What. The. Heck.
It makes no sense and it’s killing me. Even if they did see each other at the event, what does it matter? I was just a date from a service.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself, but my heart tells me something else.
I went from petting zebras and eating fondue, from going to art openings and drinking Paris 75s at charity galas…to nothing. Crickets. Just me in the bathtub, on spring break, fantasizing over their jawlines and forearms, their colognes, and their muscles, waiting for my work phone to ding because we never, ever reach out to clients, I don’t even have their personal cell numbers. That’s a rule. They communicate with us through the agency. They reach out first, not the other way around. It keeps things professional, not personal.
Wonderful.
I let the water lap around my shoulders, my neck, my ears, and stare up at the ceiling. Above me I’ve hung little porcelain birds that Elana sculpted and fired, that spin when the steam from the bathtub or shower rises.
I focus on their wings. On the way they twirl and wobble.
But it does nothing to distract me from the feeling inside my heart. The truth is that I miss them. Both. So, so much.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
Stranger still, in the last week I haven’t had any agency requests at all. Not a single notification from Mr. Hale Morell Nor Flint Alford. Or, some random businessman from Cleveland in need of someone to sit by him at a work dinner. Nothing.
I grab my phone from the edge of the bathtub and poke around to see if anything is on the horizon.
Literally, genuinely nothing. My calendar unspools out in front of me, empty and unbooked.
I toss my phone on the bathmat, suck in a big breath, squeeze my eyes shut and plunge into the hot, bubbly water. The water rushes in around my ears, making me feel safe and warm and cozy. I snuggle into the bottom of the tub, then come up for a breath, and hear my phone ding.
My pulse surges and I leap out of the tub, sloshing water all over everything, like a trick dolphin at the aquarium, water dripping off me onto the bath mat as I fumble for the phone, tap-tap-tapping with slippery fingers. Bubbles crackle in my ears but I look at the screen and it isn’t Hale.
And it isn’t Flint.
It’s a new client whose name has been kept off his account. Highly vetted, background checked. And he wants to fly me to…
Puerto Freakin’ Rico?
For a week!
I snuggle down into the bath again, feeling triple-grateful that my new phone is waterproof. With just a few taps, I’m calling the agency. “Puerto Rico? For a week? And you won’t tell me his name?”
The secretary is a no-nonsense lady named Linda. Kind of a menopausal Pat Benatar. I love her. “Are you calling me for reassurance or because you’ve lost the ability to read?”
“Linda. He must have a name.”
“Yes, hon. He does. But he doesn’t want you to know it. At least until you get there. You know, some of our clients are very private.”
I blink at the bubbles between my legs and wiggle my toes against the bath faucet. “But he knows he wants me? Not just whichever girl is free?”
“You specifically. Don’t be surprised, your profile on the website is one of the most popular. That’s why we upped your fee.”
I nibble my lip, thinking it through, and consider my pruny fingertips. It is spring break. It is awful weather outside. And it is possible that I’ll never hear from Hale or Flint again…
Which makes me want to ugly cry over a pint of double-chocolate brownie ice cream.
In Puerto Rico.
“And still nothing from Hale or Flint?”
Linda sighs. “You need to stay focused, sweetie. This is a good offer. And just think…sunshine! Drinks with umbrellas! Empanadas or whatever it is they eat there! I’m sure you will be spoiled rotten, make a sack full of money and come home with a whole new attitude.”
I adjust my position in the tub and my butt squeaks ungracefully on the porcelain. I take a hot minute to think through my options.
Through Door Number One, I can go goblin mode in my apartment for an entire week with my broken heart, pining over two men who I adore but who suddenly have better things to do than see me.
Or, through Door Number Two, can carpe diem this situation, right to the beaches of Puerto Rico. As Hale said, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“You’re sure this guy is golden?”
Linda snorts. “As golden as my wedding band.”
If there are two things I know about Linda, it’s that she loves her husband and she wouldn’t lie to me. “Alright, then. I’ll do it.”
“Beautiful. Pack one small bag. I’ll email your tickets over. Flight is in three hours. Chop. Chop.”