by Brea Brown
“It was a nice toaster,” he adds seriously. “Four slots.”
I whistle. “Bubba knows how to toast a girl’s bread.”
Colin stifles another cough brought on by laughter. “To answer your question seriously, though, about the job, it worked out well.”
“Excellent. Now, about your new prospects…” Before printing anything this time, I describe some of the full-time jobs that meet his scheduling requirements and match his skills sets. He surprises me by going with appointment taker and greeter at a hair salon that caters to a slightly ‘mature’ clientele.
“It’ll be nice to have Sundays and Mondays off. And free haircuts,” he defends his choice.
I’m not here to judge, and he’s more than qualified for the post, so I print and sign the referral, then hand it over to him. “There you go. Now, more important stuff. Your trip! How was it? The pictures you sent made me jealous.”
He blows his nose. Smiling mildly, he answers, “Yeah. It was nice. Better than I expected.”
“That wouldn’t be too hard, considering.”
His smile turns sheepish. “I suppose I presumed a bit much and expected the worst, but Mum and Dad were happy to see me, and when they saw for themselves, face-to-face, that I’m okay, they relaxed a bit.”
“That’s good. They can’t help but worry about you, all the way over here, alone.”
“I’m hardly alone.” He crosses his arms over his chest and sits as far back in his chair as he can and keep all four legs on the floor. “Anyway, what’s new in your world?” he asks, obviously finished with the basic recap of his overseas trip.
I flap my lips. “Absolutely nothing. The Chiefs made it to the playoffs; that’s my major source of joy right now.”
“That’s American football right?” he feigns ignorance.
My rolling eyes give him his answer and seem to amuse him. He clicks his tongue. “Is it me, or are you uncharacteristically uptight today, Lady Maura? You were putting on a good show at first, but I can tell something’s bothering you.”
Checking the clock to make sure we’re not keeping my next appointment waiting, I debate mentioning the problem that landed in my lap this morning. Saying it out loud may make it seem like less of a big deal, though, so I begin, “There is something bumming me out.”
He leans forward. “Do tell!”
I nibble at the chapped skin on my bottom lip. “I’ve been put in charge of the fall job fair.”
“Oh, I say!”
“It’s not funny!” I snap, struggling not to smile at his smug amusement at my predicament.
He scratches his temple. “But it is, because a responsibility that large is a bloody nightmare for you.”
“Still not seeing the ‘funny’ here.”
“I can tell you’re having kittens about it, but you know what? You can handle it. You’ll be brilliant. Plus, that’s ages from now. Late September?”
“Yes. It’s going to be a cluster-bomb of the highest order. I have no idea where to begin,” I moan, my stomach knotting more tightly.
“Give it a theme, to make it fun. Make a list of what you need to do. Take it one step at a time.”
“Listen to you. Mr. Large and In-Charge.”
“I’d be bricking myself if this was something I had to do,” he admits with a laugh. “But since it’s not my problem, I find it easy to detach and tell you what you need to do.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Any time. Who’s organized these fairs in the past? Who’s doing the spring one? I seem to remember you hold these to-dos more than once a year.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Yeah. Arnold’s doing the spring one, as usual. But he’s retiring, the jerk. The powers that be decided I would be the perfect person to take up the baton.”
“Have they only recently met you?”
“Hey! I’m a good employee. I guess I’ve been too good lately.”
He hums something that could be taken as agreement or dissent, so I choose to interpret it positively.
“I’m shadowing Arnold this time around, for the spring fair, so he can show me what needs to be done, and when. Supposedly, I’ll be good to go after that.”
“Free food. That always brings them in droves,” he suggests. “And perhaps a raffle.”
“I don’t want to think about it, much less talk about it.”
“Then in the few precious minutes we have left together today, let’s discuss something more promising, shall we?” His eyes sparkle. Or are they watering from his cold? “I seem to remember a certain footballer asked for your digits at that Christmas party. Whatever came of that?”
