by Hart, Taylor
His answer was one word: “Latex.”
Not what she expected to hear. “What’s wrong with latex?”
They’d reached a grove of pines, where he stopped. She leaned against one of the trunks with branches that began above her head. Eric stepped close, which made her stomach flip deliciously.
“Allergies to latex,” he said. She almost asked what he was talking about; his nearness had chased away the thread of conversation. But he went on, clarifying. “It’s not a common allergy, but it’s a deadly one. So balloons are banned from most hospitals.”
“Isn’t there an alternative?” she asked. “Can you imagine how much sick kids would love to get a balloon dog or crown?”
“I wish,” Eric said. “Typical balloons are latex. Those big silver ones are mylar.”
“And those don’t work.”
“Right.”
“What about vinyl?” Lauren couldn’t let the thought go. Now that she’d seen Bow Tie in action both at the hospital and at the monument, she couldn’t stop imagining him doing balloons in a hospital.
“There are some vinyl balloons, but they don’t work either. They’re the ones attached to a stick. They look more like lollipops than balloons.”
“They don’t have the flexibility of latex.”
“Exactly.”
“There’s no latex alternative?” she asked. When he shook his head, she said, “That’s crazy.” Her mind drifted into that magical realm it hadn’t been to in a couple of years, the one she’d missed so much: the place of wishes and daydreams and creativity. Of what-ifs.
“Um, earth to Lauren?” Eric was waving in front of her face with a bemused smile. “You okay?”
She blinked, snapping herself out of her reverie. “Yeah. Sorry.” She grabbed his hand with both of hers, holding it tight in her excitement. “Why hasn’t anyone invented a latex alternative for clown balloons?”
“Twisting balloons,” Eric provided. He shrugged. “Maybe it can’t be done.”
“Or maybe no one thinks it would be profitable.”
“It probably wouldn’t,” he admitted. “Finding a substitute just for clowns to use in hospitals wouldn’t exactly be a big moneymaker.”
Lauren felt a thrill go through her, one she hadn’t felt since she’d found the perfect composition for Vista’s concealers. “Who cares if it makes a ton of money or not? It would make children smile and laugh. It could make sick adults happy too. Aren’t there studies that show how laughter and joy can speed up the healing process and reduce mortality rates?”
Eric looked at his hand held in her smaller ones and chuckled. “You’re the scientist. You’d know better than I would.”
“Think of it: a latex-alternative could help children all over the world!” In her excitement, Lauren released his hand and slapped his shirt with her open palms.
The contact with his chest made her stop breathing for a second. She froze, which meant her hands were still on his chest. She both wanted to tear them away and leave them there for as long as he’d let her. It had felt like such a natural action to do, as if they’d been friends for a long time. As if they knew each other much better than they did.
In a half panic, she pulled her hands back and lowered her gaze to the forest path they stood on. What were you thinking? she chided herself. You don’t touch anyone like that when you’ve barely met. She toed the pine needles around her feet, terrified of looking up and seeing his face, dreading an expression of awkwardness, or worse, one of amusement.
He reached down and took her hand. He held it up, between them, and she couldn’t help but look at their entwined fingers and watch his thumb rub the side of her finger in a gentle, warm motion. He stepped closer, pinning their hands between them. Now she could feel his chest again, separated from her hand by a little fabric. Another zip of electricity coursed through her.
He didn’t speak. Lauren didn’t know if she wanted him to. He didn’t step away. She was very glad of that. He released her hand and put both of his on either side of her waist. She placed her open palms on his chest again, this time detecting a quickening in his pulse. Could he hear her racing heartbeat? It seemed to thunder in her ears.
For a moment they stood together, both somewhat breathless. The only sounds were far-off traffic and a squirrel scurrying up a tree. Eric scooted closer. The toe of his leather shoe moved pine needles with it and sent a tiny pebble skittering away. His second foot followed the first, leaving a similar trail behind it. He was much nearer to her now, so much so that she couldn’t see the forest floor between them anymore.
