Missed Connections

by Tamara Mataya

  After a moment, he carefully pulls out and rolls off, pulling me into his arms, both of us breathing heavily.

  I swallow. “That was—”

  “Fucking amazing.”

  I smile. “Mmm. For real.”

  “I’ve seen you move on the dance floor, but I had no idea you could move your hips like that.”

  “There’s lots you don’t know about me. And God, Jack, those fingers.”

  “All this time we could have been doing this.”

  I hope he’s not thinking about a relationship. I know that would never work. That’s not what tonight was about. “I have an idea of something we can do to get to know each other better.”

  “What?”

  “This time”—I roll over and face him—“I’ll be on top.”

  Chapter 17

  I slick on one last coat of waterproof mascara—to combat the humidity—and toss it back into my makeup bag. Jack didn’t give me much information about our date, but he said other people would be there, so I’ve slithered into a strapless little black dress that’s never let me down, pairing it with peacock feather earrings, cobalt heels, and a matching clutch. I give my hair another squirt of shine serum, but the humidity is winning the battle against my straightener.

  Really, I shouldn’t be going to this much trouble. It’s just Jack. We were supposed to be a one-night thing, but he asked me out while I was still floating in a haze of postorgasmic pleasure, and I said yes.

  Besides, it’s one date. One.

  I bite my lip. If this goes well… A knock sounds from the door.

  No point getting ahead of myself.

  When I pull the door open, Jack’s face makes my ego flutter its eyelashes. His gaze does a slow crawl up my body, and by the time it reaches my eyes, his are hungry. “You look amazing.”

  I lock the door behind us. “Thanks.” He’s in dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. That shouldn’t do things to my belly, but it does.

  I check him out in the elevator mirror.

  His hair is brushed back but still damp from a recent shower. I want to run my fingers through it, but I keep my hands to myself. “Where are we going tonight?”

  “Some fancy cocktail thing.”

  “Don’t sell it too hard.” I quirk an eyebrow.

  He grins and guides me out the front door of the building with a hand at my lower back. “Sorry. It’s schmoozing with some old rich guys.”

  “And you thought I’d be into that? Where’s Bambi?” I frown at the sleek black Mercedes he’s leading me to. It’s crouched at the curb like a panther.

  “At home. I decided I should upgrade. Look the part a little.”

  He opens my door, and I slide onto the expensive leather seat.

  We drive over in silence, my mind boggling the whole way to SoHo. How the hell much money does Jack have? It doesn’t matter, but you think you know someone, and then this comes out of left field.

  When we pull up to the brick Puck Building, with its huge, white columns and golden statue above the arch, I glare at him.

  “This is where we’re going?”

  He nods.

  Suddenly I feel grubby. “You could have told me. I’d have bought a new dress, worn something different.”

  Jack cups my jaw and leans in. “I fucking love what you’ve got on, and so will everyone else. They’re all going to be jealous that you’re here with me.” He growls the last word and crushes his lips to mine, causing heat to flare in my body and radiate out, melting away any feelings but sexy ones.

  At least until we get inside.

  Now I know how Eliza Doolittle felt.

  I’m so busy feeling self-conscious about my appearance and gawking at the penthouse itself that I miss the names of the hosts, smiling and nodding my way through the introductions like a mannequin.

  “I’m going to steal Jack for a moment.” The older gentleman smiles at me and I nod, though he’s already taking Jack away, leading him over to a group of men smoking cigars in the corner.

  I sip from a glass of perfectly chilled champagne, unable to remember how it got in my hand, and wander over to the spectacular view of Soho from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room.

  This is someone’s house. They see one of the most expensive neighborhoods lit up like this every night. It feels like an expensively decorated dream.

  Gleaming hardwood, base moldings—and two chandeliers over the table in the dining area. You know, because one isn’t enough.