I struggle to maintain a passive expression when I say, “We don’t call them ‘footballers’ here, and American ‘footballers’ apparently don’t call everyone whose digits they procure.”
Colin drops his chin in sympathetic indignation.
I wave him off. “Whatever. From what Rae says, he’s another type of baller, and while I’m not interested in settling down, I’m also not interested in being a guy’s regional booty call. I do insist on monogamy, serial or otherwise.”
“Well, well, well. As you should. But if he were offering that?”
Considering that for a few seconds, I stare into the middle distance, then answer wistfully, “It would be nice to get laid again someday.”
Oh gosh. No. I didn’t just say that. To Mr. Widower T. Celibacy, of all people!
My back straightens, and I blink to attention, studying his face to gauge his reaction.
His eyes widen, and he rubs his forehead while suppressing a smirk.
“Not by you!”
Gaaaaaaaaaah! What?
He rests his chin on his knuckles, bites down on his pinkie, and winces, assuming a comically terrified expression.
“Not that I think it wouldn’t be nice. Or that I think about it at all!”
Shut up, Maura! Shut the hell up now!
But I can’t. I don’t seem physically able, that is. My lips and tongue and vocal chords are operating independently of my brain. Obviously.
“I’m sorry. I’m freaked out right now and not thinking clearly and just saying whatever comes to mind. But having sex with you wasn’t even on my mind, so I don’t know where that came from.”
He stands, taps his toe, and makes a big show of looking at a watch that doesn’t exist on his wrist, while I snap, “You’re the one who brought up Jet Knox! I was perfectly content to forget all about him. Keaton Busch would be a better time, anyway. He’s such a funny guy with his touchdown dances and goofy selfies. What was your original question?”
When chuckling results in more coughing, he sobers, clears his throat, and replies, “I honestly don’t remember. I was simply making small talk and indulging in a bit of a silly hypothetical. Then your filthy brain exploded on your desk, and—”
I plunk my forehead on top of where my filthy gray matter supposedly is and groan. The papers under my face move when I whimper, “I shouldn’t have said any of that. I’m sorry.” I lift my head. “It was rude. Now… it’s like— Is it going to be awkward?”
He shakes his head and pulls a face. Folding his referral and jamming it into his shirt pocket, he says, “Not on my part.” When I fail to look convinced, he scratches his ear. “Listen. It’s probably crossed both of our minds, whether subconsciously or whatever, that we could toss some ‘benefits’ into our friendship and come to a decent arrangement, but eventually—for whatever reason—things would get messy, and neither one of us does well with ‘messy,’ so that’s that.” He looks down at his tie and flaps it.
When I say nothing to his speech, he stands with his referral and walks to the door.
“With that, m’dear, I believe I should take my leave.” A loud sniff serves as the punctuation to that declaration. He opens the door. A rush of blessedly cooler air wafts in.
I take a deep breath and exhale loudly. “Okay, then. Good luck on your job interview.”
<
br /> Completely casually, as if we’ve been talking about job placement this whole time, he tosses over his shoulder, “And good luck on your… endeavors. Sorry I’m not the man for the job.”
With a saucy wink, he tucks his hands into his pockets and exits the office without looking back.
If I were a different person, I’d be tempted to stress about my mortifying conversation with Colin. But he seemed cool. He’s right that nothing is ever going to happen between us.
However, it has been a long time. If he had his heart set on adding some benefits to the mix, I’d consider it. I’m that horny.
Just kidding.
Not really.
A buzzing in my desk drawer distracts me from the buzzing in my underdrawers.
I retrieve my phone and see it’s been busy in time-out this afternoon. Several missed calls and three voicemails.
I don’t recognize the first number, but that doesn’t mean anything. If someone had a gun to my head and said I had to dial up any of my friends or family from memory or take a bullet, it’d be all over but the splatter.
