Missed Connections Box Set

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Oh.” Thinking about work made me feel guilty for sitting there, and I didn’t want to feel bad. “I don’t really like talking about my flair,” I said, and giggled.

  “Office Space.” His smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his right cheek, an angelic touch at odds with his hip, bad-boy piercings. “Grand movie.”

  “I’m impressed you know it.”

  “I’ve spent my time in the cubicle farm.”

  “Really? You don’t look it.”

  “Well, appearances are deceiving, aren’t they? I mean, look at you with your schoolmarm glasses and this long skirt.” He tugged at the hem pulled tight between my knees, then slid a hand up the outside of my thigh. Not too far, not enough to set off alarm bells and over the cloth, but lordy, I nearly moaned.

  “But that’s who I really am,” I said, breathy as Zoey could ever be.

  “Ah, now good girls don’t tell lies, do they?” He stroked down my thigh to my calf again, gaze dropping to follow the movement. I watched, too, mesmerized. “Will you slap my wrist with a ruler if I try for more?”

  “Depends on how bad you are.” Exhilarating, being naughty like this.

  “Never can resist a challenge.” This time he slipped a finger under the hem, touching my knee over my pantyhose. “Stockings?” he asked, raising that one brow, the ring winking.

  “Baby, it’s cold outside,” I sang, and giggled again, then focused on the short fuzz of the shaved side of his head. “Is it soft?” I asked, then realized what a non sequitur that was.

  Amazingly, he followed my train of thought, turning his head so it tilted toward me. “Have a feel.”

  I wouldn’t have done it without the whiskey courage, but I ran my fingers over it. Soft, yes, with a slight prickle, like going against the nap of good velvet in one of the samples Amy brought home. I traced the whorls of the tattoo on his velvety skin. “What is this design—a bird?”

  He caught my eye, the aqua startling as ever, though the look in them was somber. “Yeah. Birds are a symbol of a departed spirit, you know? I got it when my mum passed. A remembrance.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My dad died.” I realized as I said it that it was a lie, but how to take that one back? And he’d already turned his cheek into my palm, then kissed it, the ring cool compared to his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, too, luv. Is that why you were crying, having a shitty day?”

  I pulled my hand away on pretext of reaching for my whiskey glass, heaving a sigh of disgust at myself. “Heavens, no. I misspoke.” Seriously misspoke. “It was a long time ago. My bad day has nothing to do with that.”

  “What does it have to do with?” He slid his hand to my calf again, kneading it, looking as if he was actually interested.

  “I had a fight with my mom.” Kind of. “Shit! How insensitive of me, with your mom… dead, and all.”

  He laughed, dipped his chin and looked me in the eye. “That was a long time ago, too. And my dad is around and we fight like cats and dogs, and I end up angry every time, so I get it.”

  “What do you fight about?”

  He lifted a shoulder and took a sip of whiskey, rolling it in his mouth. “He doesn’t like my lifestyle. ‘Grow up. Get serious. Quit wasting time.’ He’d be a lot happier if I was hitting the cubicle farm every day.”

  “Like me.” Some of the glumness settled over me again.

  Damien tugged at my hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “Nah. I can tell you like your job, even with the flair.” He twitched a smile at me. “I bet your mom is proud of you.”

  With a strange wrenching sensation, I realized that I didn’t think that was true. I wasn’t at all sure what would make her proud of me, except getting married and hooking my man for life, maybe.

  “You know—you have really pretty eyes,” Damien said, breaking into my thoughts.

  “They’re brown.”

  One side of his mouth quirked and I realized I’d used that schoolmarm tone. “Yeah, if you want to be prosaic. But I’d call them caramel. Or whiskey. They have this kind of goldy-amber light in them. Tiger eyes. They’re pretty with your blond hair.”

  “Also brown,” I said, though the compliments made me giddy.

  “And they claim guys are bad about color.” He snorted, studying me. “Your hair is…bronze.”

  Knowing I was blushing, I sipped at my whiskey, turning the glass upend, but still not getting any. I stared into the empty glass, puzzled. I beckoned Damien closer, “I think the bartender stole my whiskey.”

