“She’s an unstable individual, Harlow.” I lean back in my black desk chair and cross my legs. “There’s no need for a face to face interview. It would be a waste of my time and the company’s.”

Harlow pushes her falling black glasses upward. “There were no red flags on her initial paperwork. She appeared to be…quirky. Insecure but not necessarily an attention seeker. ”

“Well her social media accounts, as well as her financials, demonstrate the opposite. For instance, the woman bought an alpaca six months ago.”

“There are proven benefits to housing such an animal.”

“In the middle of downtown?”

Her tiny mocha nose scrunches. “I see your point.”

“That was just the unwanted sprinkles on the cupcake. Aside from her frivolous spending, she has a long record for online tantrums that point more the direction in need of a therapist than a matchmaker.”

She nods her head in understanding. “I will file her under the declined list and have Stacey send her a courtesy email.” Harlow hands me the folder in her possession. “Here is the client you will be interviewing Thursday morning.”

“Aren’t we skipping a step here? You run the numbers-”

“Which I did-”

“Then I do the online stalking for a few days and then I decide if he or she warrants the first interview to insure they match the persona they’re presenting.”

Harlow offers me a crooked smirk. “Actually Level Three did your job already. This is technically one of their cases.”

My head falls to the side in disbelief. “What?”

“Yeah. The guy like just crossed onto the billionaire list and they want you to handle it.” She lowers her voice to barely above a whisper. “There’s talk of Scarlet retiring, which leaves a space open, so….”

“This is my audition.”

She gives me a wink.

Seriously? Moving up would be amazing. Not only for my bank account, but for my pride. I love what I do, but I always strive to be better. It’s how me and my brother were raised. Always push to be on top. Climb and keep climbing. Don’t wait or expect handouts. Work and never stop working for what you want. I stayed true to our instilled nature and he rebelled. Severely.

Harlow motions her head towards the folder. “His name is August Augustine.”

I can’t stop the sneer that slides onto my face.

“I know. Not a lottery winner in the name department, but he was an actual lottery winner about ten years ago. Made some wise and some risky investments according to accounting, which is how he increased his millions into billions. He scored quite well on his initial paperwork and according to the database, he would make a great candidate for at least ten women on our current client list.”

Opening the folder, I mumble, “That’s my job to decide.”

“And mine as well,” Harlow snips, shifting my eyes back to hers. “You’re great at what you do, Carly. Really great. But your job is not of more value than mine. The system works because it keeps the situations balanced. You can beat a test and fail an interview the same way you can fail a test and ace an interview. We are two equal parts to one whole. Please remember that the next time you choose to undermine my opinion.”

Shame slides down the sides of my neck as I drink in her distressed demeanor. Her glower is closer to vexed than livid, but her rapidly rising chest indicates I definitely kicked sand on a line I had no right to. “You’re absolutely right, Harlow. I’m sorry.”

She tips her head a little higher.

Harlow is one of the shyest women I’ve ever known. She typically keeps her face down. Focus completely devoted to work until it’s time for her to go home to her daughter. She rarely speaks unless spoken to. The level of comfort she has finally reached with me took years. She’s closed off, but possesses the same people evaluation skills I do, except hers are all on paper. She seems to have an unparalleled ability to read between the lines. Spot what’s written in invisible ink. She dissects everything, from what you convey from your word choices to the way your handwriting is slanted. Honestly, she has skills that would be ideal for some sort of criminal task force. The only conclusion I can come up with for her choosing this, rather than something for the greater good of humanity, is her daughter. Job security like this is important when you’re a single parent. Financial security is a close second. At this company? She easily has both.

“I still need to run a couple more comparison tests on the three potential matches you arranged for Hilary, but I will have them ready for you to present to her Friday morning as scheduled.”

“Thank you.”

Harlow gives me a curt nod and exits my office.

Maybe I don’t need a promotion. My attitude shifted from professional to belittling at the simple possibility of moving up.

My eyes drop down to the photo of an attractive man with a head and beard full of salt and pepper hair. He’s definitely older, but distinguished. The featured photo is of him in a simple suit showcasing a well maintained physique. Slightly impressed, I hum to myself, and continue to peruse the file I didn’t have the pressure of assembling. I spend almost an hour reading various analyses regarding his behavior along with his basics, such as where he was born and where he’s currently living.

The location information has me snatching up my office phone and dialing Stacey.

“This is Stacey.”

“Hey, it’s Carly. Quick question. The Augustine meeting. Is that here in Highland?”

