Off Limits (7 page)

8
pm
. I should not still be in the office—I should be home finishing up packing. My room is strewn with clothes options for the trip, a zillion different combinations and styles and sizes, because I can't decide on any single one yet. So help me god, I am actually feeling nervous about this trip.

No, worse than that. I am actively trying to pick out outfits that I think will catch Max Davis's eye.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I try to convince myself that I just want to look as good as possible in order to torture him as much as possible. But, deep down, the part of me I don't want to acknowledge exists knows that that isn't true.

I want him to stare at me the way he stares at that secretary girl.

Ugh. I hate myself.

I'm so wrapped up in thinking about how much I hate myself for this, in fact, that I almost don't even notice my boss, doubled over in the middle of the hallway I'm striding down, fresh from a wake-me-up trip to the kitchen for an ill-advised pm coffee, until I almost trip on him.

"Paul?" I ask, after blinking for a moment at him. He's got both hands resting on his knees and he's breathing hard, his face red. But after a moment, he straightens, waving a hand at me dismissively as if to say
don't worry about me.
Naturally, I ignore that. "Are you okay?" I reach for his arm. He lets me take his elbow, though he's standing fully upright now, and some of the regular color has started to return to his cheeks.

His breath still takes a moment to slow and catch in his lungs, but once it does, he smiles at me, big and unconcerned as ever, even though it's obvious to both of us now that he's faking it. "I'm fine. Just takes it out of me sometimes. The steps," he adds, with a vague gesture at the staircase up from our neighboring floor, which stand behind us in the hall.

"That looked like more than just being winded, Paul," I say, and I don't disguise the lawyerly tone in my voice. "Are you sure you're really fine?"

"Well I've been younger, I'll tell you that much." He winks as he slips his elbow out of my grasp.

To my surprise, he's still pointed down the hallway toward his office. "You aren't still working, are you? You should head home; it's late."

"Should I? Look who's talking, Chloe." His eyes twinkle.

"How about you let me hold down the fort, and you get some much deserved rest, huh?" I grin at him, trying to look convincing yet stern at the same time.

He's already shaking his head, though. I can see this approach won't work. "If one of us should go home right now, it's you, my dear. Don't let this office suck you dry the way I have."

I can't help it. My mouth falls open at that. I've never heard Paul say anything against this place. Never even heard him complain about working hours before, unless it's to remind me that I should take it easy sometimes, when I get my head too deep in a case. But to be honest, he's always been the one I'm emulating. He's the first into the office every morning and the last to leave most nights, and, as far as I knew, he wouldn't have it any other way. "You always said you loved this place," I reply, carefully. "The way it gave you a sense of purpose."

He bobs his head in agreement. "I did. I do. Don't get me wrong, Chloe, this has been a wonderful career for me, and I'm happy to still be able to be here. But . . ." His gaze drifts toward his office again, though I have the feeling he's not really seeing the beige carpet, the mahogany office doors, or the pale yellow wash of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't loved it quite so much," he admits. "Does that make sense? There's no better place to work, I believe that, and yet . . . there's so much more to life than just four office walls, a long commute and a hard days' hitting the books. There are so many other things I wish I'd done, too. If I could rewind, take a do-over, I'd still work here, of course, but . . . I'd make a little room in my schedule for life, as well." Suddenly, his eyes are on mine again, boring holes through mine, as he reaches out to take my hand and squeeze it in his fist. We've shaken hands before, and I've stared at his hands across the table in his meeting room a hundred times, every other week in our morning catch-ups.

I never noticed before, how the veins stand out on his knuckles. How sandpapery his skin feels against mine. How weak his grip has grown.

His hands look . . . well, old.

He
looks old. Especially now, half-winded, standing under these unflattering lights and gazing at me with regret in his pupils. "Don't make the same mistake I did," he murmurs, so low I have to lean forward to catch his voice. "Make sure you remember to live, Chloe. If not for yourself right now, then for yourself in a few years—or more than a few. Do it for yourself at my age. Hell, or if you need the motivation." He grins. "Do it for me. Promise?"

It's such a surreal moment. I consider Paul and I close, but how many conversations have we had—
real
conversations, about more than just the weather, or where we live, or how many cats he owns, or how his semi-estranged daughter is doing at Cornell?

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the pressure of this conversation. What if he really is sick? What if something's wrong? Is that why he's telling me all this?

There's only really one thing I can do right now, given how seriously he's looking at me. "Of course," I respond, as I force a small smile in return to his. "Of course I promise."

"Good." He lets my hand go with a little sigh, sounding almost relieved. "Go on then," he says, and for a second I just keep looking at him, confused, waiting for some longer explanation about why he just made me promise all that. "Get going." He waves both hands, actually shooing me down the hall, and I laugh a little, but I turn around and follow his direction toward my own office. "Don't let me catch you in here a minute longer than it takes you to enter in your hours, you hear me? And don't go straight home, either! That's an order."

I salute him with a smirk. "Aye aye, captain. Whatever you command."

But following that order turns out to be more difficult than I thought. Once I collect my purse and folders from the office, as well as my laptop and everything I'll need for the trip, I pile into the elevator, and watch the numbers tick down, trying to think about where to go.

Don't go straight home! That's an order.

I know he was joking—at least, mostly so—and I know he'll never know if I follow that order or not. But for some reason, part of me wants to listen. It's such a surreal and specific command that it feels more like a sign from the universe than a directive from my kooky boss.

So, in an entirely uncharacteristic move for me on any night of the week, but a completely insane move for a Monday night, spur-of-the-moment, I pick up my cell phone as the elevator reaches the ground floor, and hit speed dial on Heather's number.

