Chapter Twenty-Three
Tom let the scheduled call from Beau’s office go through to his voice mail. He had no headspace for Beau, no surety he’d have it in him to play the politics required. He’d hashed it through with Josh—there was a tone to take, a set of words to say that kept all the doors open and gave him the most leverage.
He should’ve talked to Josh about Flick. But he’d avoided it, written her off as sex on tap. Lift, hold and drop. He’d been patronizing, a fucking jerk, and Josh didn’t call him on it. And now he felt like a complete dickhead. He sent an email to Beau’s assistant to reschedule quoting a nonexistent client emergency. The emergency was all Flick.
He loved Flick, his head was full of her, his body primed to be with her, but she’d knocked him sideways with her secret confession this morning because he didn’t know that’s how she felt. Worse, he should’ve put that together, should’ve been ready. He was the planner, the strategist, the general. She was the pop-up event, the random occurrence, the black-swan rare incident, and he simply hadn’t factored for her.
And like a goddamn scorpion he’d stung her with his no-comment response.
He rubbed the spot on his chest where she’d slapped the coupon. He felt branded by it and by his failure to know what to do next. There’d be glitter in his bed, but he’d killed the sparkle of what he had with Flick.
He’d taken the thirty coupons at face value, considered them a game, the Tetris of Flick’s tenancy, when he should’ve read them as her version of a love letter.
He didn’t know what being in love with Flick meant. She’d taken over his life when he’d been ripe for rebellion, at least what passed as rebellion for him. But he’d known it was temporary and that acted like a fail-safe. He could do anything and everything with Flick because it wasn’t permanent. They weren’t in a relationship, they were roommates with benefits. It wasn’t a commitment, just a short-term hookup. Unlimited possibilities on a vacation timeline.
She would leave. He’d screw his head back on and deal with his career choices.
Except that thinking showed a superior lack of foresight. It didn’t allow for contingencies. He didn’t know he could feel this way, and the all-time, gold-class fuckup, he didn’t know what it meant.
He loved her. That was clear. She meant more to him than he ever expected. He loved Wren and Josh and Gram and his difficult goddamn father, but he didn’t want to change his life for them. He’d have to change his life for Flick, become someone other than he was. Someone who enjoyed the roller coaster, didn’t mind the wild weather and said hang the mess.
When Wren appeared in his doorway, he welcomed the distraction. “Do you come bearing a crisis?”
“No. Why?”
“You’ve got sensible shoes on.”
She lifted a foot and waggled it. “If you were wearing them you might not think so.” And wasn’t that the cherry on top; his shoe detector rationale didn’t hold either.
Wren lofted PRWeek at him, the magazine skidding off the desk onto his lap. “Page fifty-two.”
He expected a puff piece on Harry to reinforce his continued leadership of Rendel. He got Flick’s smiling face and the headline “Lobbyist Ups Stakes.”
“Good pic,” Wren said.
Flick looking brushed and polished in a navy pinstripe suit, smiling into the camera with a riot of amusement in her eyes. He scanned the story, the lines “tackle new challenges,” “inimitable negotiating style” and “force to be reckoned with” jumping out. Flick was all that, and she was brazenly honest as she knelt over him and opened her heart.
“What are you going to do about it?”
He looked up. “By do, you mean?”
“Oh, Tom.” Wren jammed a hand on her hip. “Seriously, I could slap you.”
He looked down at the magazine. “Yeah, well, get in line.” What could he do about it? He couldn’t ask Flick to stay. It was a big deal to quit and go with her, and Denise hadn’t turned up any new job opportunities, warning him it would take time and to sit tight, reminding him his best opportunity was probably to stay right where he was.
By the time he got done reading, Wren was gone, and he knew if nothing else he owed Flick his honesty, even if it meant presenting her with his confusion.
The story about Harry was on page thirteen. No confusion there.
Not knowing how to talk to Flick became a reason to work late. Like old times he was last out of the office, spending most of the day trying to convince a new client their business strategy was unfocused and doomed not to deliver the results they wanted.
The condo was distressingly dark and quiet when he got in. But it was nearly midnight and it wasn’t like Flick would be in the mood to wait up for him. There was a horrible moment that hit him like the shock of vertigo when he realized she might’ve moved out, until he turned a light on and discovered one of her scarves draped over the sectional, her black killer-heel shoes under a stool and her tablet charging by the TV.