Their bodies touched, and her elbows bent between them. She could smell his aftershave, and her insides spun and jumped. Come even closer. She sent the wish silently into the air.
He must have sensed her wish. While he technically didn’t step closer, he closed the distance between them another way. With one hand, he touched her chin, making her look up. Suddenly their noses were touching. Her breath caught as she got lost in his coffee-brown eyes, until they closed and he tilted his head just a little. She closed her eyes too, instinctively running her palms up his chest and then wrapping her hands around his neck.
The next thing she knew, the blue fairy butterfly was being kissed—once softly, twice a little longer, and the third time, quite thoroughly—by Bow Tie the clown in the shadow of the Sibelius Monument.
After the kiss ended, Lauren couldn’t have remembered her own name, let alone the name of the company she’d founded. Or remember that she had a company. All that existed was the pine tree behind her, its needles below, and the toe-curling, life-altering kiss she’d just had.
Eric’s brown eyes squinted slightly at the corners as he smiled. “I’ve never done that as Bow Tie.”
When she’d kissed him, she hadn’t thought about the clown makeup. He’d just been Eric, the amazing man who had a remarkable heart and happened to be employed by a jerk.
He rubbed a thumb against her lower lip; she nearly leaned in for another kiss, but he said, “I got some makeup on you. I’ve got some wipes from my bag to take it off.”
She laughed as her hand came up and touched her lips, which still tingled. “I’ve never gotten makeup on myself when kissing a man.”
“Another first.” He zipped open a pocket and drew out a travel pack of makeup wipes.
She took it and, looking into her phone camera, worked on wiping off the smear of makeup, taking care to not ruin the blue butterfly design.
He looked around them. “Is there a restroom or something nearby? I’d like to get out of this getup.”
Lauren handed the wipes back. “I’ve seen a building a little down that way. I think it’s a museum or something. It probably has a restroom.”
Before long, they found the little building, which might have served as a house a hundred years ago. They went inside, and Lauren used one of the handful of Finnish phrases in her arsenal to ask for a restroom.
The fiftyish man inside guided them to a single door down a narrow hall. Lauren thanked him as he walked away. Eric opened the door to reveal a tiny closet of a restroom with barely enough space for a toilet and sink.
Eric looked inside and at the door. “No hook. Could you watch my bag? I’ll just bring my street clothes in.”
“Sure.” Lauren took the bag from him and held it open as he fished out his clothes from the bottom of the bag. The plastic sack of balloons fell to the ground. Lauren reached down to pick it up, but so did Eric. They bumped into each other, which sent the bag flying from her grip and its contents spilling across the slightly warped wood floor.
“Whoops,” Eric said, holding an armful of clothes as he looked at the mess, with no free hands to address it.
“No worries,” Lauren said. “Go change. I’ll clean it up.”
“Thanks. Be right back.” Before he stepped inside, though, he stared at her for a second, a gaze that sent her middle fluttering like butterflies—she pictured blue ones, like the one he’d painted on her
. He leaned in for a brief kiss. Afterward, she pulled back, a grin on her face.
“Go. Change,” she said, shooing him playfully. “And take off that makeup so I can kiss you without getting it on myself.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Your wish is my command.”
After he slipped into the restroom, Lauren knelt to clean the mess. The bag of balloons had opened, so she gathered them up and made sure the zip enclosure was secure before plopping it into Eric’s bag. She reached for his wallet next, which had fallen open. She idly wondered if his driver’s license picture would be awful like most people’s, or if he was even capable of being unphotogenic.
The picture was a good one. He was much cuter in person, but it wasn’t the washed-out mugshot-looking thing most people had on their licenses. As she moved to close the wallet, the name beside the picture caught her eye.
Frederick Howard Carmichael III.
