Unfinished Business (19 page)

The article getting shelved is probably a good thing. Whatever Josie’s sister wrote, somehow she would’ve claimed the digital dating concept as her own and Josie would have ended up hurt. Again.

“Can you believe they said that? How stupid is that?”

I really need to get myself together and remember to listen to people when they talk to me. “Said what?”

“That my sister is out of touch with what’s going on? That she isn’t current?”

“How… What?”

Josie steps back and throws her hands in the air. “Some bullshit about Kid Rock, I don’t know.”

Ohhhhh
.

“They’re going to have her cover topics aimed at a different demographic. Old people or the environment, some shit like that.”

No way am I going to offer the little info I have, that her sister is so out of it that she doesn’t know the difference between hometown boys Kid Rock and Eminem. “Maybe she’ll like the change.”

Josie frowns, so I half-heartedly tidy up my desk and change the subject, “Ready for lunch?”

She says she is then adds, “What’s up with that guy in the security booth?”

I grab my purse from my desk drawer and go over to pull open the French door. “That’s Bob Hastings, he’s okay.”

“He looked at me weird.”

“Maybe he was admiring your shirt.”

She glances down at the thin layer of fabric skimming over her breasts. “Ya think?”

“Yeah, I think.” We head to my car. “Is Riana meeting us?”

“She didn’t know if she could make it, some court thing.”

After we get in the car, Josie asks, “So how was your weekend? Did you go home?”

As we roll past Mr. Hastings, he leans lower than usual to wave back.

“See you in an hour,” I call as we zoom out onto Grand River Avenue and head east.

“You know, one of these days you’re going have to have tell me about your family and friends back home and that guy Waylon and all the whatever.” She looks at my tight expression and laughs. “Your shit can’t be any crazier than mine.”

“It’s not that they’re all that crazy…”

She lets me get away with not finishing and we drive in silence for a while.

After I parallel park, Riana taps on the window.

We climb out and I notice Riana’s walking like a zombie. After saying hi, I add, “Only four weeks and four days to go! You ready?”

“I guess so. Peter keeps asking me about my training schedule. He says my bike is too old.” She sighs and stops walking so she can look at Josie and me. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Okay?”

Josie and I know when to back off so when we start walking again we talk about Josie’s thing, which still needs an official name, then move on to a general conversation about work. Naturally, I lead off with my most recent complaints about Caroline.

After I’m done, Riana tries to top me, “That’s nothing. At least she’s reasonably sane. Get this—because I’m the low girl on the totem pole, I have to talk to all the certified loonies. I had this lady today who called up and started shrieking about how she’s going to grieve the lawyers because they let the state send her kids to live with their paternal grandparents. She said, ‘I was found incompetent to stand trial so how can the state just come and take my kids away? I didn’t have a trial!’

“Try and explain that one.” Riana droops in her chair. “To a crazy woman.”

Riana does look wiped out. Still, I envy her passion. Whatever she decides to do, she goes for it. All out.

Maybe someday she’ll realize what a go-getter she is. Wouldn’t that be something?

I peer at Josie. She works so damn hard, always setting goals—and achieving them no less—like she’s got something to prove. I guess in her eyes she’ll never match up to the huge success her sister is.

Josie and Riana keep talking about the crazy people Riana has to call, while the server pours our coffees. As I listen to them, and think about how proud I am of them, an unfortunate thought takes root in the back of my mind. I spray mental Round Up on it, figuring it’s a weed but it doesn’t wilt. Instead, it fights back and grows so big that I have to acknowledge it.

They’re both moving ahead and I’m not.

Me? Where will I be in five years? Two years? Still temping and thinking about going back to college? The questions roll through my brain like loose pennies looking for a place to plop down.

Stalling, although it has always been my MO, is not working and it’s not going to work. Self-help books and programs will not rush to my rescue. If I want my life to have any kind of meaning at all, I need to do something. Anything. And that one thing.

It’s time to step off the curb, Hayley. Stop waiting for some magic bus to rumble up, swing open its glittering doors and take you to the most perfect life ever.