  He laughed, leaning his forehead against mine. “Oh, luv. I lied to you.”

  “What?” I snapped upright, stricken.

  “Not like that.” He took my hand and curled warm fingers around mine, lovely and oddly familiar. “I did get you drunk.”

  Oh God. I was drunk. “What time is it?” I yanked my hand away and scrabbled in my purse. After three-thirty. And my boss had been texting me, asking if I was all right. Julie, too. “Shit!”

  He peered at the screen. “Your boss? Sounds more worried than mad. Say you got sick.”

  “Lie?”

  “Well,” he closed one eye and peered at me like a specimen. “Another whiskey and you would be, so it’s not far from the truth.”

  “Oh God.” I leaned my elbow on the bar and put my forehead in my hand. It felt really good to close my eyes.

  “No, no, none of that. You need to walk it off.”

  “What?”

  “Here.” He slipped the phone from my unresisting hand. I blinked at him as he quickly typed a reply, using both thumbs. “I’m saving you from yourself, luv. We’re closing the tab.” He signaled to the bartender.

  “What did you send?”

  Damien pulled me to my feet, put my bag on my shoulder and slipped the phone inside. Then he picked up his stack of packages one-handed, apparently not drunk at all, and offered me his elbow. “I said you ate a bad sandwich at the food court and got sick. I told ‘L.P.’ that you’re sorry to have worried him. Or her. But that you have to go home.”

  “Her.” I fumbled for my phone. A text reply telling me to feel better, with a sad emoji face. I groaned.

  “Not gonna be sick for real, luv, are you?”

  “No.” I hoped not. How humiliating that would be. My mouth tasted funny. I clicked my teeth together. “I can’t feel my teeth.”

  “Oh, boy,” Damien muttered.

  “Is that bad? Alcohol poisoning!”

  He laughed. Then I was sitting on a bench at the foot of the escalators. “You’ll be fine. Now be a good girl and sit here a mo.”

  “I’m tired of being a good girl.”

  “Amen to that.” He cupped my cheek and kissed my forehead. “Just a few minutes, until I get back. Then you can be as bad as you like.”

  “You’re going away?”

  “Just to drop this delivery. Then I’ll take you home.”

  “I can’t go home!” The others would never let me live it down. Getting drunk with a strange guy—one with weird hair and piercings!—leaving work early. “I don’t have my coat.”

  “Which is your office? I’ll get it for you.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Sure I can. I’ll say I’m your friend you had lunch with and stayed with you while you got sick and now I’m taking you home, so I need your coat.”

  I stared at him. The soft black leather jacket, the rough jeans and heavy motorcycle boots. The hair, all of it. They’d never in a million years believe I’d had a lunch date with a guy at all, much less this one. “No. Forget the coat. I’ll spring for a cab.”

  I let my head fall back on the bench. The atrium went up really super high. And was spinning slowly. Like a carousel.

  Damien leaned into my field of vision. “Promise to stay put? No wandering off.”

  I nodded, pretty sure I couldn’t stand on my own anyway. My hand buzzed, and I realized my phone was still in it. Julie, texting me again.

  Are you okay? Where are you? Call
ed your office and they said you went home sick but you’re not here!

  Oh, ugh. I started a text to say I was okay, which autocorrected to “Indignant” and then “A mobster,” so I gave up and just called her.

  “Marcia!” she answered immediately. “Where are you?”

  “I’m okay. Still at Holt, just not, um, actually at my desk.” So not at my boring desk. I giggled.

  She paused. “Are you… drunk?”

  “Yes.” I giggled again. Tried to stop, and it turned into snort. Which made me laugh harder. “I had whiskey. With a guy.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did. He has piercings even. I am a bad, bad girl.”

  “Ho-kay. I am coming to get you.”

  “No, you don’t have to. I’m fine. I mean, Damien is bringing me home.” Again that pause. “Hello?”

  “Who is Damien?”

  “This guy.”

  “I get that part. How much whiskey did you drink?”

  “Two.” It was only two, right? “But they were really good.”