Her brow furrowed, and her head came up. She stared at the bathroom door, confusion spiraling around her head. She raised the wallet and read the name again. And a third time, as if she could will the name, and the horrible truth it implied, to change.
Eric was Carmichael? He was the billionaire trying to partner with her company? He was the one wanting to relocate it and lay off her employees? He was the one who didn’t want to continue Vista’s humanitarian efforts?
How. Dare. He. She snapped the wallet shut, her middle roiling as if it contained boiling oil. She shoved the wallet into the bag and then reached for his phone, which had fallen next to the wallet. Several texts had come in from someone named Mark, but without Eric’s password or face to scan, she couldn’t see anything but the notifications on his phone.
Rather, Carmichael’s password or face, she thought with growing dismay. Not Eric’s. Nausea washed through her.
She shoved the phone into the bag, then pulled out more of the wipes to get rid of anything that might be left on her face from the makeup—and Eric’s kisses. Carmichael’s kisses.
She’d kissed Carmichael. She’d wanted to explore a relationship with him. She’d pitied him for being employed by an out-of-touch billionaire.
He’d lied to her. Not once, but again and again.
What a fool she’d been.
As she tried to straighten out the past two days—meeting him at the airport, and then that morning’s hours-long meeting—the door opened.
“Hey, is my wallet out here?” Eric asked. “I think it fell out of my pocket.”
“Yeah. I saw it. It’s in there.” She unceremoniously shoved the bag into his chest, hardly waiting for him to grab it before stalking off.
She didn’t look back, and when he called her, she ignored it. At the entrance of the building, she wished the man a nice day, wrenched the door open, and walked through, then pulled it shut hard behind her.
Let Carmichael find his own way back to whatever expensive hotel he was staying in. He could find a Lyft or something. Or walk. Or he could figure out the transit system without her. One thing was for sure: she wouldn’t be the one helping the two-faced, lying—
“Lauren!”
Crap. He’d followed. She didn’t turn around, just continued down a path that she figured would lead her back to Micheleninkatu. From there, she could get back to busy, narrow streets and lose him quickly. She’d never have to deal with him again.
Except she did. As Carmichael, he had all of her information, and they had a meeting in the morning. She swore under her breath and went from power walking to running.
Unfortunately, Carmichael was in good shape and had longer legs; he could eat up distance far faster than she could. Suddenly, he was jogging at her side. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She was about to burst into a sprint, but he ran ahead and stopped right in front of her, blocking her way. “Please talk to me,” he said, breathing harder.
Without a word, she went around him and kept walking. He tried to keep up, walking backward. His heel caught a tree root, and he nearly biffed it. He caught himself and turned around, now walking fast at her side. “Did you get some bad news? What’s wrong? You can tell me.”
At that, she stopped dead in her tracks. He did too, looking stupidly hopeful.
“I can tell you? Really?” Lauren said, arms folded. She couldn’t believe the irony. “That’s such a relief, Frederick.”
Eric’s mouth opened as if to try to convince her, but he remained silent.
“Do you deny lying to me?” She waited a couple of seconds for an answer, but he seemed at a loss as to what to say. He also looked in pain, and her heart twinged the slightest bit. She put up the wall again. “Are you really Carmichael?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Yeah,” she said. “I thought so.” Disgusted, she spun around and once more headed toward Mechelininkatu, which buzzed with traffic. Fury blazed through her.
“I can explain!” he called after her.
She yelled back to him over her shoulder. “Explain to my lawyer. I don’t do business with liars.”
I don’t date them, either.
A bus was just arriving at a nearby stop. She hopped aboard without checking where it was headed. It didn’t matter; eventually, all busses went to the train station. From there it was a short walk to her office. The look on the driver’s face when she boarded reminded her of the blue makeup she wore, and she blushed.
She took a window seat, glad that the local culture made it unlikely that anyone would sit beside her, then rummaged through her purse for a wet wipe, which she tore open and scrubbed over her face. Then, with her forehead against the cool pane, she closed her eyes, wishing away the ache of disappointment and embarrassment seeping into her bones.
