by Mimi Strong
“Yoga,” I said, pointing to my black stretchy pants. “I'm heading to class after this.”
“That's too bad. You could have gone jogging with me.”
“Up and down the aisles?”
“Just to warm up. Then outside for a bit, just to be different.”
“Jogging outdoors? I think I just read a New York Times trend article about that. It's the next big thing after growing your own coffee beans.”
“I grew mushrooms once. Got a kit from the internet, and…” He shook his head. “Sorry. Boring you, and you're not getting paid to be bored by me.”
“You're not boring.”
He grinned at me, then turned to examine some things on the shelves, picking up a box of folder labels. The wails of a kid pitching a tantrum a few aisles over pierced the silence.
“I know that tune,” Devin said. “That's the you-never-let-me-do-anything song.”
I laughed, because that was the gist of what the kid was howling about.
“This song has a dark ending,” I said. “Sort of an I-hate-you thing.”
“Followed by bargaining. 'If I can't have this, maybe I can have this other thing?'”
We both listened as strains of pleeeeeeease mixed with the easy-listening music coming from the store's speakers.
“How's your cookbook?” I asked, my eyes roaming over his bare arms and muscular chest. Damn, he looked good in a jogging shirt. Was it any wonder I'd been unable to keep my hands off him? I wanted to bite those biceps, right there in the office supply store, under the fluorescent lights, as kids screamed all around us.
He seemed to be distracted as well, and I followed his gaze to my chest. I wore a tight yoga top with no bra, and my nipples were poking out like traffic cones.
I said, “I've been looking at cookbooks and wondering how your project was going.”
I'd also been wondering about his therapy, and if he ever thought about me, but you don't ask those things in the filing supplies aisle.
“We took a few good photos.” He pulled out his phone and came closer to me, to show me the pictures.
I breathed in his scent, his close proximity sending a confusing but enjoyable feeling through my body. He explained the images, his deep voice vibrating softly near my ear. He was so close, that if I turned my head, our lips would touch.
And then he would run away.
As he scrolled through the photos, I said, “How are you doing?”
“Great.”
“Really?”
“You sound disappointed,” he said. “Do you miss having me as a client?”
“I don't know how to answer that.”
He took a step back and fixed me with his gaze—the one that made me feel like I was naked in public.
“Be honest,” he said. “I was your worst client. I kept running away.”
“You did keep running away, but that was my fault.”
“I'm cured now, though. I think I could probably kiss anyone.”
“Have you…?”
He tilted his head to the side. “Do you think I'm ready?”
I swallowed. What I wanted to say was, yes, he was ready, but only if it was me.
He continued, “Because I have someone in mind, but I can't tell if she likes me.”
Just then, he glanced down at the pictures on his phone and smiled. It was the chef at the hotel restaurant, wasn't it? That was who he wanted to kiss.
The idea of him kissing someone else, and of talking about it with me, filled me with anger.
“Just grow a pair and ask her out,” I said.
He stepped back, blinking in surprise. “Is that your professional advice?”
I grabbed a box of red file folders and dropped them in my basket. As I turned away, I said, “Yes, that's my professional advice.” I started walking away, pausing only to turn back and wave. “Good to see you.”
I rushed to the shortest-looking line and took a spot behind a mother and her kids with school supplies. The boy, about ten, kept turning to stare at me, his eyes wide. I realized that, thanks to the air conditioning, my nipples were still poking out of my yoga top. I turned away from the boy's eyes, and spotted Devin, heading in the direction of the checkout lines.
And then, I did something I'd seen other people do, but had never done myself.
I rage-quit the checkout line, the way angry video game players might rage-quit a challenging level. I just left my basket of stuff on the floor, and marched out the door.
As I stomped down the sidewalk, I thought, Fuck you, office supply place, and fuck your overpriced red file folders, and your sexy joggers who I lust over but can't have. Fuck everything.
After a four-cheese pizza and a root beer float, I had a few regrets. After seeing Devin, I'd felt too hideous to eat alone in public, so I'd bought a three-cheese frozen pizza at the grocery store, brought it home, and added more cheese.
Steph phoned to berate me for not coming to yoga class.
I growled and said, “Steph, I had to rage-quit a checkout line today. I was not in the mood for yoga.”
“That's exactly the mood for yoga.”
“I hate you.”
There was a pause. “Have you called Devin yet and told him how you feel?”
“I'm sorry I said I hated you. I didn't mean it.”
“Just phone him, already.”
“No, I'm the girl. He's supposed to phone me.”
“Now you sound like one of your crazy clients. What would you say to a female client if she said that?”
“I'd remind her of the year and tell her girls can make the first move. I'd tell her that some guys are too shy to make the first move, and the worst that can happen is he says no and your heart stops beating and you die of shame and they bury you in the ground and nobody comes to see you.”
“I don't think you'd say that.”
“Maybe not the last part.” I picked up the last slice and took a bite, even though I was full.
“Are you eating pizza without me?”
“No,” I lied. “This is salad.”