The robotic voicemail lady announces, “You have… three… unheard messages. First unheard message:”
“Oh, hey. Maura. Jet here.”
An immediate uptick of my heart rate suddenly makes it difficult to hear the recording. I bump up the volume with a shaky hand, nearly dropping my phone.
Jet Knox, Jet Knox, Jet Knox! If I had known, I probably would have answered the phone in the middle of Colin’s appointment. I’m not proud of that, but I’m past the point of pretending I could ignore a call from Jet Freaking Knox. It doesn’t escape me, though, that he sounds surprised to be calling me.
To his credit, he attempts to recover with, “Uh, how’s it going? It’s been a while… Right? Thought I’d give you a call, since I’m back in town.”
Hmm. Well, at least he knows I’m a home-city girl. Of course, the area code on my phone number would tell him that.
“Maybe you’d like to—I don’t know—go out, or something? I won’t tell the coaches if you don’t. It’s supposed to be nose-to-the-grindstone now that we’re prepping for the playoffs. But all work and no play kinda sucks. Give me a call back if you’re up for it. Bye now.”
Before the next message can play, I hang up and stare at the device in my hand, willing myself to stop panting and sweating like a walking hormone with a crush on a boy band member.
The fact remains that Jet Knox asked me—or someone he sort of remembers with my name—out on a date. Must not get too excited. Must not do anything uncool, like call someone to brag about this.
My fingers fly through the menus on my phone. When my brother answers, I say, without so much as a hello, “You’re not going to believe this. Jet Knox called and asked me out.”
“No way.”
“Told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
“He has a playoff game on Sunday! He doesn’t have time for dating.”
“Even so, he called me at 1:30-ish and left a message on my voicemail. Maybe more than one. I didn’t check the others.”
“Where are you guys going, then?” He still sounds annoyingly skeptical.
“I haven’t called him back yet.”
“You’re leaving Jet Knox hanging? For almost four hours? I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that when you finally call him back, he’s already made plans with someone else who was more convenient.”
My stomach drops. “Oh. Shit. I didn’t think of that.”
“Do you honestly think you were the only chick he called when he had the urge to ‘go out’?”
Well, when he puts it that way, I’d be an idiot to admit that, yes, I indeed thought that. “No! I mean, maybe. Why not? You’re saying he went through the greater Kansas City area numbers in his phone until he got a ‘yes’?”
“I guarantee it. I’m sure it didn’t take long. He’s probably already banging some girl in the hot tub on his bedroom balcony.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m realistic.” After a few beats of silence, he says, “But you should still call him back, just in case.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do! Trust me, you’re not cool enough to snub Jet Knox. This could be the most awesome thing that’s ever happened to you. And who knows? Maybe it’ll lead to something. Like playoff tickets.”
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
His laughter flows from the phone’s speaker as I stick out my tongue and press the red button to disconnect.
Bouncing my knee, I contemplate whether I have the guts to call the quarterback, only to have him screen my call or, worse, answer and tell me his offer has expired. A few extra minutes won’t hurt, so I check my other voicemails, in case any of them are Jet, saying, “Never mind!” and will save me from further humiliation.
One of the messages is from Mom, announcing she and Dad are back from their latest round of globe-trotting and asking what happened to the plants I was supposed to be watering. (Oops. I guess they’re dead, since I completely forgot about them.)
The other is from Rae.
“What’re you doing tonight? I have a bona fide date, if you can believe it. Met her at the airport on our way to Denver, and we’re meeting for drinks. Molly. She’s a drug rep, or something. I guess I’ll call you later and let you know how it goes. Bye!”
I take a deep breath and lean against my desk. The rest of the office is empty and dark. While I’ve been in here acting out my private drama, my co-workers have gone home to their lives. Boyfriends and girlfriends, husbands and wives, kids, pets, hot dinners, and favorite shows await them.
There’s not so much as a frozen dinner waiting for me.