She’d been so stupid to fall for a con man. To think she’d wished, even for a moment, that she could partner with Eric, who turned out to be the real Carmichael.
No, she wouldn’t go back to the office tonight. She had to get away from work. She hopped off the bus near a metro station and rode it to the market square, where she bought new potatoes and fresh fish at the open-air market and rye bread from the old market hall. With her purchases in tow, she headed for Katajanokka, the island where her cottage awaited. As soon as she stepped onto the bridge, she took a deep breath and let it out. She was almost home.
She’d definitely be taking an extra-long sauna tonight.
The following morning, Lauren woke up with a raging headache left over from the previous night’s angry cry. The long sauna had helped, but it hadn’t been able to release the tangle of emotions in her chest. Only time could do that. And copious amounts of Fazer Blue.
But as she ate her breakfast of muesli with blueberry yogurt and stared out into the ocean, a ferry sounded, heading toward Suomenlinna, that historic island fortress. The sight and sound reminded her of the strength of the Finns she’d come to live among—their sisu, a word that had no good English equivalent.
It meant strength, fortitude, grit, courage, and sheer stubbornness. Finns had used their sisu throughout the generations to maintain their identity, culture, and language when ruled by outside forces, one century after another. She’d heard more recent stories of what the Finns faced and conquered during World War II, and if she hadn’t heard the stories firsthand, she might not have believed them.
She’d already called the office to cancel the morning’s meeting with Carmichael, so she could stay home. But wallowing would show a lack of sisu. Staying home today would mean that after lying to her, he’d won. She wouldn’t let him win. Mustering her inner sisu, she showered, put on her most professional-looking clothes, and headed for work—later than usual, but she was going. And that was a victory.
As usual, she took the back stairs up to her floor. The door from the stairwell opened right to her office. She’d picked that spot deliberately, wanting an easy way to get in and out without being stopped by a hundred people wanting her attention. Her heels clicked on the polished pine floor only a few times before she stepped into her o
ffice, where a red rug with gold symbols from the Kalevala epic around the edge. Just as she took off her coat, she heard a familiar American voice. A male voice. Her step came up short.
“Please. I need to talk to her, just for a few minutes.”
Eric. Had he heard her footsteps? Her stomach clenched.
“I am sorry, but Ms. Fisher isn’t in right now,” Sirkku said, saving the day. Lauren let out a sigh of relief. “You’ll have to leave a message.”
“But we were supposed to have a meeting at ten this morning. It’s after ten. She’s got to be here.”
Lauren licked her lips and pressed them together as she waited, listening.
Sirkku went on. “Miss Fisher left a message last night saying that the meeting had been canceled. I called your assistant. Did you not receive the message?”
At that, Lauren turned her head, eager to hear Eric’s reply. Was he here to save a lucrative business deal?
“This isn’t about that,” Eric said. “I just need to talk to her. To apologize. Please.”
Eyebrows raised in surprise, Lauren leaned out of her office door into the corridor. She couldn’t quite see Eric from that vantage point but wanted to. She kicked off her heels into the thick rug, quietly set her bag on the chair by the door, then drew closer. Her rational self argued that this was stupid, that she knew what kind of man Eric Carmichael was—a liar.
But something deeper pushed her forward and brought back flashes from the day before: Eric interacting with sick children and making balloon creatures for the park’s visitors. He’d done it all without pretense. He might be a liar about his name, but he’d shown that there was more to him than the lie about who he was.
Did he really want to cut the annual donations, as she’d been made to believe by Carmichael? Or, uh, by whatever the other guy’s name really was.
Silently, she took one step and then another, hugging the wall, until she was at the opening of the lobby, where Sirkku held a phone in her hand as if ready to call security. Across the desk from her stood two men: Eric and the guy formerly known as Carmichael.