"Chloe?" she answers on the first ring, a loud, thumping beat playing in the background of wherever she is. "Are you dying? What's wrong?"

I wince. This is what I've reduced my best friend to. Thinking I'm dying if I call her out of the blue. "I'm fine," I reassure her quickly. "I was just . . . wondering what you're up to tonight? I finished unexpectedly early," I add, into her surprised silence. "And, I know you and I haven't hung out as much lately as we ought to. I feel really bad about that—sorry, it's so last-minute," I keep rambling, when she doesn't answer at first. "If you've got plans, don't worry about it. Let's plan something for this weekend, or—”

"No, no, I'm just surprised! But of course, I'd love to hang out. I'm actually down in the Mission right now. Mission Chinese, have you ever been? They've got this cute little speakeasy upstairs, password only. It's a bit loud, maybe not your style. . ." She trails off, sounding worried.

But I'm grinning. Honestly, I didn't expect to like the sound of something like that, but right now, in whatever mood I'm in, I mean it completely when I answer her, "That sounds perfect, actually. Meet you in twenty?"

* * *

T
he speakeasy full
of specialty cocktails above one of the best, most well-known Chinese restaurants in a city known for good Asian cuisine, turns out to be just what the doctor ordered tonight.

"They're normally not open tonight, but it's my coworker's birthday," Heather explains over the heavy bass filled music as I join her at a crowded table. She immediately pushes a noodle dish toward me, an old ritual— Heather has never finished a meal she’s ordered at a restaurant in her life. One of those people who actually eats six small meals a day the way doctors tell you that you should, but no sane person actually has time for.

"Cheers," I tell her as I dig in, and we cheers again a moment later when a waiter arrives to bring me their signature cocktail of the night. I don't ask too many questions about what's in it. Whatever it is—rum, probably—it’s strong, sweet, and exactly the way I like it.

"So what prompted you to bust out of your cocoon at last, Madame Butterfly?" she asks as we both tip our heads back to take generous swigs of our beverages.

"A girl can't just miss her best friend?" I point out, and she gives me one of her famous
yeah, right
side-eyes. I sigh. "Okay, so I had some help. I had a weird encounter with Paul today, he was in one of those, I regret my life choices, don't go down the same path I did, sort of moods."

"You mean your workaholic boss told you to stop being such a workaholic?" Heather lifts an eyebrow. "Damn, girl. You know it's gotten bad when. . ."

I grimace. "Yeah. I guess that's why I actually decided to take his advice, actually. I realize if
he's
telling me to get out of the office, it's about damn time." I shake my head into the cocktail that I've already half-downed. Wow, these things go down easy. "Enough about me. What's going on with you?"

She opens her mouth to respond when a dark shadow swoops over our table. I barely have time to register the guy leaning across the communal table where I'd joined Heather— tall, dark-haired, with a beaky nose that's handsome in an almost nerdy way—before he's pressing a kiss to her cheek and grinning at her boyishly.

I lift both eyebrows, barely able to contain a grin when my friend's face bursts into a red flush.

"Uh. Well, I guess there's that, for starters," she says as the guy sidesteps into the booth beside her and takes a seat. "Chloe, this is Mark."

He extends a hand across the table, still smiling as we shake. That smile is infectious, for some reason. He just seems so genuinely happy. And when he lazily snakes an arm around Heather's shoulders and she sinks into his side, I can't help but like him already. "Pleasure to meet you, Chloe. I've heard so many good things already."

Really? Because I haven't heard one about you
, I think. But whose fault is that? Heck, even if Heather had mentioned him before, I'd probably been too zoned out to hear her. "Likewise," I lie. "Though, I gotta admit, my memory's a bit faulty lately—tell me again how you guys met?"

Heather rolls her eyes, though she still has a stupidly happy smile on her face, and she can't stop casting sideways glances at Mark. "It's okay, Chloe, you don't have to pretend—I didn't tell her about you yet because I thought you might have run away by this point," she admits to Mark.

He squeezes her shoulder lightly. "My dear, I thought you had better foresight than that," he pretends to scold, yet he softens it with a wink.

I'd be almost grossed out by the cuteness if it hadn't been so long since I'd seen Heather look like this. Relaxed. Infatuated. "We met through work," she says, presumably in response to me, though she's still staring at him. "The coworker whose birthday is tonight, actually, Nelson. Mark is his roommate, and he tagged along to some company happy hours a few weeks ago."

"We've been disgustingly inseparable ever since," Mark finishes. Then he ducks over to kiss her cheek again. "But, if your bestie here hasn't heard the full story yet, I should give you two some privacy. Clearly you need to catch up. And I owe my birthday boy a few more drinks, as it so happens."

Cute and considerate. I mentally chalk up another point in this new kid's favor. Not too shabby, Heather, I must admit.

"You can still ride us all home later?" Heather says as he pushes his chair back to stand. "I'm thinking I might need another of these." She taps her cocktail glass, and I notice with a start that mine is already empty.

He salutes. "Designated driver, at your service, my dear. Get as plastered as you'd like."

Then he's gone, breezing across the room and chatting with other people I vaguely recognize from the couple of times I've tagged along to Heather's work events along the way. "Well he's adorable," I say at the same time that Heather bursts out with, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before."

We both laugh a little self-consciously. "Not your fault," I reassure her. "I'm the one who's been completely M.I.A. from life."

"I just really didn't think this would go anywhere. I thought it was just a fling, you know, the first couple of times we hooked up. He seemed too . . . interested in me, for it to be real. You know? Like he had to be faking it. James—my coworker—always talks about the dates Mark goes on all the time, so I just kind of assumed he was this big player, but . . ."