Mr. Right There All Along Page 12

  “Well, for a while when you guys were in middle school and high school, I thought maybe Simon was interested in you. In fact, I thought Mom and Dad were nuts for letting him spend the night in your bedroom.”

  “He was upset and he slept on the floor.”

  “Still. He was a teenager. You were a teenager. Raging hormones and all. Kids nowadays hook up for kicks.”

  “You sound like Mom.”

  “That’s because I’m a mom.” She huffed. “My children aren’t going to be left alone with members of the opposite sex until they’re, like, thirty.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Frannie ignored her and, unfortunately, got back to the subject that was making Chloe increasingly uncomfortable. “About you and Simon, every now and then when the two of you were in college, I thought I saw a glimmer of something pass between you. A look, a smile. But—” she sighed “—nothing ever came of it. Didn’t you ever think about him in that way?”

  “No! Never.” A time or two. Maybe more. And too many times to count lately.

  Frannie’s laughter halted Chloe’s musings. “Your long-term platonic relationship completely disproved my husband’s theory, by the way.”

  Chloe was probably going to regret this, but she asked, “What’s his theory?”

  “That a man and a woman can’t be just friends unless, well, either the guy is gay or the woman is really ugly.”

  “Simon’s not gay!” Chloe shouted, incensed on his behalf. Then, incensed on her own, she added, “And I’m not ugly.”

  “Which is why it shot Matt’s theory all to hell.”

  It was time to change the subject. She worked up a wounded tone, hoping to put Frannie on the offensive. “You guys talk about me? Thanks. It’s so nice to know my life is fodder for conversation in your home.”

  “We don’t talk about you in a mean way,” her sister soothed. But like a dog with a bone, Frannie wasn’t letting go. “It’s just that we do find it odd, Chloe. You date loser after loser and, in the meantime, you and Simon are both single and, well, the guy is hot.”

  Red alert! Red alert! Change the subject fast!

  Unfortunately, Chloe’s mouth ignored her brain’s request. “You think Simon’s hot?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I…I…he kissed me,” she blurted out. She reached for a throw pillow and whacked herself on the side of the head with it.

  “Oh, my God! When did this happen?”

  She decided to go with their most recent lip lock. “Today. In his office.”

  “Let me get this straight. You went to see him for reassurance after the salon fiasco and there you were, all neon orange and everything, and he…he kissed you?”

  “That about sums it up. Yes.”

  “Describe the kiss.”

  Chloe held the phone away and pressed her face in the pillow so she could scream. To describe the kiss, she would have to think about it. And she’d been doing her damnedest not to.

  “Chloe? Are you there?”

  She lowered the pillow and returned the phone to her ear. “It was a kiss, Frannie. Surely, you’ve engaged in a few of those over the years.”

  Her sister wasn’t dissuaded. “There are kisses and there are kisses.” And wasn’t that an understatement? “Describe it. In detail.”

  “He, um, came around his desk and…and he, um, pulled me in his arms.”

  “Where were his hands?”

  Not where Chloe wanted them, she thought now. A moment ago, she’d been freezing. Now, she tossed off the throw and began fanning herself. “They were on my upper arms.”

  “Mmm. Sounds forceful. Like he meant business.”

  I think you’ve been perfect all along.

  The words that had preceded the kiss echoed in Chloe’s head now, throwing off her heart’s steady rhythm.

  “Did this kiss involve tongues?”

  “God. I mean, what are we? Twelve?”

  “I have two pre-schoolers and a husband whose idea of foreplay is to give them Popsicles and lock our bedroom door. Indulge me and answer the question.”

  It was the first inkling she had that her perfect sister’s life wasn’t as perfect as she’d always assumed.

  “Fine. Yes. It involved tongues, Frannie,” she said impatiently. “It was an adult-variety kiss.”

  “How was it?”

  Friends don’t kiss like that.

  “It was…it was…”

  Before she could finish, a crash sounded in the background, followed by a child’s shrill scream. “How in the heck did you get up on the refrigerator?” Chloe heard Frannie holler. Then, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back after Matt gets home. I want to hear everything!”

  She hung up even before Chloe could say goodbye.

  Just after six that evening, the bell rang. All Chloe could see when she glanced through the peephole were flowers. Her heart did a funny flip and roll, only to drop into her stomach when she opened the door and found it was a deliveryman holding the bouquet.

  The young man’s eyes widened and he did a double-take. She could guess why. “Uh, Chloe McDaniels?”

  “That’s me.”

  “These are for you.” He all but thrust the roses into her hands and then backed away. “Hope you’re feeling better soon.”

  At least he hadn’t said rest in peace, she decided as she closed the door. The roses were white and smelled as lush and gorgeous as they looked. The card tucked inside the blooms included two words and no signature. But she knew who’d sent them.

  Forgive me?

  Of course Chloe forgave Simon. She just needed to figure out for what. That was why she didn’t call him that night. She didn’t know what to say.

  She was at work the next day when a second bouquet of flowers arrived. Another dozen, long-stem white roses bearing the same two-word question on the card. She couldn’t continue to ignore Simon. So, she picked up the phone and dialed his office. His secretary put her through immediately.