Unaware of my personal crisis, Josie and Riana chatter on, laughing, swapping news and charging ahead with their lives.

The waitress brings my salad. Not even the thick slices of cheese and ham spread across the top cheer me up. I listen to Josie and Riana, occasionally chuckling along with them. For once my heart isn’t in it. I’m too busy feeling like I don’t know who or what I am, and stewing on the mess my life has become.

I start thinking about Nick. I think about how he and I are unsuccessfully trying to pretend it didn’t happen. But it did happen and I’m glad it did. Maybe this is one area of my life where I can take action.

Instead of just waiting around to see what’s going to happen next, I can take the first step—act instead of react. That way, I’ll be in control of what happens. What a great
idea
. I’m not sure if being proactive is something I read, something the loud lady told us, or something I made up myself. But in this case it actually doesn’t matter where the
idea
came from.

While Riana is telling Josie about some new tires she might get for her bike, I send Nick a text and ask him if he wants me to stop by.

He texts back—
Sure.

The second I read that single word, I start to have second thoughts but shove them aside.

* * * *

Before I push the buzzer beside Nick’s apartment door, it swings open.

“Hey.” Nick steps back and waves me in. He pulls me through his doorway and into his front room. He turns back to lock the door then leads me to the couch.

“So, what’s up?”

On my way over, the plan was so clear in my mind. But now, the words I rehearsed stick in my throat. I look away from him. There’s a basket of laundry in the La-Z-Boy chair and stacks of books all around the shag carpet.

I turn back to him and my gaze wanders across his shoulders. He’s stretched one arm across the back and if I leaned back, in a matter of seconds I’d be nestled in his arms. I don’t lean back. “Just thought I’d stop by.”

He looks at my breasts, outlined by my snug sweater. “Yeah?”

I stare at his mouth. This isn’t going as I planned at all. What happened to my plan? My idea that I’d be in control? “Yeah.”

“You mean like before?” he asks, touching my chin with his thumb.

“Yeah,” is all I can manage again.

He moves his other hand onto my shoulder and pulls me back. I stop caring about who’s in control as he lifts my face upward so he can kiss me. His lips are warm and his breath smells like mint. For a split second the fact that he already knew this was why I came over goes through my mind. Then he deepens the kiss and the thought vanishes.

Using the hand on my shoulder he pushes me onto his lap. I’m sideways, while he’s facing forward. The angle makes it easy for him to slip one hand under my sweater and caress my skin. His gentle strokes make me both nervous and excited. I arch back and he moves his hand up and over my breasts. Even with my bra on, I feel the heat of his palm and my nipples tighten. After I moan from the sudden need, he moves his hands across the silky fabric several times then between my breasts.

“I do like the clasp in the front,” he says. “Convenient.”

One little twist and the fabric falls away, and my breasts are exposed. I don’t have time to be concerned about what he thinks because I can already see the approval in his dark eyes.

“Even better than I remembered,” he says, then starts lifting my sweater. My breasts bounce as I twist, lifting my arms overhead so he can get it off. Once it’s gone, he guides me back and covers one nipple with his mouth. It peaks, and he tugs lightly, making a streak of lust shoot straight to my clit. Once that nipple is thoroughly wet and totally tight he moves to the other, licking and sucking with the same careful attention. I give in to the delicious sensations.

Nick slides his hand under my skirt and tugs on the waistband of my tights. They come down easily and soon are bunched between my knees. He cups my pussy, putting some pressure on my clit with the palm of his hand. I start to reach for him and try to sit up, but he pushes me back again.

“Lie still.”

When I reach for him again, he adds, “Put your hands above your head.”

My back arches even more, and I feel sexy as hell all stretched out for him with my nipples tight and my pussy wet from his attention.

He speaks again, and this time his voice is nearly a growl, “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since that night you came over.” He starts to shift away from me, moving down the couch then settling himself between my thighs. He takes one of my legs and drapes it over his back then lowers his mouth to lick my clit.