“Sure it is.” I heard someone murmuring in the background, then she said, “Caleb says that if you're nervous, you should definitely ask him out.”
“I'm going to rage-quit this phone call.”
“Because you know we're right.”
“Exactly.” I put the slice down, even though a few bites remained. “Uh-oh, the food coma is kicking in.”
“Enjoy your salad,” she said. “I'll check in with you tomorrow, but you should seriously consider calling Devin.”
“I could ask him why he hasn't cashed that check.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said knowingly, then started a pep talk about how intelligent and funny and all-around terrific I was. Was that how I sounded when I talked to clients? Man, it was annoying to be lied to.
The next day, I met with my client, Justine, at her house.
As soon as I walked in, I noticed something was different. “Did you get your hair cut?” I asked.
“Better,” she said, grinning.
“Um. Cut and color?”
“I was made love to.”
I laughed, thinking she was joking, but her expression remained earnest.
She said, practically swooning, “Dean made love to me. It was on our fourth date, and we talked about it before, and it was more beautiful than I imagined.”
“Wow.” I took a seat at her kitchen table and admired her glow.
“I'm going to meet his kid next week, and I'm nervous, but I think it'll be okay.” She patted me on the hand. “Thank you for convincing me to see him, even though he has a kid and an ex-wife and all that baggage. Once he held me in his arms, I realized none of that stuff mattered.”
“None of us are brand-new puppies,” I said as I pulled my notebook out of my purse. “Looks like you've accomplished all the goals we set out.”
“But I haven't lost ten pounds.”
I smiled and put away the notebook. “Does that goal r
eally matter to you now? You're eating healthier food and working out more. You look fantastic.”
“I guess it's just a number,” she said.
“I can refer you to a personal coach who specializes in fitness. To be honest, I ate an entire pizza and two root beer floats and slept on the couch with the TV on last night.”
She gasped and pretended to be surprised. “You mean you're not perfect?”
“As much as it pains me to admit, it turns out I'm not.”
“What do we do now?” she asked. “I'm going to miss you and our meetings.”
“Me too. I'm not charging you for today, by the way. I'm just here as a friend.”
She tipped her head to the side and waved her hand in front of her face. As I tried to figure out what was happening, a tear rolled down her cheek.
She choked out, “That's so kind of you.”
“You are one of my nicest clients, and I really mean it. Working with you has been fun.”
Now she was full-on crying. She squeaked out, “Hug?”
I got up from my seat and circled around to her.
She squeezed me tight, and even though I was happy to have helped a client, there was still one who was on my mind. Devin Nelson. He and I weren't finished yet.
It took me five more days to stew, five days to analyze every nuance of our awkward meeting in the filing supplies aisle, five days to decide I'd had enough of not knowing. Was he kissing the chef? Had he been pining for another woman all along?
Drastic action was required. I didn't just call or text Devin Nelson.
I marched right into the hotel and asked to speak with him.
The young man at the front desk looked guilty and worried.
“I'm not a guest,” I explained. “Just a friend.”
Someone behind me said, “Feather Hilborn.”
I turned around to see Devin Nelson, standing right behind me in the lobby.
He said, “Are you on your way to yoga?”
I looked down at my dress and cute shoes. Was he kidding?
I said, “No. Are you on your way to jogging?”
He wore a red, striped dress-shirt and gray slacks, but he did look down, same as me.
“Not dressed like this,” he said. “Are you here to check up on me?”
Oh, no, I thought. This wasn't going to go the way our last meeting did. I had to get to the point. If only my mouth would say the words.
“You look good,” he said. “Your hair. You got bangs.”
“I've had bangs for years now.”
“Guess I'm not very observant.”
Ask him, said the voice in my head, my little dating coach.
My voice squeaked out, “Did you get my letter? In the mail?”
His face neutral, he said, “No. I got a Post-It Note.” He turned to the guy at the front desk and said, “She sent me a Post-It Note.”
The guy looked from Devin's face to mine, then back again. “I don't understand. Am I in trouble? Because Larry said I could eat the leftover cinnamon buns, but then he took my picture when I was eating the third one, and he said it was for evidence.”
Devin smiled. “Don't believe anything Larry says. That's why we don't let him on the front desk.”
“Oh.”
Devin turned to me. “How about a tour?”
I wanted to yell at him for not cashing my check and making me come all the way down to his hotel on the hottest day in August, but the air conditioning was having a soothing effect on me. Plus he was so cute.
“Sure,” I said, and I followed him as he gave me a tour.
The hotel was not huge, but as I followed along, I was struck by how much responsibility it would be to run the place and to oversee so many employees—dozens of them, all ages. They treated their boss with deference, and the women all appeared to be in love with him. Who could blame them? The man had it all: looks, style, confidence, and way too much sex appeal.
As he spoke, I tried hard not to think about kissing him. When we were in the elevator together, alone, I tried hard not to think about leaning my body against his and letting my hands go where they wanted.