Of course she wouldn’t leave. She didn’t have a mean streak and she wasn’t a coward. Unlike himself. He should’ve gone after her this morning, should’ve called her today, dragged her out for lunch, at a minimum come home early and cooked for her. Instead he’d spent the whole day showing her how little she meant to him and it wasn’t an accident.
It was a decision. Like avoiding Beau’s call.
Or at least a very bad default position by a man who didn’t know what to do with his career and hadn’t planned on falling in love by coupon.
He went out to the balcony to stare at the city when every fiber in his body urged him to go to Flick, but he’d given up the privilege of being in the same bed with her uninvited. Sleep would be a long time coming, and if he stayed out here too long he might meet Flick on one of her thinking-too-hard fridge raids and that would be another awful piece of planning.
She muted her phone when she went to bed, so he knew he could message her without waking her and she’d see it first thing in the morning. But what to say? What happened wasn’t a missed connection, a matter of right and wrong. It couldn’t be covered by an apology—it was more complex.
He brought up Messenger and stared at his keyboard, hoping the act of looking at the letters would prompt his brain. Nothing. In disgust for his lack of eloquence he typed, I’m sorry about how I reacted today. Can we talk?
He’d pocketed his phone when it buzzed. Flick. I’m awake, but it’s too late to talk. You don’t need to apologize.
He let go an audible sigh that was weighed down with all the reasons why Wren had wanted to slap him earlier. He wanted to slap himself. Did I wake you? Compounding my missteps.
No, and it wasn’t a misstep. I knew I was taking a risk. That’s life. Don’t beat yourself up.
Classic Flick. But he’d be happier if he could see her face. Forgiving me for being a brick wall is a brilliant strategy if you want me to feel lower than freezing. I got today so wrong.
I’m not unhappy with that outcome.
She ended the line with a snowflake plus a snow-topped mountain emoji, and it made him grunt with the irony. She hadn’t wanted to talk but she kept answering his messages. According to PRWeek, manipulating favorable outcomes is one of your strengths.
Don’t believe everything you read.
This is my problem—knowing what to believe.
He stared at his screen watching for an indication she was typing a reply. There was a long break before the three dots appeared, long enough for him to contemplate throwing his phone off the balcony. He almost did when he got her reply.
I don’t want to talk about us.
She might talk about something else, and it felt critical to him to keep that lifeline with her open. Can you give me some advice?
Go to bed.
Not come to bed. He deserved that. He typed, About a client. They’d talked work issues through often; this wasn’t such a reach if it kept her with him.
What have you got?
Medical devices company. Can’t decide which market position to take. The company had to pick a direction before Tom could help them. He was powerless to make a difference for them until they did.
Why is the decision so difficult?
No clear-cut view of the upside long-term.
Flip a coin.
That’s not your advice, is it?
Yeah. No clear upside means the downside is not making any decision, or doing something half-baked and losing momentum. If a thorough analysis doesn’t show a reliable defined benefit, pick a side and focus your energies on making that decision the best outcome.
He knew it. He’d been saying that in different ways all day. What about post-decision conflict? Blame game.
No place for it. Don’t look back. The conditions will likely have changed.
Right.
Wait. He watched the three little dots for the rest of her words and then heard them. “There’s no device company. We’ve been talking about you.”
He turned toward the sound of her voice. Havischam Medical was a real client with a real market dilemma, but she was right. He’d told his own story in the guise of the client’s problem and he hadn’t seen the parallel until now. “Ah, Flick, I didn’t realize. I’ve fucked this up again.”
She walked into the ambient light from the lamp he’d lit, hair wild around her face and shoulders, sleep shorts and a bleach-stained T-shirt. A long way from the sea-green nightdress but equally as beautiful. “No, you haven’t. I understand.”
He wanted to go to her, touch her so badly, but he didn’t deserve the comfort of that. “Don’t do that. Don’t let me off.”
“We didn’t plan this thing between us, and I spooked you.” She came closer. “We don’t know what potential there is long-term and it’s irrelevant because we’ve already flipped the coin. I’m leaving and I always was, and you’re staying because this is your home, where you’re building your career and your life.”