“One sec.” Her fingers hit the keys with haste. “Nope. Texas. Dalvegan. Brunch at the Red Roof Tower. Eleven a.m. I’m going to send you your itinerary I just-”

“When’s my flight?”

“Thursday morning. Private. Same day turn around.”

“Can I get that changed?”

“I’ll see what I can do and what your schedule permits. What exactly do you want changed?”

“Any chance I could fly in tomorrow night instead? Come back Friday?”

There’s some typing followed by a puzzled humming. “You’ve got cocktails with JM tomorrow afternoon, but,” there’s more clicking, “I can get you on an early evening flight. Wait,” additional clicking, “Noooo. Not early evening. Just regular evening. They’ve got an opening for seven.”

Excitement starts to brew.

“But you can’t stay Thursday night. There aren’t any available flights for Friday morning that would get you back in time to meet with HS.”

“Okay,” I instantly agree. “Make that happen for me, please.”

“On it.”

The call ends and I have to dig my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from squealing.

It’s been six weeks since Dusty and I were physically in the same room. Everyone from vacation kept insisting what we had would fizzle. Thankfully, it hasn’t, but keeping it from self-destructing is more strenuous than we imagined. We’ve developed routines to keep us connected, like us talking during his drive back home to the country or timing his lunch breaks around mine for the day. We do other little things like share cups of coffee over video chats, which usually requires him to get up an hour earlier than normal, and we also send each other thoughtful gifts, like the catfish pen lying next to my keyboard. Our sex life, if we can call it that, is a different ball game all together. I enjoy watching him stroke himself for me. It makes me ridiculously wet, but he hates watching me do the same because he wants to feel my orgasm, just the sight of it is not enough. Going into this we knew distance would be difficult, not impossible. I also knew out of the two of us, I would probably be able to squeeze in a visit before him. Not only because I can afford it, but because my schedule is unpredictable, and often has occurrences like this one, where I can squeeze in personal alongside professional. And I’m always scouting for an opportunity to get close enough to call it. Two weeks ago we were looking at a man in Oklahoma. Thought for sure that would be my chance to pop down a state and see him. Unfortunately, that man was a lot like the client I rejected today. Appeared decent on paper, but not so much everywhere else. Part of me wanted to be the one to tell him his hatred of homosexuals actually stems from his own stifled desires which could be shown clearly in certain photos by the body language he was unconsciously displaying.

I spend the remainder of my afternoon familiarizing myself with the potential client and reviewing the weekly schedule Stacey updated. Like usual, I get so wrapped up in working I don’t even realize what time it is until my phone begins vibrating across my desk. The sight of Dusty’s face kicks up the corner of my lip and the butterflies that lie dormant in the pit of stomach.

Just his picture makes me as giddy as I was when we first met. Contrary to everyone’s beliefs, including matchmaker me, that hasn’t faded either.

“Hello,” I sweetly say into the phone.

“How’s my baby?” he questions warmly. “Headed home?”

“Not quite.” My elbow lands on top of the paperwork and my face plops into my open palm. “I was given a new file to look over.” The decision to tell him about my visit lingers right on the tip of my tongue. “I’ll probably stay for another hour then meet Cordie for a drink.”

Dusty sighs, “Again?”

“What do you mean again?”

“Didn’t you jus’ go out with Cordie on Friday? To some art thing for some man named Trezelle or Jermaine?”

“Treme.”

“Right. And you spent a shit ton of money buyin’ somethin’ for your library-”

“Kitchen nook.”

“And then, didn’t you and Cordie go out Saturday night? Dancin’ at some underground club? Didn’t you get too tipsy to even call me when you got home at three in the mornin’?”

My lips press firmly together in hopes of preventing an argument.

This drives me crazy. He doesn’t handle girl’s night out well. Ever. It’s jealousy at its ugliest. He hates knowing other men in the world are looking at me in the way only he should and coming onto me. He hates being states away and not able to run interference though blowing my phone up all night has a similar effect. He texts from the moment I step foot outside my apartment or office until I’m safely home. Oh, and when I put my phone on silent? He flips out, convinced I’m either looking for his replacement or dead in an ally. It’s ridiculous! It’s annoying. And it’s one of those problems that distance only makes more difficult.

“Why can’t you jus’ go home?” He continues to complain. “Do you have any idea how much money you keep throwin’ away drinkin’ like that? Eatin’ at those places and parties?”