  “Hi. How are you?”

  “Okay.” How odd it was to feel tongue-tied and awkward around Simon.

  “I’m glad you called. I was getting worried.” He cleared his throat then. “Should I be worried?”

  “No. But I am a little confused. What exactly do you want me to forgive you for?”

  “I overstepped the bounds of our friendship.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I lied to you.”

  “About?”

  “It wasn’t a damned life lesson. I mean, I wanted you to start seeing yourself as others see you, but that wasn’t the reason I kissed you.”

  She pressed the receiver closer to her ear and wished for some privacy. Even a damned cubicle would be better than the open office she shared with three other graphic artists.

  “Why did you?” she asked in a voice just above a whisper.

  He was silent a moment. Then, “Can we just forget it ever happened?”

  She wasn’t sure whether to be insulted, hurt, relieved or mad. “That’s not exactly an answer to my question.”

  “I don’t want anything to change between us.”

  That wasn’t really an answer, either, but she let it go. She had to since, when she glanced up, she spied Mr. Thompson making a beeline for her desk. “I’ve got to hang up.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “Yes. Um, no. We’ll talk another time, promise. But I can’t right now. My boss is heading my way.”

  “Dinner tonight?” Simon pressed.

  “Sorry. I’m working late. We have a big project that just came in requiring a quick turnaround.”

  “Please tell me you’ll at least be getting paid over time.”

  It was put a little more nicely than his earlier assertion that she was letting Mr. Thompson treat her as a doormat.

  “I’m being a team player,” she whispered into the phone. “Rumor has it there may be another full-time position opening up.”

  “That rumor always starts circulat
ing when Mr. Thompson needs you to do him a favor.”

  He was right, of course. “I’ve gotta go.” She slammed down the phone and beamed a grin at her portly boss. “I’m nearly done with the mock-up of that menu you wanted.”

  “Terrific.” He nodded a moment before frowning. “Are you feeling okay, McDaniels? Your color is a little…off.”

  Chloe nearly laughed. Off was a compliment at this point after the rigorous scrubbings she’d endured during the past twenty-four hours. That morning, after another go at it with a loofah, she’d opted for long sleeves and pants despite the ninety-degree temperature outside. And she’d slathered a heavy layer of foundation over the raw skin of her face with the end result being a complexion that was more tomato than orange.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Thompson. Just hard at work.”

  “Pace yourself. It’s going to be a long day and an even longer evening.”

  “I thought you said we’d be out of here by seven?”

  “That was before I remembered that my wife has a dinner party planned. I’ve got to leave by four. Stevens and Fournier,” they were two of the other full-time graphic artists, “will be here until five.”

  “Five?” That was their normal quitting time.

  “They have family obligations.”

  “That just leaves me and…” She glanced across her desk at the pasty-faced guy who’d beaten her out for the last full-time spot. “Gallagher.”

  “You can handle it. You’re both hard workers.”

  The only difference being that, as a full-timer, Gallagher had better benefits and paid vacations.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, McDaniels.”

  “Offer me a full-time job and you may never have to find out.”

  She’d said the words so often in her head it took her a moment to realize she’d said them out loud. Instead of being mortified or unsettled, she felt empowered.

  “You’re such a kidder, McDaniels.” He laughed so hard his jowls shook.

  This was her chance. She could join in and pretend it had been a joke rather than a quasi-threat. Doormat. Or she could hold firm.

  “Actually, I’m serious. You keep promising me full-time and telling me I’ve earned it.”

  “You have. You have. But no positions are available. I want to expand, but, right now, with the economy…” He lifted his shoulders. “You know how it is.”

  What she knew was that she was no longer willing to settle for the status quo. “But I’ve heard talk there would be a full-time position opening up if you sign this new account.”

  “I don’t know how those crazy rumors start.”

  Simon’s words came back to her. “I think I do.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Nothing.” She pushed her chair back from her desk and rose to her feet. “I can’t stay, Mr. Thompson.”

  He blinked. “You can’t…you have to!”

  Across from her, Gallagher’s pasty face turned a ghastly shade of green that almost made Chloe’s tomato complexion attractive.

  “I’m just a part-timer. I’ve already hit my quota of hours for the week.”

  “Fine. I’ll pay you overtime.”

  His offer represented a victory. Oddly, it was no longer enough. “No.”

  She bent over to switch off her computer and then gathered up her purse.

  “I’ll give you a dollar an hour raise.”

  Another victory. Yet it too fell short. “Thanks. But no.”

  “You can’t just walk out.” He cleared his throat and his tone turned stern. “I’ll fire you if you leave.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “I’m glad you’re seeing reason.”

  His smile was smug, making it all the easier for Chloe to inform him, “I quit.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Most Likely to Succeed

  CHLOE DIDN’T HAVE much to take with her, which made clearing out her desk easy. One box of miscellaneous junk, a half-dead potted ivy and the flowers Simon had sent and she was ready to go. A sputtering Mr. Thompson followed her all the way downstairs to the door that led to the street.

  “You’re going to regret this,” he warned.