He glides his tongue up and down as he slips his hands under my ass to grasp my butt cheeks. The brush of his warm tongue over my wet clit is amazing, and already my body is tensing with desperation. Needing more pressure, I rock my hips, raising myself off the couch and nearer to his mouth.

A spiral of intense pleasure whips around me, squeezing me tighter and tighter until it’s a struggle to breathe. I can’t move. My entire body is taut, anticipating each flick of his tongue. Stroke by stroke he brings me closer to the edge until finally, just when I think I can’t take it any longer, the first rings of my release circle around me. The orgasm whips through me, stealing the last of my precious control and making me cry out. The cry ends in a whimper.

He lifts his mouth from my clit and works his way upward so that he’s lying alongside me. When he kisses me, his lips taste like my pussy. “You better get going,” he says, scooting away from me.

“Don’t you want me—”

I stop because he’s handing me my sweater. That’s a pretty clear message he doesn’t want a return-the-favor blow job. It’s hard for me to stand, but I manage. Once I’m on my feet, Nick kisses me. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

A couple of minutes later, he’s watching me walk to my car and I’m wondering what the hell just happened.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Racy Red Respect

Two days later, I’m pacing in front of the pretty clubhouse doors waiting for Caroline to arrive so she can unlock them. Five minutes pass and still there is no sign of Caroline.

Ten minutes more. Dare I hope a tornado has actually found her and sucked her up? And I missed it? Talk about unfair.

While I’m daydreaming about Caroline sitting atop an ugly, black bicycle as she spins through the air, Mr. Neville pulls up in his Olds. I’m sure the official name of the color is not brown, it’s probably toffee or café tan, but no marketing savvy can mask the boringness of the color.

“Morning, Hayley.”

No—‘Why are you standing out here?’ Or—‘Are you waiting outside while Caroline hangs up her cape and puts away her broom?’ Instead, he gets out of his car and smoothes his navy blue tie, which is dotted with tiny, gold anchors.

“I have something for you,” he says, swinging up the walk.

Did he read my mind back when I thought he was handsome? Instinctively, I inch backward only to bump into a post.

He pauses long enough to smile and point at the door. “Let’s go in. I know you’re going to be excited.”

I don’t want to be excited. I’d rather be annoyed by Caroline than led along by Mr. Wanna-Be Continental. “It’s locked,” I say when he reaches for the handle. But before his hand connects with the brass knob, Tony’s head pops out.

“Oh, um…hi.” He steps out, leaving the door slightly ajar and crams his hands into the pockets of his brown pants. “Looking for Caroline, Mr. Neville? She’s, um, not here.”

“She’s at a power breakfast with Management,” Mr. Neville says to Tony as he sweeps the door open and ushers me in. “Well,” he asks me, “what do you think of
it
?”

I’m on a life-size page of Where’s Waldo, only instead of looking for a jaunty fellow I’m looking for
it
. God help me, I have no idea what the man is talking about. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Neville, really I—”

“Hayley,” Tony, cuts in, “it’s gorgeous. That velvety, red fabric, ohhh, just sitting in it will be a dream. You lucky girl.”

Two thoughts pop into my head at the same time.

a) Mr. Neville has presented me with a posh crimson chair.

b) Macho Tony has not only noticed a change in office furnishings but described said change as a dream.

Mr. Neville nudges me. “Go on, have a seat. See how you like it.”

I glance at Tony who is practically drooling and slide over to place myself upon the plush, red padding.

Ohhh.

It is a dream. The honest smile that spreads across my face catches my boss’s eye.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work here at North Pointe Farms and I thought this chair would make you more comfortable”—he chuckles—“and even more productive.”

I’ve been productive? Seriously? When I start to feel like a low budget model in an office supply catalog, I hop out and wave at Tony. “You try, it’s great.”

As though realizing that he has somehow exposed a better kept quiet part of himself, Tony stiffens until I point demandingly at the chair, causing him to step over and plop into it. He nods, spins in a circle then lumbers out. “Yeah.”

For several minutes, we stare at the pretty chair, as though it has some special meaning. I suppose, for each of us, it does.