  “Marcia. Listen to me. I want you to focus. I think he put something in your drink. You’re not safe. I’m coming to get you. You’re not going anywhere with this guy, do you understand me?”

  “He didn’t put anything in my drink. Not even Coke. Or ice.”

  “Great. Just great.” She said something, muffled, about it taking too long to get there. “Marcia, honey?”

  “Yes, Julie, honey?” I snorted at my own joke and she sighed.

  “Tell me exactly where you are.”

  “Exactly on a bench. Exactly on the left side.”

  “And the bench is where?”

  “By the escalators from the food court.”

  “You’re still at Holt? Okay. Sit there. Charley is calling Daniel.”

  “Daniel Holt? Wait. No—I’ll get in trouble.”

  “No, honey. No, you won’t. It’s okay. Just talk to me. Tell me about Damien.”

  “Oh, he’s… wow—like no one I’ve ever dated. Oh no!”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I had drinks without counting points. I went on a fucking date. I’m so sorry.” And tired. I was so tired. I laid down on the bench. That didn’t count as going anywhere.

  “It’s okay. No one is mad at you.”

  I blinked up at the uniformed cop standing over me, scowling. “Oh, I think this policeman is mad at me.”

  “Lady, what’s going on here?”

  “I’m drunk,” I told him. Julie was saying something in my ear, but the sound was just annoying, so I hung up.

  “I see, ma’am. Why don’t you sit up and come with me.”

  “Bruno—is there a problem here?” Daniel Holt came into view, clapping the policeman on the shoulder. I struggled to sit up, which made my stomach lurch. Shit. Shit shit shit.

  “Mr. Holt, sir. No problem. This lady appears to have had one too many.”

  Lady. Ma’am. “I’m not a matron,” I told them.

  Daniel raised a brow at me. He’s really handsome in his nice suits, all lawyerly and clean-cut. “She’s a friend of mine. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Absolutely, sir. You have a good day. Ma’am.” He tipped his cap at me.

  Daniel held out a hand to me. “Come on, Marcia, let’s get you home. I’ve got a car outside. Where’s your coat?”

  He helped me to my feet. Daniel always smells like Excelsior, Holt’s premier cologne and aftershave collection for men. He’s such a nice guy. “Do you have any tattoos?” I asked him.

  We went through the revolving doors, which made my head spin more. “Not a one. Do you?”

  “Are you kidding?” I snorted, and my stomach lurched. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Right here, honey.” A trash bin was in front of me and I hurled into it, vaguely aware that I was on a city street in downtown Chicago, with Daniel Holt bracing me. “Oh God.”

  “Water.” He pressed a plastic bottle into my hand that crinkled. “Rinse and spit.”

  I obeyed and felt marginally better.

  “Can you get in the car, or should we wait here a few minutes more?”

  The garbage can reeked, stale and sour, including my own vomit. If I stayed there I’d be sick again. “Car, please.”

  “This way. I have your bag. Handkerchief for you.” He pressed one into my hand and I wiped my face. Then drank the water. Daniel sat in the back with me, telling the driver where to go. The car heater was blasting, nice and warm.

  “My phone,” I said.

  “In your bag.”

  I sat back, gazing up at the tan leather lining of the car roof. Expensive. I would not hurl in Daniel Holt’s expensive car. I rolled my head to look at him. He was watching me with concern. “Doing okay?”

  “I promise not to puke in your car.”

  “Good to know, but if you do, we can deal. Nothing that can’t be cleaned.”

  I groaned, closing my eyes. “You’re awfully good at dealing with puking drunks.”

  “Well,” he sounded amused, “I was in a fraternity, you know. Life skills.”

  “Am I fired?” I had to ask the question. Maybe I’d be back in Spring Creek after all. My mom would be happy at least. Oh wait, no, she wouldn’t. Not now that she had George.

  “No, Marcia. I’m not here as a Holt. Just Daniel, boyfriend of your housemate.”

  “Why are you here? Not to be rude,” I added, though obviously that was rude.

  “Julie called Charley who called me. They were worried you’d been roofied. Tell me about this guy.”