  “Perhaps. But I think I’d regret staying even more.”

  It was an exit made for Hollywood. She swore she heard music swell in the background as she turned and walked away with her head held high, her face aglow with as much dignity as manufactured melanin. When she reached the entrance for the subway, however, reality set in. As much as Chloe had wanted to pump her fists in the air like Rocky Balboa a few moments earlier, now she wanted to curl into a fetal position and begin sucking her thumb.

  Oh, my God! What have I done?

  She pulled out her cell phone. The first person she thought to call was Simon. She went with Plan B and dialed Frannie instead. She knew it was a mistake even before her sister launched into lecture mode.

  “You didn’t!” Frannie didn’t say it with “you go, girl!” admiration, either. Rather, her tone asked “Are you crazy?”

  Chloe went on the defensive. “Mr. Thompson takes advantage of me on a regular basis. And I let him. Until today.” She balanced the box on one hip and shifted the phone to her other ear as people streamed around her to go down the steps to the subway platform. “Well, I’ve had enough of it.”

  “Fine. Fine. Meanwhile, a few dozen other graphic designers will have their resumes on his desk by this time tomorrow, all of them eager to be taken advantage of.”

  Chloe pictured Frannie using her fingers to make annoying imaginary quote marks.

  She was saying, “What are you going to do now? Hmm? How are you going to pay your bills?”

  “The same way I was paying them before. Just barely.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Nor is your appalling lack of support.”

  “Well, excuse me for being a realist.” Frannie’s sigh was both exaggerated and dramatic. “Mom and Dad are going to be so disappointed in you.”

  Chloe sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Frannie always did this. Whenever she wanted Chloe to toe the line, she played the “parental disappointment card.” Damn her. It always worked. Fear and a good dose of guilt already were making Chloe’s stomach churn like a blender.

  She fought back a wave of nausea.

  “I’ll have a job before they find out. Unless you tell them, that is.”

  “I won’t lie to them.”

  “How is it lying when they don’t know?”

  “They’re our parents.” Frannie’s tone turned self-righteous when she demanded, “Do you have any idea of the sacrifices they’ve made?”

  What that had to do with Chloe quitting her job, she wasn’t sure. It’s not like she was planning to move back to Jersey and take up residence in her old bedroom. Her stomach did a slippery turn and roll anyway.

  “I’ll have a full-time job soon enough, one where I’m compensated appropriately for my skills and where my work ethic will be appreciated rather than exploited.”

  A passerby overheard her comment and gave Chloe a thumbs-up.

  The theme from Rocky echoed in her head only to come to a screeching halt when her sister said, “That’s a fine speech, Chloe. Tell it to your landlord when you can’t scrape together the rent.”

  Suddenly, Chloe could picture herself back in her old bedroom, not only as a twenty-eight-year-old screw-up returning to the nest, but as a dried-up old spinster, the highlight of whose week was a new booklet of Sudoku puzzles.

  “God, help me,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  Instead of replying, Chloe hung up. The move wasn’t so much one of defiance as practicality. She was going to be sick.

  On the bright side, she was eating light these days. On the not-so-bright side, she was standing on the street and the only thing to retch in was the box from her office. She was able to spare the bouquet of flowers. But both the box and the sorry-looking plant were dumped in the next garbage can
Chloe found after she bypassed the subway entrance.

  Instead of heading going home, she hailed a cab and gave the driver directions to Simon’s apartment.

  She needed him.

  She told herself she was being foolish. She’d already told him that she would be working late. He probably was out with other friends for dinner or flying solo. Guys could do that without looking either desperate or pathetic. A woman seated alone in a restaurant? Whether or not it was the case, she might as well be holding a sign that read “I’ve been stood up.”

  Or he could be out with a woman. Worse, he could be in with one. The perky new receptionist from his office building came to mind. Chloe thought she might hurl again.

  “I should call him.”

  “Did you say something, miss?” The cabdriver asked in a heavy Indian accent.

  “No. Well, yes.” She waved a hand. “But I’m talking to myself. I’m not crazy,” she hastened to assure him. “I’m just…never mind.”

  “Okay.” The once-over he gave her in the rearview mirror told her he wasn’t quite convinced.

  Two blocks later, she was talking to herself again. “I’m leaving it to fate.”

  “Fate, miss?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “If he’s not in, I’ll simply have you take me to my apartment, where I’ll pass the evening. Alone. With my cat.”

  “Very good.”

  Easy for the cabby to say. He didn’t know her cat. Please, God! Let Simon be home.

  Mrs. Benson answered the door. The older woman was holding her purse, clearly ready to call it a day. Even so, her smile remained in place at Chloe’s unexpected intrusion. And, if she noticed Chloe’s unnatural color, she didn’t let it show.

  “Good evening, Miss McDaniels. Mr. Ford didn’t tell me you would be dropping by.”

  “I…I didn’t know myself. I was just…in the neighborhood and thought I’d take a chance.” She waved the bouquet. “Is he in?”

  “He just arrived a few minutes ago.”

  “Fate,” Chloe whispered. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come in and make yourself at home. Can I get you a cocktail?”