It was a cold, clear, emotionless analysis, but it soothed him, it gave him a sense of order, a way to evaluate what he felt. He didn’t know how this would play out in the long term and he didn’t see the upside, just the fact that they were very different, that he wouldn’t have chosen Flick, and she wouldn’t have chosen him.
He stepped in from the balcony. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Flick.” The confusing thing is that I’m consumed by you.
She looked at the ceiling. “You could’ve told me that this morning.”
“I fucked up.”
“I get that now. I thought—”
He cut her off. “Don’t. This doesn’t have to be the end of us.” They could try flipping cities, seeing each other weekends.
“I can’t do something half-baked, Tom. That’s not how I roll.”
They were separated by the coffee table; it felt like they were already in different states. “I love you, Flick.” God, how it felt to say those words, to see her face as he said them, the way her lips caught in her teeth, her eyes closed tight and then were glassy when she opened them. “I’ve never said that to a living soul. I love you and I didn’t expect it, and I don’t have any experience dealing with it, but I know it’s not enough, not on its own. For a couple to make it, they need more.” They couldn’t be Josh and Wren. “Shared life expectation. More time together living in the real world.” Not playing a coupon-based simulation.
She broke eye contact, and that infinitesimally small retreat was another shift in his balance. “I thought you might’ve gone. I would’ve chased you down to have the chance to tell you how I feel,” he said.
“Considered it. Wanted to give you time to deal with the explosion.”
“I dealt with it badly.”
“You’re here.” She looked up. “We’re talking. You’re getting there.”
“Where exactly is there, for those of us who are slow on the uptake?” Was this it, they were roommates who’d be awkward around each other again?
“We have a thing. A really wonderful thing. We didn’t expect it to happen. You feel it, I see that in you. We’re calling it love, this thing, and it’s enough for now.”
“For now?”
“We’ll always have it, but we’ve both got things we want to do, different agendas, life expectations.”
“You make that sound so rational.” He’d expected drama. Tears. To be frozen out at a minimum.
“I’m just using language you know how to process to get us to a favorable outcome.”
“Which is?” That they were talking calmly should be enough. Never would be enough.
“We have ten days left to be together. We have years ahead of us to be good friends. Neither of us is into pretending this didn’t happen or that we could stay involved long-term.”
“As easy as that?” She’d made it into a negotiation, a sensible business plan.
“Hormones can be irrational, lust can be deceiving, having a life shouldn’t be. We have coupons still to do.”
What? “You want to do the coupons?”
Her posture changed, everything about her softening, her shoulders lowered, one knee bent and her weight shifted, and only now did he recognize how tense she was. “I hate sleeping alone when I don’t have to. It’s ten days, Tom. We were having fun till I shot us in the foot—let’s enjoy being together. You’re about to have a birthday.” She pointed at the table. “Pick a damn coupon.”
In the face of her generosity, her acceptance, he could barely choose to put one foot in front of the other, to close the space between them. “You pick it.”
She bent forward to peer at the tabletop and picked up a coupon. “This one. Since Lulu’s I’ve wanted to know what your fantasy was.”
Ah, no. “Told you it wasn’t enough, that you’d need more.” That one coupon was the story of them. Not even his fantasies were big enough to contain Flick.
“I’m wrung out, Tom. I don’t go around spilling I-love-you juice everywhere on the regular either. It’s sticky and sweaty and stains. Why do you think I was still awake?”
“Plotting your revenge.”
“I had the first five scenarios down before lunchtime.” She dropped the coupon on the table. “I need a hug.”
“From me?”
“It’s not a trick question, you big lump of granite. I declared I loved you this morning and after your exit pursued by a bear I didn’t stop loving you. You’re the best friend I have sex with, it’s been a crappy day, and I need you.”
The fastest way to put a stop to the hurt he’d caused was to walk over the table, scattering the remaining coupons to get to her. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up and fantasy me.”
He stood in front of her feeling every crack and bruise, knock and splinter and concussion he’d ever received, his body aching with them. She looked up at him with a defiance that was breathtaking, but under that was a ripple of defeat he’d put in her eyes. He had a choice to make, to live in the moment with all its heightened emotion or back them away from the crumbling edge.
