“And so, after finding Fraser with his ‘probably not love child, but you can’t deny it looked suspicious’ situation, and after he basically told me he’d never give me all his secrets or let me into his life, I drove far away to the Venice boardwalk and had an ice cream. While having my ice cream, I looked out at the ocean and cried. The tears were partly because of the insane amounts of pot everyone was smoking, and I did get a pretty nice secondhand high. But mostly, the tears were for Fraser, because I am never going to find another man who gives me such good orgasms and such an all-around mindfuck.”

With those final words, I pick up my cupcake and toast Moira. Then, I take a bite. Let it never be said that Sprinkles can’t make a good red velvet cupcake. It’s the only thing keeping me alive at this point.

Moira sits in her office chair, her head in her hand. She swings back and forth idly, taking in everything I just said. Finally, she slides on her glasses and boots up her computer.

“While I can’t help you with the British Beefcake, I think we can file a little complaint against Gavin Grabbing Hands Walker.” The keyboard clacks as she types rapid fire, scanning the report she’s creating. “I can’t believe he tried that nonsense in the office kitchen. And I can’t believe he didn’t consider you’d come to me.”

That’s true. Moira is the sharpest eye in the HR department. These kinds of cut and dried instances of corporate creepiness are what she lives for. Most of the time, she deals with bizarre complaints. The woman who came in to complain about her cubicle mate’s Dilbert calendar was one for the books. Apparently, Dilbert is part of the oppressive cis-hetero male supremacist patriarchy. I hate that cartoon as much as the next guy, but come on.

But yes, like I said, Moira lives for having a reason to do her job. And I’m not about to try saving Gavin’s ass. Between what happened to me and how he treats poor Thea, it’s clear he’s got a problem that needs to be dealt with.

And Moira also has cupcakes on Wednesdays. I needed to make a trip down here anyway. Probably shouldn’t have waited two days, but I was a little flustered. And, in case you forgot: cupcakes. Only on Wednesday.

“Gavin believes everyone in the lit department is running scared of him.” I finish my cupcake, and toss the wrapper into the trash. “Plus, I don’t think he’s been in today.” Actually, I know he hasn’t been in, because I went to pound on his door when I came to work to demand a trial by combat, or at least a frank discussion. Lo and behold, Thea told me he hadn’t been in today. Or yesterday. In fact, he left soon after I did on Monday afternoon.

Probably knows what’s coming, the handsome jackass.

Moira’s eyebrows rise. She smirks. “Gee, wonder why he’d suddenly take a couple of sick days. He probably thinks he can slink back into the office on Friday with no consequences.” She utters a laugh that could give Maleficent lessons in evil joyfulness. “Oh, how wrong he is.”

“Out of curiosity, do you get off on this?”

“Just a little.”

My phone buzzes in my purse. I take it out, and feel the tension headache incoming. Picking up, I say hello to my mother in the best way I know. “What’d I do now?”

“Emma, how can you speak to me like that during such a time?” Man, I can practically hear her throttling herself with those pearls. Okay, to be fair to my mother, she sounds genuinely distraught. And for once in her life, it’s not because the Gelfmans dropped out of the country club or they took Dynasty off of Netflix. This time, she’s worried about her children. Well, child. Well, any child but me, really. “You know as well as I do that Lily could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Mom, Lily’s twenty-two. Not sixteen. Not twelve. Twenty-two. That means adult. She can drink, gamble, sign up for the draft if she wants.” Mom huffs at the very idea of Lily at boot camp. To be fair, that is a hilarious image. “Only thing she can’t do is rent a car without an extra fee. Which, if you think about it, is kind of weird. Apparently renting a U-Haul is more of a commitment than storming the beaches of Normandy. Now driving a U-Haul through an active war zone: that’s the greatest challenge of all.”

“I don’t have time for your bizarre ideas right now.” Mom practically wails that; shit, she really is scared. “I haven’t heard from your sister in two days.”

“Which means she’s probably getting her hair done, or at a spa, or she’s joined an all girl biker gang a la Mad Max Fury Road and is going to Valhalla. Wait. That last one’s my fantasy, never mind.” At Mom’s persistent snuffling, I close my eyes. I need to be a little nicer here. “Look. If she doesn’t call by tomorrow, I’ll go down to her apartment and check up on her. Okay?”

“Was that so hard to say the first time around?” Mom sniffles again. “She could be dating a man in retail, for all we know!”

And what a horror that would be. “Okay. I need to go now, Mom. It’s time for my afternoon session of autoerotic asphyxiation.”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Emma.” See? Moment she has what she wants, she stops listening. We hang up, and Moira looks at me over a cupcake of her own. Double chocolate with marshmallow topping. Wise woman.

