep. ”Um, seriously, you give me the schedule, and I’ll get it done. And, um, if you need any financial advice, or if you’re still looking for backers, my brother is an investor. I can text you his name and number. He might be able to help.”
Uh, yeah… that sounds painful, but I humor her and say sure. “I’ll take a look at my schedule and see what I can pass off to Dan. I can probably be free by Wednesday. I’ll meet you back here after the staff meeting?”
“Sounds good.”
I leave our second meeting feeling like much less of an ass. And we have what, three weeks? I can totally work one-on-one with the object of my affection for three solid weeks and maintain my sanity. Totally.
SIMON JUST LEFT MY OFFICE. We came to a truce of sorts. I’m surrounded by more beverage goodness than I can handle. I should be happy.
And yet…
I’m unsettled. I didn’t apologize, and that was my initial intent. And yes, he squashed that attempt with his douchebaggery. But then came the drinks. And those curls. And that dimple. And that sincerity. His redemption took about five seconds, total.
My redemption? That’s probably not happening. Sure, he said I could have the floor to say whatever needed saying, but I never took the opportunity because I have no willpower left when it comes to this man. I’d start the sentence with “I’m sorry” and end it with his dick in my mouth. And that leads me to the fact that he’s leaving. (And therefore, so is his dick). And I know what Molly would say. I can hear her saying, ‘E! This is perfect. You want him, but you’re too fucked up in the head to have an actual relationship with him. And that broke his heart. But now...Now, he’s leaving, so cue up the torrid affair! There are no strings. He’ll be gone in a few weeks to pursue his lifelong dream of calculating gigabytes and pressing fancy buttons, and you’ll return to your house of cats, having had a grand affair. See? It’s perfect.’
But what the Molly-in-my-head doesn’t realize is that it just doesn’t work that way—wedon’t work that way. Simon and I aren’t wired for one-night stands or torrid affairs.
Ugh.
Enough. No more pity or regret. I’m putting on my big girl panties and moving on. Maybe I’ll let Ev set me up with a friend after the holidays. Or maybe I’ll get back on Match. Or something. The crab-hat salesman, Bruce, is nice. Maybe he likes cats...But right now, I’ve got to fake my way through the next three weeks and work my ass off on this project so that Simon can leave Chesapeake Shores and head off to better things.
Our first work session is in two days, so I’d better practice my fake smile.
WE AGREED TO MEETin the storage room, because that made the most sense. It’s where the inventory samples are kept, and it’ll give us an idea of what we’re selling and how best to format the website. I wonder for the 467th time why Daryl insisted I work with Elaine for the entirety of this project. I was being an ass when I told her I could do this by myself, but life would be so much easier if I could.
But that’s not what Daryl wants. In an email he sent last night, he gave me specific instructions to let Elaine handle and approve all of the writing,’ but also to, ‘work together on everything. You’re both the best I have at what you do, so I know the way to the best website is for you two to collaborate.’
I clear off a table against the wall and set down the drink I’ve brought for Elaine. She was so pleased with the last offering that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make her smile again. Yes, she pulverized my heart, but she’s got a beautiful smile. And not that pleasant smile she gives everyone because she’s nice and kind and accommodating. I’m talking about the genuine, spontaneous smile that she can’t keep herself from giving when something pleases or amuses her.
“Hey, Simon.” Elaine walks in wearing one of those skirts that’s straight and fitted, but then flares out a little, right at the knees. No idea what it’s called, but it’s sexy as fuck. And her sweater is red, like her lips, and Jesus, I’m thirty seconds into this project and already a total lost cause. I point to the pumpkin spice latte on the table and manage to mutter “it’s for you” without my voice cracking, which is no small victory.
“Simon! That’s so nice and I—well, I appreciate it. But you can’t keep doing this.”