Money is honestly one thing I never worry about. It’s also one thing I’ve learned he constantly frets over. His earnings have a way of consistently being pumped back into his family. Whether he’s helping his parents because their bills are higher than expected, or he’s treating his adorable nieces to a ‘date’ at the movies, his money rarely goes to him. We’re also at opposite ends of the spectrum there. My money goes to me. I earned it. I spend it on what I want whether it’s expensive paintings or designer attire. My parents bring in plenty of their own cash and my brother, Art….Well, when being a part time musician doesn’t pay out, he makes a withdrawal from the bank of boyfriend. I’d probably toss him a bit of cash if he asked, but he doesn’t. Too much pride. Again, something to thank our parents for.

Dusty huffs even louder, “And why you gotta go all around town danglin’ yourself?”

His follow up question gets the better of me. “Excuse me? Dangling myself?”

“What do you call it when you put on those stupid high heels and no bra?”

The stab at my wardrobe boils my blood.

“You keep buyin’ new shoes and those damn see through dresses, throwin’ away even more money like it grows on trees. You know, where I’m from women pay a lot of money to look that easy.”

My mouth bobs up and down in bewilderment. “Are you telling me I dress trashy?”

“I’m tellin’ you in the past six weeks, half that city has had a better view of your tits than I have.”

There’s no hesitation in ending the call.

I slide the device across my desk and shake my head.

No. Fuck him. I’m not going to sit around and be guilted into going home or insulted in ways I damn sure don’t deserve.

My phone starts vibrating again with his picture. The butterflies swarm again, yet die when I swallow my animosity.

Instead of dealing with his unnecessary outburst, I busy myself with putting everything away. Once the files are secure and my computer is shut down, I grab my purse, lock my office, and head out for our favorite bar, Night Heat.

As soon as I enter I spot Cordie giggling at the bar with a man in a designer suit.

This is her favorite pick up place for day to day conquests. It’s always brimming with men who have deep pockets and deeper issues. Most are looking for women like Cordie. Women that don’t mind being used for the night. Women who aren’t searching for diamond rings or whispered promises of a future. Night Heat is where people come to connect in an old-fashioned way, in a very over the top modern setting. However, unlike my flirtatious, redheaded friend, I’ve never come for the men. I’ve always come for the amazing drink prices that stretch ‘til nine and the amazing fried goat cheese balls. Any man I took home to scratch an itch my vibrator could no longer scratch was merely coincidental.

My phone vibrates once in my grasp.

Surprised to see a message from my big brother, I swipe the screen to retrieve it.

Hmm. So my boyfriend isn’t the only man on the planet currently being a dick. Maybe it’s just that time of the month for men?

I start to type back when a hand unexpectedly blocks the screen.

My eyes lift to see a light-haired male sporting an overly confident smirk and salmon-colored dress shirt. “Hey there, beautiful.”

The desire to gag is amplified.

His bold wardrobe choice paired with the smile he’s showcasing are a recipe for disaster. Once you take into account his designer shoes, his blindingly bright watch, and the amount of product in his hair, the assumptions only get worse. This is a man who makes commands, not requests. This is also a man who believes his power can and will get him anything or anyone. He’s not going to handle rejection well, and if the faint bruises on his knuckles are an indication on how he deals with his cocaine highs, which I’m assessing he has from the slightly twitchy nature and crust of dried blood on the inside of his left nostril, it’s probably going to be in my best interest to defuse this situation as quickly as possible.

“Hello,” I politely state after I’ve slid my phone into my purse. Without hesitation, I make a movement to continue my walk towards the bar. “Excuse me.”

“Now wait a minute,” he demands, blocking my path. “Why are you in such a rush?”

“Because I’m not interested and the longer we draw this out, the more humiliated you’re going to be in front of your group of friends, who are sitting to the left drinking whiskey and coke.”

He appears to be impressed by my immediate observation. “One drink. Give me a chance to change your mind.”

There’s no room for debate in my response, “No, thank you.”

Laughter from his group reaches our ears, and the grip he has on his glass noticeably tightens.

Alarm bells I’ve become more than acquainted with begin to chime.

One of the benefits of being able to dissect someone’s body language is knowing when your own life is going to be threatened. It gives you a proper, albeit short, window of opportunity to prepare for a defense or in other cases take the offense.

My voice sinks to a very low tone, “I suggest you think twice about the aggressive way you’re planning to proceed.”

He grunts, “No one tells me what the hell to do. I tell them.”

I bet he does….First with his words then with his fists.