I’m sorry I don’t have more, can’t be more, can’t be what you deserve.
He put a hand to the back of her neck, felt the tension there and moved his thumb over the tight cord of muscle. “In my fantasy, it’s a warm night like now. It’s late and dark and we want each other. We make love on the balcony with the stars above us and the city below.”
You’d be lucky to see a damn star out there. He’d tried to make fucking her on the balcony sound romantic. After Lulu’s and Kama Sutra and everything he’d done with Flick and the confusion of this day, it was violently underwhelming.
She put a hand to his chest. “You want the thrill of being seen without the likelihood it will happen.”
He huffed a surprised gasp. She read him so well. She went to her toes and wound her arms around his neck. “It’s a warm night and the stars are so pretty and the city is asleep. I want you. Make love to me, Tom.”
He kissed her in awe and relief and fear and disappointment, and all those barrier feelings got swept aside and replaced by need and urgency and passion when she kissed him back with soft wet lips and cascading sighs and the urgent press of her body to his.
They stripped in increments, pulling at each other’s clothing, marveling at each other’s skin, stealing each other’s breath. Tom was close to forgetting the fantasy because in Flick’s arms, he had all he needed, but she pulled away and walked naked out onto the balcony.
He trailed her to the edge of the room. The whole city could see them if it looked. Take photos, shoot film. Send it live. Make them social media porn stars with pixelated bits, and strategically placed black boxes and rough humiliation deep enough to derail a career, a life. They’d both seen it happen. The up-and-coming politician, the high-profile sportsman, the business leader, the ordinary citizen caught doing an unacceptable thing, dragged down by a tantalizing slip of information, a peep at them undressed and unbecoming. Undone. Reputation torn and tattered, able to be mended but never fully repaired.
That was the risk.
Flick stood against the half wall, arms along the railing. She was exposed in ambient city lights and bathed in enticing shadows and braver than he would ever be, and he didn’t care about the downside, only about having her, making her a part of him for as long as she would grant him the privilege.
“It’s a pretty night and we should worship it,” she said, arm up to beckon him. “You have no idea how much I want this. Just looking at you. That extraordinary body. I can see the fear in you, know you want me anyway. Come get me.”
Blood thundered in his ears. He didn’t hear his own reply, but he felt the cooler night air on his skin as he stepped outside, and then the heat, the unbearably glorious silken heat of Flick’s skin as they came together. The sliding wetness of her mouth and the glistening sweetness of her core, and the way they fit, a miracle of form and fluid need that broke the logic of their badly matched physical selves and wrapped them safe and wild inside an impermeable atom of their own matter.
Flick’s first orgasm came as he took her from behind while she gripped the railing. Her second came beneath him on the sun lounge after he woke the heavens shouting her name, the roar of his voice part of the shock wave that took them both.
He carried her to bed and held her so she wouldn’t leave it. It was an act of utter futility. The real fantasy.
In the morning, she kissed his throat, delighted when his voice was more than usually husky.
“All it takes is a little semi-public nudity and nastiness to get you to shout,” she said.
That wasn’t it. What it took was how she’d accepted him, right through his dull brick-wall exterior, to his failure to love her enough. That had loosened something wound tight inside him, spooled it out like a long hike soothed his temper, cooking a meal eased his tension.
Joy made him shout. Flick was its agent provocateur, and he needed a way he could keep hold of that feeling while their clock ran down. She’d already given him the agenda.
He’d moderated his hours in the office, peeling them back as far as possible so he didn’t miss time with Flick. Wren kept giving him silly looks, which was better than when she wanted to smack him, and he took control of the remaining coupons.
He brought Flick breakfast in bed. Took her out for a picnic lunch. Laughingly failed a sixty-nine. Wrong proportions. Cornered her for a quickie before she dressed for work, and gave her a massage that went from pretend professional to spectacularly, bone-jarringly erotic. It all happened in the wrong order—the massage should’ve come last—it was a gap in his thinking because Flick always caught him by surprise.
Meanwhile he waited to hear from Denise Revero, and he didn’t miss the next call from Beau.
Despite having rehearsed the conversation, and being in a better state of mind, it didn’t quite go as planned.