We went all the way down to the “heart of the machine,” where he showed me the laundry facilities and the boiler room.
The air was moist and hot, even hotter than it had been outside in the sun. I could feel my thighs sticking together under my thin cotton skirt, and my cheeks flushing red.
We stopped in a narrow hallway, underneath giant pipes and ducts, and he turned to me.
“Feather, I should have called.”
“I didn't call either.”
“I wanted you to.”
Feeling hot and sticky, I crossed and uncrossed my arms.
My voice thin and breaking, I said, “I missed you.”
He pulled something from his pocket—my check. And the yellow note.
“Dear Devin,” he read.
“Don't.”
He continued reading, “I'm sorry I didn't help you.”
I started to say something, another apology, but he stopped me, holding up his hand.
“This isn't true and you know it,” he said. “There are many ways one person can help another, and you did the two most beautiful things anyone has ever done for me. First of all, you opened that vault I keep hidden inside, and you showed me that along with the pain, I'd locked away the light. I wasn't afraid of kissing someone and being rejected.”
“You weren't? But…”
“It wasn't fear of rejection. It was the opposite—the fear of not being rejected. Of having to be close to someone. To open myself to them.”
“Oh.” I fidgeted with my feather necklace. “I guess you're seeing someone now who's helping you sort things out?”
“I am.” He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall, a slight smile on his face. “Don't worry. It's a guy.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Okay. You said I did… two things?”
His face got serious. “Right. This one's hard to talk about.” He coughed. “You, um, cared about me. Without wanting anything in return. I'm not saying this because you sent me the check, either. I could tell you cared right from our first meeting. My staff… they respect me, but I'm their boss. And my family is great, but they're family. I've been so busy the last few years, running this place, that most of my friends have drifted away.” He looked straight at me, his dark brown eyes glistening. “I didn't realize how lonely I'd been until I had you in my life. You were like air. Like sun.”
Despite the heat in that hallway, my forearms bristled with goosebumps.
After a moment, I said, “And here I came to yell at you for not cashing my check. Then you have to go and say all those really nice things. Now I'm the jerk.”
“Feather, may I kiss you?”
I shook my head. “No. I'm done being the kissing coach.”
“Not as a coach.” He took two steps toward me. “I want to kiss you to show you how I feel about you.”
I laughed, my voice still squeaky. “I hear people do that.”
He caught my hands in his and moved in closer. My back was against the cool, concrete wall.
“You're nervous,” he said.
“So are you.”
He looked down at my lips, and he leaned forward. I tilted my face up.
Our lips touched, and I felt a sizzle of energy snake through me.
My arms wrapped up around his shoulders, and he pulled me into him.
Both of us breathed heavily, breathing as one, and his hands were hot and moist on my back as he ground his hips into mine. I moaned into his lips, and soon he was kissing my throat, unbuttoning my cotton dress, and kissing me between my breasts.
We paused just long enough for him to lead me over to a workshop area and set me up on a workbench.
He stood before me, between my legs as I sat. We kissed some more, and I unfastened his belt. I wanted our skin to touch. I wanted to lose the distance between us. His pants fell to the floor
with a thud.
“Wallet and cell phone,” he said as he finished unbuttoning the front of my dress.
I pulled him into me, and wrapped my legs around him, both of us in nothing but our underwear.
He sucked on my neck as I ran my fingertips up and down his beautiful back.
“I don't have a condom,” he said.
“I'm already on birth control, to help with my cycle. I've been tested for everything, and I haven't been with anyone but you in years.”
He pulled back and blinked at me.
I continued, “How about you?”
“If you're asking if I've been with anyone else since my first time with you, the answer is… are you kidding me? How could anyone ever top that? I mean, of course not.”
I covered my face with my hands, feeling shy. “Well, I don't know. I mean, it's been a while.”
“It's been one hundred days since I saw you.”
I pulled my hands away from my face and stared into his brown eyes. I could lose myself in those dark eyes.
He took my hand in his and kissed my forearm, then all the way up to my shoulder. As he pressed his body against mine, he said, “I want to make love to you.”
“Oh.”
“Because I think I'm in love with you.”
“That would explain the counting of the days.”
He kissed my lips, then said, “You're so cheeky.”
“I did lose track of the days, but my heart is beating like a rabbit's. I think I might be in love with you, too.”
He hugged me, burying his face in my hair next to my neck. “I was so worried you didn't feel it too. I didn't dare call. I kept putting it off, but I shouldn't have. I'm so stupid.”
I ran my hands through his soft, black hair. “Doesn't matter. I'm here now.” I looked around the room, at the assortment of tools hanging from the walls and the stacks of cardboard boxes, some of them labeled Xmas Decorations.
We were in one of the most beautiful boutique hotels in the city, and Devin had access to all the rooms, and here we were, down in the tool shop, and it was perfect. Just perfect.
He kissed his way down my chest, then helped me wriggle out of my panties.
Still seated on the work table, I ran my fingers over his bare chest, over his chest muscles and taut abs, and then I pulled down his underwear.