“I love you, but if that last line wasn’t a joke—”

“It was, it was, don’t worry. I save all my truly dirty work for the evening.”

“I’m so relieved,” she drawls. “Look. The Phenomenal Groping Gavin aside, how are you feeling about Fraser?” She rolls away from her desk, munching carefully. “I mean, do you think you should try talking to him? Just because from what you said, he was in the middle of a chaotic situation. Kids are like monkeys: when they enter the picture, poop goes everywhere.”

I take a minute to digest that. “That’s probably the wisest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You know what I mean. Look, I have never seen you happier than when you were with him, and believe it or not, I like seeing you happy. Is there any chance you could be throwing the hot baby out with the bathwater?”

“I’ll forget you said hot baby, and think about the rest of the question.” I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Dammit. Now all I can think of is hot, manly babies, which is the creepiest thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’m including getting trapped on the Pinocchio ride at Disneyland in that category. Two solid hours stuck in Monstro’s mouth. This is why I never donated to Save the Whales.

Okay, back to sanity.

It’s been two days without Fraser, and those two days have been a huge ass slog. He tried calling me a few times, but I never picked up. It’s his voice; it’s so hypnotic that if I’m not careful, he’ll talk me into anything and out of everything I’m wearing. It’s better to remain a little clearer headed when you’re dealing with the grumpiest sex god of all time.

I miss him. There, secret’s out. I miss him and I want him back, but I can’t want that. No matter how naked or intimate we get, there’s always a part of Fraser he’s not willing to share with me. That’s a huge no-no in a relationship.

But, at the same time, I did sort of turn up at his house and yell at him to open up to me. And I did sort of imply that I thought he was capable of being an absolute dickhead of the highest order. Breaking a woman’s heart is one thing; leaving her with a sick kid is another. Could the Fraser Drake I know be capable of something like that?

No. I don’t know the whole story, but I know that’s not possible.

And I kind of told him ‘yeah, I’ll bite. You could be the biggest asshole of the century.’

I wasn’t wrong to get angry about all his secrets, but I also didn’t give him any benefit of the doubt. That had to hurt.

Maybe I should call him? But he stopped calling last night, and I get the feeling he’s not the ‘forgive and forget’ sort. His good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. And then he probably writes angry hate sex fan fiction about seeing the good opinion again in a bar one night, when that opinion is wearing a cute little cocktail dress. Then, he and the lost good opinion engage in some epic BDSM sex and a hurt/comfort fic springs up.

In conclusion, I read too much Harry/Draco fanfic back in the day, and it’s warped my fragile little mind.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but you’ve been staring at the ceiling and muttering to yourself for the last two minutes.” Moira slides her glasses off her nose.

“ Was it entertaining?”

“I’m not canceling my HBOgo subscription.” She pushes the box of cupcakes at me. “Take one more for the road.”

So I trudge back up to my desk, a strawberry cupcake in one hand, my heart in my throat, and an itch right between my shoulder blades that I can’t scratch. I’ll have to park up against a doorframe and itch myself Baloo from Jungle Book style.

But the itch I really can’t scratch is on my heart.

Both because it’s not medically safe to scratch your heart, and because Fraser Drake and I might not be able to work it out.

It’s one thing to search for love; it’s another to possibly find it, and lose it forever.

I plop back down at my desk, my appetite for cupcakes dissolved. The manuscript I’m trying to read blurs as tears fill my eyes. Dammit, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this at work. And since it’s lunch, Casey’s out. There’s no one to hand me a tissue or give me a hug. Cupcakes, hugs…why am I such a child sometimes?

Besides the fact that it’s part of my personality, I mean.

I’m blowing my nose when I hear footsteps approaching my desk. Oh, thank God. Casey’s back with a turkey sandwich and a delicious piece of advice. My favorite take out.

“Hey, thanks for.” When I look up, the words stop. In fact, my whole body freezes. I’m pretty sure I’m grimacing right now; must be a pleasant sight.

“Ms. Brightman?” she says, her voice husky and low. She looks as marvelous and well put together as ever. Well, I’ve only seen her twice, and briefly. But now that I’m getting a close, personal view, I’ve got to say: damn. This woman is hot. “I didn’t mean to show up unannounced. I just needed to clear the air.”

Gillian places her purse on top of my desk. The look in her lovely dark eyes is pure apology. I pick up my cupcake like it’s a fragile chick, and she’s a glamorous fox. No. My sugar. Not for you.

“Is it all right for us to talk like this?” she asks tentatively.

In response, all I can say is, “Hooooo.”

I’m a damn poet, and confused as all hell.