  Surreptitiously, I glance around the room, eyeing the other people. There are about twenty-five other guests, milling about in clothes that probably cost more than what I make in a year. A woman in next year’s hottest Chanel dress is talking to a twentysomething whose engagement ring is blinding me from thirty feet away.

  Every article of clothing is a must-have. A Brazilian supermodel is in the corner talking to an actor from one of those cop shows.

  And I’m here in feather earrings and three-year-old Louboutins.

  I don’t know whether to kiss Jack for bringing me here or kill him for bringing me here without a week to prepare my wardrobe and accessories.

  An hour later, I’m leaning more toward the latter. He’s maybe talked to me twice since we’ve been here, for a grand total of ten minutes. People keep “stealing him away” and taking him to talk shop, and while I’m happy he’s in demand, it also really sucks to be left alone feeling like a designer impostor in a room full of the genuine things.

  The only time people look directly at me is when they’re taking Jack away. No one even talks to me, despite my friendly smiles and attempts at conversation. I’d pull out my phone, but it would probably self-destruct in embarrassment at not being next year’s upgraded model that’s not available in stores yet.

  I head toward the powder room to kill some time.

  It’s so ostentatious. I mean, whose private residence has fancy rooms within the powder room?

  People who throw major parties, I guess. There’s no way to pretend I’m not impressed and way out of my league.

  I’m squinting critically at the mirror in my little stall, dabbing at the smudge beneath my eyes, when the outer door opens and I hear the water in the sink running.

  “Have you seen him? What’s his story?”

  “He’s a DJ, but apparently he bought a club recently, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t mind taking him for a spin. Pun intended.”

  My ears perk as my stomach sinks. Are they talking about my Jack?

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jack, or John. Jacob, maybe? Who cares? Did you see his tight ass in those pants?”

  “I was too busy checking out his abs—you can see them through his shirt. And my gaze strayed a little lower and stayed there. Those jeans do him huge favors.”

  I bite my lip hard.

  The first woman giggles and continues. “And he’s got to be loaded as well or he wouldn’t be here.”

  “I don’t even care about that. You remember Anita? Apparently she hooked up with him last year. The jeans aren’t doing him favors. He’s hung like a horse and knows exactly how to use it. She had to upgrade her vibrator after being with him.”

  I feel like I might puke up the expensive hors d’oeuvres I ate.

  “I wish Gerry wasn’t here. I only said yes to his invitation for the free champagne, but he’s definitely lacking in the girth department.”

  “Maybe you can get J’s number. Unless I get it first.”

  “Isn’t he here with someone? Who’s she?”

  “She’s nobody. Did you see her purse?”

  The door swishes shut behind them, and I wait a minute so I’m not leaving right after them. I don’t even know which two women they are. Models? Trust-fund babies who belong in this world and who slum it for kicks?

  This sucks. This is Jack’s world now, and I don’t belong here. To people like this, I’m a nobody and Jack’s a mover and shaker. And even among the p
eople who don’t care about his money, sex-hungry she-wolves will be lurking, devouring him with their eyes. No matter where we go, this is going to happen. It’s not Jack’s fault he’s sexy as hell, but could I deal with this on a daily basis?

  I let cool water flow over my wrists and blot my face after drying my hands. I’ve never been the jealous type, but… Wait a minute. I don’t have to be jealous at all.

  We’re not dating. We’re fucking.

  I shouldn’t feel bad that other women want my date. I should be proud that I’m the one he’s going home with. Me. The only one here whose family never summered in the Hamptons, whose name will never be on the list for a crocodile Birkin.

  Me.

  Little nobody me is here with one of the hottest new up-and-comers.

  Head up, I stride out of the powder room and head for the terrace. Jack’s shaking the hand of a fiftysomething guy in a suit and catches my eye. I jerk my head toward the door and walk outside.

  The door opens and closes behind me, giving a flash of voices and crystal glasses tinkling in toasts and casual cheers.