“Now get your ass over to our table and let me buy you a drink.”

“No.”

The man snarls and makes an attempt to grab my hand. In one fluid motion, I get his pinned behind his back and a fist full of his hair. Grumbles and groans of distress linger behind his gritted teeth.

“Try to touch me again and your dignity won’t be the only thing no longer intact.”

“Problem?” a familiar voice questions.

I abandon my hold and turn to face Earl, one of the security guards. “No. I think we’re good. It was just a miscommunication. Right?”

The pink shirt man adjusts his collar. “Right.”

Earl folds his enormous dark-skinned arms across his chest. “You sure, Carly?”

My eyes steal one more glimpse of the jerk whose cheeks are now burning burgundy. With a pleased smile, I turn my attention back to the man I was smart enough to befriend years ago when we first start coming here. “Positive. Thanks anyway.”

He waits for me to dismiss myself before moving away from the situation.

To no surprise, Cordie’s flirting wasn’t affected by the small commotion I made near the entrance.

She paws at the man’s chest. “Oh, stop….You don’t really know Shemar Morris.”

“I do,” the man insists with a predatory grin. “Well, I’ve met him a couple times. He likes to grab beers from The Silver Tap Pub.”

Cordie grins at the information drop. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Huge fan of some foreign beer that only they carry in the city. He gets bottles imported for his bar at home, but when he wants it on draft, that’s where he goes.”

“Hmm….Good to know.”

Always on the hunt for the next big blog moment. Her followers love her day-to-day stuff, but live for when she runs into someone famous. This is the other reason she loves it here. People like him offer up useful tips.

“You can go now.” She shoos him away with a wave of her hand. “My bestie is here, and I’m done with you.”

His jaw cracks in surprise.

“You’re not my type,” Cordie insists at the same time she lifts her finger to grab the bartender. “I am so not into the ginger on ginger action. Buh-bye.”

The man snorts his annoyance, stands, and walks past me mumbling expletives.

She pulls her hair to the side of her face. “Hey!”

From her volume it’s safe to gather she’s at least three drinks in. “Hey.”

Ruben, the bartender, gives me a sexy smirk. “Evening, Carly.”

“Hey.”

“You want the usual?”

“Can you actually make it a double?”

He quickly nods. “Cheese balls?”

“Always.”

Ruben winks and reaches for a martini glass.

Cordie doesn’t miss the adjustment to my order. “Double? Rough day at the office?”

“More like rough evening with the boyfriend.”

“Again?” She gags. “Didn’t you two just fight like…what? Yesterday?”

“Saturday.” All of sudden, I recall the tantrum he threw the following morning as well. “And Sunday morning.”

“That’s practically yesterday.”

Rather than retort, I watch Ruben make my drink.

She’s really no better than Dustin. He’s overly concerned I go out too much, and she’s pissy because we “go out less”. The truth is we don’t, I just happen to call it a night earlier now. It’s my way of compromising. I love when we hang out here or go dancing for a couple hours, but my mornings start early and having to call my boyfriend at 2 a.m. on the weekend makes me feel like an asshole. But staying home sulking isn’t for me either. Time out with my friends is healthy! He has time out with his brother and, occasionally, Shawn from work. I don’t flip out. I don’t even bat an extra eyelash. Maybe he doesn’t trust me?

The moment the drink lands in front of me I sigh, “Thank you.”

“Hope it lifts your spirits, especially since I’m only charging you for a regular.”

“You’re a saint.”

Ruben chuckles, “Who needs a big tip.”

“I’ll be your tip,” Cordie coos at him.

He gives her a small smile, shakes his head, and strolls off to where he’s being summoned.

My glass barely reaches my lips before Cordie’s snapping, “What the hell is Cowboy Clingy’s problem now?”

I have a sip rather than answer.

Venting to Cordie about my relationship problems is a last resort. Audrey is more understanding, though ever since we’ve been back from vacation she’s fallen into a semi depressive state. I try to avoid troubling her or even bringing him up. As far as my other couple of friends, they’re all happily married with kids, which is not quite the level I’m at yet. If Dustin keeps this up we won’t make it to having kids….

Feeling my phone vibrate in my purse again has me chugging the drink down a little faster.

“Ooooo,” Cordie taunts. “Must be bad if you’re taking it back like that. What’d he do!?”

With my glass half empty, I finally place it down, to double check it is him who is bothering me and not my brother needing something in addition to a bed for the night.

The sight of nine unopened texts and four missed calls tempts me to reply.

