Catarina

North didn’t have to work late last night or tonight. I’ve shown up at his place both nights and I didn’t find any evidence of another woman sniffing around. Besides, would he actually invite me over if he’d had another woman here?

Granted he could exclusively go to her place…

Stop. It.

I’m not doing this. I’m not letting my own article and Barrett Fox craft a conspiracy theory.

I sip my wine as North clears the dishes from a simple pasta meal that was oh-so-satisfying. It helped that he bought a baguette from my favorite local bakery. That was thoughtful. I’m stuffed, but polish off the final nub in the bread basket, dragging it through olive oil seasoned with grated parmesan and freshly cracked black pepper.

I’ve been choosing my timing carefully and now we’re both full with nothing on the agenda, no interruptions looming.

“I’ve been thinking”—I pause to drink from my nearly empty wineglass—“about us.”

“Oh?” He doesn’t look up from stacking our plates in the dishwasher.

“Yes. About our little dry spell.” I say it in a cute way so he doesn’t think I’m dissatisfied. Though…I am. Who wants to go six weeks without sex?

“Are we having a dry spell?” He clears the empty bread basket and silverware next and moves back to the kitchen. It’s a gorgeous backdrop of black cabinets and sleek, charcoal granite countertops. Him in it isn’t half bad, either…if he wasn’t being this obtuse.

“Do you remember when we met?” I stand and refill my glass as I talk. “You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

“That’s normal, Catarina. There are seasons in any relationship.”

“Don’t you find me attractive?” I strike a pose in my pencil skirt and blouse, pointing the toe on one of my shoes. I’m wearing sky-high heels, and enduring the mother of all blisters on my pinky toe for my efforts, yet he doesn’t seem the least bit moved by my footwear.

“Sweetheart, you’re beautiful.” He comes to me and lowers his lips for a kiss before resuming cleanup duty. The kiss is similar to the hundreds of others I’ve received from him, but lacks…something.

“You don’t feel the need to…look elsewhere?” I try. “For companionship?”

He frowns, slowly closes the dishwasher door, and stares at me for a long, uncomfortable beat. Then he programs the dishwasher and starts the silent, purring cycle.

“Catarina, I don’t appreciate you accusing me without merit. You’re busy. I’m busy. We’re working professionals who care about our jobs. If I had a spare moment to sleep with anyone it’d be you—not two people. Use your head, sweetheart.”

I wince when he touches his lips to my temple. That was too close to being called stupid—and I didn’t accuse him of anything.

I regroup. Take my own article’s advice. If you want sex, be bold. Don’t ask.

“We’re not busy tonight.” I leave my wineglass on the counter and go to him, draping my wrists on his shoulders. He’s much taller than me, and I suffer a little crick in my neck if I stand this way for too long, but he’s worth it. We’re worth it.

“What do you say we fool around?” I tug the knot on his tie and draw my fingers down his crisp dress shirt as his phone buzzes.

He unceremoniously lifts my arms and lets them go, walking to his cellphone on the counter.

“Who’s that?” I ask, stung. Whoever it is, they’re apparently more important than me or what I’m offering, and frankly it’s pissing me off.

His noncommittal utterings leave me with no clue of who the caller might be. He declines the call and pockets his cell.

“Who was that?”

“Maria.”

“Maria?”

“My associate. We’re working on closing the apartment building sale and it’s been a real bitch.” He straightens his tie and since I was the one who tugged it out of place that also irks me.

Is she pretty? I want to ask but don’t. It’s not like me to be needy.

“I’m going to have to cut our evening short. Looks like they’ve asked for another clause in the contract and the seller is fit to be tied.”

He grabs his suit jacket off a chair and shrugs into it.

“You’re leaving?” My dwindling control of our evening together has evaporated completely.

“We spent yesterday together.” He lowers his lips to kiss me but I turn my face so that the kiss collides with my cheek instead.

“Catarina.” He lets out a sigh of frustration but so what? I’m frustrated, too. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Lock up when you leave.”

I fold my arms and refuse to look at him.

He leaves anyway.

---

This time when Barrett rounds the corner, I’m ready for him. I arrived an hour early and set up my desk to ensure I’ll see Fox coming.

“Morning, Kitty Cat.” He surveys my new setup. I turned my desk 180 degrees so that it faces the window. “You do this all by your pretty little self?”

“You can’t sneak up behind me and I don’t have to look at you while you’re in your cubicle. Win-win.” I shoot him a sardonic smirk.

“Yes, but you also have your back to the rest of the office. Which means if Mills says anything funny, you’ll miss the joke.”

“I don’t find Mills funny.”

“Do you find anyone funny?” Before I can get offended he adds, “Is North’s middle name East? ’Cause that’d be funny. You might even manage to crack that facade of seriousness to chortle. Especially if his last name is Southwest.”

With a satisfied smile, Barrett heads to his cubicle. I realize my mistake as I sit down at my desk—now not facing his. I can’t keep an eye on him. Yet I feel the weight of his stare on my profile.

I whip around with a prepared glare to find him…bent over his laptop.

Sigh.

Maybe I imagined it.

Well, whatever. I have a job to do.

I finalize our reservations at La Petit France, which is a fancy French restaurant. According to their website, they require a jacket, only serve dinner, and every menu item is pricey and à la carte. Fine by me. Mia is paying.

I’m scrolling through the menu when Guess Who walks up and blurts, “Do they have French fries? It’s a staple of my diet.”

“I highly doubt that chiseled body sees an ounce of saturated fat,” I quip.

“You think I’m chiseled?” He pulls a hand over his button-down white shirt and stands taller, puffing his (very well built) chest.

“You know you are.”

“Judging by those legs, Kitty Cat, you do your fair share of working out.”

Since I’m turned to the side of my chair, he takes a long, slow gander down my legs.

“Runner?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” I answer, willing myself not to feel complimented.

“Those are some seriously hot shoes. How come you aren’t wearing them?”

My Jimmy Choos lay on their sides under my desk as per my habit to kick them off while I’m working.

“They’re terribly uncomfortable so I always take them off. I don’t even know when I do it.”

“You have sexy toes, so it works. The Tiffany blue polish is a nice touch. What time is our first date?” he asks. I’m still reeling from comments like “hot shoes” and “Tiffany blue” which, if I’m not hallucinating, just came out of the mouth of Barrett Fox.

“Uh…eight o’clock Saturday night.”

“Cliché but I’ll allow it. You sure South by Southwest is okay with us sharing an intimate dinner?”

“North isn’t the least bit intimidated by you. He has your number, Fox.”

Barrett only smiles. “Okay, but no phone calls after midnight. A guy’s got to get his beauty sleep.”