  “He didn’t roofie me. I’m just a sucky drunk.”

  “Still, maybe mall security should look for him. Check him out.”

  Mall security. That hadn’t been a policeman. Stupid, Marcia. This was why I didn’t ever drink. Why it had seemed like a good idea at all, ever, had me boggled. Still, Damien hadn’t put anything in my drink. He’d just been nice to me, for no reason at all. And flirted with me.

  You have really pretty eyes.

  “Marcia?”

  “It’s fine. Just take me home.”

  ~ 5 ~

  Daniel helped me up the walk. Julie and Ice met us at the door, both putting their arms around me like I’d faceplant on the threshold. I felt better since I’d puked, but the world still tilted dangerously, so they might not be wrong.

  Then Ice had me sitting on the couch, shining a little light in my eyes.

  “Ow!” I batted it away.

  “Dilated, but not excessively,” she said. She had her robe on, and had her waist-length thick, dark hair twisted back. That’s right—no classes for her on Thursdays, so she used it for an at-home study day. “How’s your vision?”

  “I can see that you should have brushed your hair today.”

  “Sounds like her judgement is spot on,” Julie said, putting a warm mug in my hands and wrapping her fingers around mine to hold it there. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Broth. It will feel good. Drink it.”

  “You need the salt,” Ice advised. “It’s really a good thing that you vomited—that will help clear your system better than anything.”

  “All part of my master plan,” I muttered.

  “And here.” She held out a hand with several pills. “Before you ask—some ibuprofen and Vitamin C. Trust me.”

  Not really wanting to, I obediently took the pills and drank the warm soup. It did feel good on my empty stomach. Julie’s special bone broth. “Thank you,” I whispered at the mug.

  “You’re going to have a hell of a headache,” Julie replied. “I can’t believe it. You, of all people, having drinks with some strange guy.”

  “Cut her some slack,” Ice said, putting a cool cloth on the back of my neck. Wow, did that feel better. “Amy says she and Charley had a knock-down, drag-out last night.”

  “They did—what about? You didn’t tell me!”

  “You were working,” I replied, looking around for Daniel,
not wanting him to hear that part at all.

  “He’s gone,” Ice said. “Said he had to get back to the office.”

  Of course he did. “I can’t believe you guys got Daniel Holt to bring me home.”

  “We were worried about you, honey.” Julie smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “I know you and Charley haven’t been right since the Dawn Diva Meltdown, but this isn’t like you.”

  What was like me? “I had a big fight with my mother, too,” I said miserably. “She’s dating someone named George.”

  They were quiet and I could just imagine the looks they exchanged over my head.

  “I’m calling a girls’ night,” Ice announced. “Amy’s on her way home and I don’t have a practical.”

  “And Steve says yes to switching shifts with me,” Julie said, “so I’m golden.”

  “You guys,” I said, “you don’t have to do this. And I really don’t want to go out.”

  “Silly!” Julie knelt on the floor, unzipped my boots and pulled them off, then snagged the furry throw and tossed it over me. “Girls night in. I’m making chicken stew with dumplings, since I thawed out the broth anyway. And I want to test out this recipe for pumpkin espresso tiramisu for next week.”

  “Pumpkin espresso… what?” I was still way too drunk, though the broth and cool cloth helped an amazing amount.

  “Is that even a thing?” Ice raised her perfectly groomed brows at me and shook her head.

  “It is a thing,” Julie said without missing a beat. She knew from experience that we’d eat whatever she made us, especially if it was sweet, no matter how we made fun of it. One time she made a ‘Chocolate Lavender Teatime Pie,’ which sounded horrible to me. But it had a chocolate cookie crust and a filling of bittersweet chocolate, lavender and Earl Grey tea. I still dream about it. “I know it’s not an actual pie, but it looks amazing and suitably Thanksgiving-ish. Besides, the espresso will help Marcia when she crashes.”

  “I’m feeling better.” They both ignored me.

  “Charley can’t make it. She’s got a show, but she’ll try to get here after,” Ice added, tossing her phone down again. “But she says she’s glad you’re okay.”