Damn right he was out of line!

I let my shoulders drop.

Doesn’t excuse his behavior, but it damn sure explains it.

“Oh no,” Cordie grouses. “Don’t forgive him that easy.”

Fear over the idea she can see my messages causes me to turn off the screen and place it back in my purse.

“At least make him sweat a little. Whatever he did was harsh enough to warrant you ordering a double.” She lifts her own martini to her lips. “What I really wanna know is how long you two think this shit is gonna keep going?”

“Not this again,” I sigh, lifting my eyes up to the sky. “Definitely not today.”

“I’m just saying!”

“You’re always just saying.”

“Come on, you’re gonna end up seeing each other like what, four times a year? Maybe at holidays? Maybe at birthdays? What kind of relationship is that? And be honest, you know of those four times, it’s probably going to be you paying for everything! He’s broke-”

“He’s not broke, Cordie.”

“He’s fucking close enough.” She has another slurp. “Where does all of his fucking money go? Gambling addiction?”

“His family.”

“So he comes from a broke as fuck family? Is that really any better?” She doesn’t pause in her rant. “Not to mention he’s a fucking control freak. He expects your entire life to revolve around your phone just because his does! Um…newsflash backwoods boy! There’s actually other shit to do in the city unlike where you live.”

Her hateful tangent expands the knot in my throat.

Maybe this is really why he hates me going out with her. Because her fickle feelings are blatantly transparent. Apparently, he was fine to party with for a few days on an island, but not to date seriously. He’s okay to go home to at night when she’s got a bed pal, but is a buzz kill when she needs someone to distract her target’s needy best friend. Most days she stands by her idiotic prediction that her and I will run into some random dude wearing an expensive suit and he’ll be the one to sweep me off my feet. Thing is…I’ve already been swept off of mine by an extremely sexy country man who’s just as miserable away from me as I am him.

“And-”

“Enough,” I grumble, reaching for my glass.

“But-”

“I said enough, Cordie.”

She furrows her eyebrows.

“I get it. You don’t like Dusty, but I do. I love him.”

“You-”

“No, Cordelia. I do. This isn’t just a vacation romance that’s gone past its expiration date. This is something very real and very strong and for once in your selfish existence, you’re gonna have to learn to give a little support or shut the fuck up.”

A stunned expression appears on her perfectly painted complexion.

“Being apart from Dustin is hard enough without a best friend babbling on hatefully in your ear because she thinks she’s lost a wingman.” I have a minor sip. “I’m still here. I still meet you for drinks and dancing and uppity charity galas. I’m still by your side when you need me, so grow up, and be there when I need you, too. Like now.”

She swallows her shame and briefly looks away. When our eyes meet again, she asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Everything….I’m angry because he took his frustrations out on me. I’m sad because I can’t physically be there for him when he’s clearly having a shitty day. I’m excited about potentially moving up at work and the fact I’ll actually get to see him tomorrow night for a few hours, which he doesn’t know yet because he took his frustrations out on me, which leads me back to being angry.” My glass soars to my lips for another drink. “How’s your day?”

She gives me a shrug. “Uneventful in comparison, for sure. Wanna keep venting?”

My face angles skeptically at her.

“Judgment free. I swear.”

The look remains.

“Seriously. You rarely go all Huffy the Emotional Slayer on me. On the rare occasions you do, I know you mean it. You’re right. You’re always here for me, so go ahead. Sing like a canary. Tell me everything, and afterwards we’ll go buy you a sexy new pair of panties from Clara’s Culotte for your visit.”

Her suggestion is overheard by Ruben who is placing down our order of fried goat cheese balls. “You should get them in red. Men like red.”

Cordie flirts, “That explains their interest in me.”

I roll my eyes.

“Trust me. My wife bought some lingerie in red and it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen her wear.”

“Ugh,” my best friend huffs at the same time she reaches for one of the balls. “I always assumed you never hit on us because you were gay not married.”

He lightly chuckles. “Never good to assume things, gorgeous.”

His point shifts my attention back to where my phone is lighting up again.

Man’s got a valid point. Dustin’s assuming every time I go out we’re into some sort of trouble, and I’m starting to assume it means he doesn’t trust me. We have to both stop. Talk. Discuss these things rationally. Maybe it’s something we need to do face to face. Maybe saying what I need to, while physically being able to touch will help soothe some of his fears. I don’t blame him for having them. I blame him for the way he handles them. Guess my visit tomorrow won’t be all sex and sunshine….