With a pang I realize I have nothing to lose by calling Jet. No pride left, for sure. And if he’s already moved on from his earlier invitation, then I’ll never see him again, and it won’t matter.
Press it, Maura. That green square with the phone on it. Press it, select the number that belongs to one of the NFL’s hottest players, and see what happens.
Seven
First(ish) Impressions
After handing my eight-year-old Honda’s keys to the valet, I stand under the trendy restaurant’s awning, trying to be subtle about pulling my tiny panties from the crack of my butt, where they seem to want to hang out tonight, under my jeans.
Don’t ask me why I wore the dumb things. It’s not like I’m going to let anyone see them. I guess I thought wearing the sexy matching set would give me confidence. I underestimated the crack factor. There’s no feeling confident or sexy or anything but uncomfortable when you’re fighting a perpetual wedgie.
Underpants moderately in place, I tuck my clutch under my arm and clip-clop on my high-high heels past the doorman. Inside, I give the maître d’ my name, as Jet instructed me on the phone.
“This way, Miss,” I’m told right away, earning me some dirty looks from others who obviously have been waiting in line for a while.
For the first time in the past ninety minutes, I’m preoccupied with a thought other than, This is crazy. Part of me is still thinking that as I smile over my shoulder at them and say, “Sorry,” although I’m not. I’m too amazed this is happening to me to be sorry about anything.
Well, maybe I’m somewhat sorry I didn’t take Jet up on his offer to pick me up. But a rule’s a rule. I never let a guy do that on a first date. Including—maybe especially—Jet Knox. Safety first. Don’t want to chance getting stranded somewhere, at the mercy of a six-foot-four whack-job who outweighs me by nearly a hundred pounds. Still, it would have been gratifying to see the envy on people’s faces if I’d arrived on the QB’s arm.
Being swept to the front of the line and beyond, into the packed, buzzing bar and dining area, is satisfying enough. As it is, I keep thinking that any minute now, I’m going to wake up.
That wakeup call arrives at the same time I make it to Jet’s table.
It’s not until I’m standing directly in front of him that he c
lambers to his feet, realizing I’m his date. He hurries around the table and dismisses the maître d’ so he can pull out my chair for me, hugging me lightly before I take my seat. Despite the dim room, I easily notice him size me up, looking relieved at what he sees after he returns to his seat.
Maybe I should be offended, but I can’t fathom how many people he meets. It would be naïve to think he’d remembered me, some dullard he met at a Christmas party weeks ago.
He smiles across the table at me. “Drinking tonight?”
I glance at the huge glass of water in front of him. “Are you?”
He shakes his head ruefully. “Nah. I’m breaking enough rules just being here. But that shouldn’t stop you. Please. What would you like? He pushes the leather-bound drinks menu across the table toward me.”
“Uh…” I rest my fingertips on the closed padded folder, then decide firmly, “No. That wouldn’t be fair.” Yeah, there’s no use giving my hulking date any more advantages than he already has. “We’ll both abstain, and still have a good time. I’ve been told it can be done.”
He laughs loudly. “Okay, then. Let’s test that theory.”
“Let’s.”
After he orders less food than I expect, and I probably order more than most women he dates, he asks, “So, what have you been up to since the Christmas party?”
My rejoinder, “Oh, you remember that much now?” receives a guilty smile he tries to hide in his water glass.
“Of course. You’re Rae’s friend.”
“You had no idea who to expect here tonight, did you?”
Instead of directly answering, he chuckles and chomps on a piece of ice. Still chewing, he opens his mouth to the side, just enough to ask, “Why are you bustin’ my chops?”
“I want you to know I’m onto you, Number Fourteen.”
Setting down his glass, he raises his eyebrows at me and swallows. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Oh.” I sip my water and try not to laugh at the mock-indignant look on his face. Finally, I let him off the hook. “It’s okay, though. I don’t have any illusions. You’re Jet Knox.”