  I head around the corner of the wall of the great room and into a little alcove. Leaning on the railing, I take in the sight of SoHo at night—a rare, gorgeous view. I didn’t know there were views like this in real life. My hands are bracketed with his a second before he presses against me. “The party’s inside, Sarah.”

  I arch my back, pressing my ass more firmly into his crotch. “Have you seen the stars, Jack? They’re so pretty tonight.” I don’t give a rat’s ass about the stars.

  His hands dig into my hips as he pulls me closer and nibbles my earlobe. Jealousy over what those women said—at seeing him charming everyone in the room—is stupid, but I still feel it like a rock in my shoe. I can pretend it’s not there all I want, but nothing will take that feeling away.

  Nothing but his mouth on mine. I tip my head back and he kisses me deeply, firmly. Jack kisses like in the movies. It’s intense and makes me feel like I’m the only one in his world and he’s claiming me in case we’re torn away from each other. He pulls back and I’m breathless, dizzy for more.

  What we have is physical. It’s amazing and the best sex I’ve ever had, but that’s as far as it will go. He doesn’t let me in, and I’m tired of trying to dig deeper.

  I’ll appreciate this for the intense physical connection it is. He pulls me into the shadows of the terrace and kisses the smile off my lips.

  Chapter 18

  Ziggy has screwed up four messages today and dropped a full cup in reception, shattering it and sending Madagascar spice herbal tea everywhere, but nothing can kill the smile Jack put on my face last night.

  And again this morning.

  I hum happily as I pick up the shattered remains of the cup and mop up the tea. Screw meditation and yoga—all it took to unwind the past couple of months of stress was a little naked time with Jack. He was so cute on the way out the door. I asked him if he had everything. He started patting himself and called it his ready-to-go grope. He keeps his phone and keys in the same pocket every time, so he pats himself while running out the door. It saves time and he knows right away if he’s missing something.

  I offered to do it for him, which led to another round of sexy shenanigans that almost made me late to work. God, it was even better than I’d imagined. The memory alone is enough to bring a smile to my face again.

  Phyllis strides in with a razor-thin blond with sharp features, mean eyes, and three children. “This is the office, Marjorie. Would you like a tea before we start?”

  “You don’t have coffee, do you?” She turns her nose up at the selection of teas.

  “Of course. Sarah.”

  “Yes?” I squat to sweep the bits of Ziggy’s shattered cup into the dustpan.

  “Coffee.” She says it like I’m simple and do this every day but have mysteriously forgotten that it’s an expected duty. But I don’t have time to be running to buy drinks for people when the phone is ringing and there are people in the lobby.

  “We don’t have any, but the bodega next door has an amazing French roast.” I smile up at Phyllis and continue cleaning up the tiny slivers of glass. Man, Ziggy really broke that cup good. Opa! I chuckle.

  “Wow. Is she always this unprofessional?”

  My head snaps up. Marjorie glares at me while her kids run amok, throwing magazines on the floor. One’s found a pen from my desk and is drawing on the wall. “Can you…” I motion to the burgeoning artist.

  Marjorie ignores her kid, crosses her arms, and moves closer to Phyllis. They just stand there, glaring at me. I don’t know who I dislike more between the pair of them. Same crappy attitudes, but at least Phyllis doesn’t come with a posse of destruction.

  “Sarah, I’ve got Marjorie in for the next hour and a half. Keep an eye on her kids.”

  What the hell? “Um, no?”

  “Excuse me?” Phyllis straightens to her full height. She’s taller and larger than I am, but she’s too addled to intimidate me. “Look, bitch, Marjorie is my friend, and…she’s a client. You need to do your very best to see that she gets the most relaxing Inner Space experience we can provide for her.”

  “What’s this?”

  Ziggy’s appearance behind me explains Phyllis’s sudden professionalism.

  “Slight disagreement, Ziggy. Phyllis’s client is here, and Phyllis asked that I watch her kids while they’re in session.” I raise my eyebrows and smirk at Phyllis, knowing Ziggy can’t see my face. He’ll back me up on this at least. I’m his receptionist, not a babysitter.

  “Well, what’s the issue?”

  He can’t be serious. I have thirty-seven things to do, none of which will get done if I have to sit here and watch Marjorie’s hell-spawn—now tearing pages out of the magazines and tossing the pieces about like confetti. “The laundry won’t get done if I’m stuck to the desk.”

  Ziggy gives me the look an indulgent parent gives to a child. “The laundry can wait, Sarah. It’s not the end of the world if the towels don’t get folded the very second the dryer buzzes.”

  They all laugh and I try to look affable, taking my seat behind the desk. Ziggy disappears into a room as his next client shows up. Drizella and Anastasia head into a room, and I start trying to mitigate the damage the kids have caused. Unfortunately, I need a mop, because one of the kids figured out how to work the cooler and has been flinging tiny cups of water all over the floor.

  Kids suck.

  “Excuse me?”

  I look up at the tall lady with a blond side-shave. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Phyllis for a massage. I’m a couple minutes late.”

  Crap.

  * * *

  Five minutes before my shift ends, Fern walks into reception. “Sarah, I think we need to have a talk about your performance today.”

  I haven’t technically done anything wrong, but unease still stiffens my limbs and heats my face. “Okay.”

  Fern hauls a chair next to me. “We have to be really careful with the schedule when we’re booking people.”

  Her use of “we” doesn’t escape me, though we both know she’s referring to me alone. “I wasn’t the one who booked Phyllis’s friend. Callie was in the schedule. I pulled her file last night and put it in Phyllis’s tray. Phyllis brought her friend Marjorie in today out of the blue.”

  Fern frowns and closes her eyes as if she’s in actual pain. “Sarah, we’re a team here. When you make a mistake, we all make a mistake.”

  “But I didn’t make a mistake.”

  She waves her hands around me. “There’s that defensive energy again.”

  “I’m not trying to be defensive. I’m trying to explain what happened.”

  “No, you aren’t trying to explain the truth. You’re trying to be right.”

  I feel my eyes become two different sizes. “It’s the same thing.”

  She stands. “You need to decide which is more important: being right, or being here.”

&
nbsp; “But Phyllis double-booked the clients.”

  “Perception is reality, Sarah.” She walks to the cooler and pours a cup of water.

  “What does that even mean?”

  She takes a few deep breaths and comes back to her chair. “It means that to you, Phyllis booked the appointment. And it means to Phyllis, you are the one who booked it. You perceive your version to be the right one. So does she.”

  “Yes, but one of us is telling the truth.”

  “When there are two radically differing opinions, the truth always lies right in the middle.”

  What? “Not always.”

  “Always.”

  It bloody well does not always lie right in the middle. Sometimes people are just lying or wrong. How do I respond to this?

  My mind spins and Fern continues. “What you really need to do in these situations is ask yourself, ‘What am I doing to make these situations worse? What can I do in these circumstances to make the outcome better?’”

  Slam Phyllis’s stupid face into the counter and run screaming from the building? “I see what you mean, Fern.”

  “Just try to keep that in mind. Instead of gathering this prickly, defensive energy around you, try to be soft and welcoming.”

  I smile and nod because I can’t unclench my jaw enough to speak.

  “You may go now. See you tomorrow.”

  No time is wasted as I grab my purse and get the hell out of there as fast as possible, eschewing the subway. I need to stomp off some of this frustration, and a nice, long walk is a good start. Everything started out so well today, and now it’s like the color has been sucked from it. How can Fern and Ziggy completely disregard the truth when that’s all they talk about?

  The blaring horns and sirens going off are a welcome change from the stupid Tibetan singing bowl CD my hippie bosses had playing, and I welcome the cacophony like a long-lost friend. The muggy air coats my skin, making my tank top cling to me. That makes a few guys catcall and another tell me to smile—but something in my eyes shuts them up and makes people give me a little breathing room on the normally crowded sidewalk.