Thank You For Holding: On Hold Series Book #2

by Julia Kent

  “What are you doing here so early?” I pick up the bag to have something to do, to evacuate the burning sensation of his hard chest against my palms. I look inside. “Glazed cake! My favorite!”

  “We’re having a planning session in Entertainment. Something about a new phone tree system. I was walking by City Donuts on my way and I thought of you. The line was pretty short today, I only had to wait twenty minutes,” he says, looking down at me. He’s so tall.

  Too tall.

  I look at my boots. Flats. I forgot.

  “Thank you so much!” As our eyes meet, something sparks between us. A flash of memory of that rushed kiss from the other night won’t leave my mind. It invades, resting there like a movie, flickering between us. My rational mind knows he can’t see it, but my arousal system decides to send blood rushing to places that begin to pulse, as if a ten-alarm fire were called for my libido.

  What is wrong with me? The guy brought me donuts. It’s not like he’s in love with me. I’m so desperate for any male attention — straight male attention — that I’m inventing things.

  Although he did wait in line twenty minutes to buy me two donuts.

  And he remembered which kind I like. I’ve never been a chocolate girl. I know, right? You can’t imagine this. No one can. But these deep-fried, sugar-glazed rings of vanilla cake are my weakness. They actually do make me feel better. Just holding one in my hand is comforting. I may not have a date for Saturday night, but I can have this little round piece of pleasure. No one can take it away from me.

  It’s no accident that it’s shaped like an O.

  Ryan leans against the wall and inspects me as I commune with my donut.

  “You have a big meeting today too?” he asks.

  “Yeth.” My mouth is full. I swallow. “Phone tree meeting. Same one. I guess we’re in for a couple of hours together.”

  “Are you ready?” His tone makes it clear that he’s skeptical.

  “Why is everyone asking me that? Of course I’m ready!” I pull open my desk drawer, looking for the hairclip I bought. “I just need to fix my hair.”

  He mumbles something I can’t hear.

  “What?” I ask, still hunting for the clip.

  “I said, I’ll braid it for you. If you want.” I look at him and blink exactly once, as if my mind is taking a picture. His hair is curling slightly, a little longer than usual, and it’s tousled like a little boy in the wind. Those golden brown eyes smile at me, but with a hint of nervousness, something that’s increased lately. He’s wearing a faded blue denim shirt that is unbuttoned, a tight black t-shirt underneath that shows his washboard abs. His forearms are tanned, covered in sandy-colored hair, with colorful geometric tats showing as he uncrosses his arms and walks toward me, the smile fading.

  “Seriously? Here? I would love it!” I chirp, sounding too eager, too spritely. He’s rescuing me, for sure.

  “Um, how about in the conference room?” he suggests.

  We look in and it’s empty. His eyes dart over to the hallway and he closes the door, even though the room is nothing but windows and glass walls.

  I settle into a chair and let my shoulders drop. Having my hair brushed is better than sex any day. Jamey used to brush my hair while we binge-watched Scandal, and I swear I would get to such a sensual place, I’d almost come.

  Almost. And then we’d fall asleep. It was lovely.

  This isn’t like that, of course.

  Ryan has told me all these stories about his four older sisters. When he was five, they noticed that he liked to build intricate and creative systems with his tiny LEGO blocks. The Donovan girls quickly found a more useful activity for his dexterous fingers: French braids. The man creates body art. Could this have inspired his love of tats?

  Ryan’s hands in my hair put me into a trance. Brushing, quickly dividing, gently tugging and sliding, his fingers woo my head as it leans into the movement of his hands.

  “Almost done,” he says, and I half-open my eyes.

  At that moment, someone walks past the glass wall of the conference room, stops short, and peers in.

  “Fuck,” Ryan says under his breath.

  The door opens. “Hello, kids,” Zeke calls, grinning. Like Ryan, he’s dressed in actual clothes, so it takes me a minute to recognize him. “See you in the planning session, RD,” he says to Ryan. “I see we’re meeting in the Friend Zone.” He smirks and moves off down the hall.

  “What does he mean?” I ask Ryan. “Where is the Friend Zone?”

  “Nowhere, C-Shel. Absolutely nowhere,” he says with a sigh as he moves back. “Done.”

  I reach up and touch the braid, grabbing my purse for a compact with a mirror. As I study the artwork he’s done with my hair, I see hope again.

  “This is amazing!” I squeal, dropping the compact and throwing myself into his arms for a hug. His arms circle around me and he smells so good.

  Our hug deepens. His breath gets shaky and I should let go. Need to let go. This is the part where the hug is supposed to end, right? A simple thank you hug is a quickie, a brief embrace that communicates gratitude, a social nicety.

  I’m grateful. He just saved my ass.

  Speaking of my ass, his hands go to the base of my spine, and then —

  “Ready?” Chloe asks through the glass as I pull out of Ryan’s arms, shocked by the intimacy, those damn signals crossing again. He looks down at the ground and turns to the door, opening it like a gentleman. I hurry out and we join Chloe, who is talking about metrics for customer service, and how Amanda Warrick from headquarters is already down the hall, waiting for the team.

  Half of me listens to her.

  The other half is back in that conference room, in Ryan’s arms. I imagined that, right? Ryan wasn’t being — you know — that wasn’t sexual or anything.

  Of course not.

  Now I’m misreading cues from straight guys. I need to google convents. Stat.

  “Nice hair!” Chloe says, really looking at me. We stop at the coffee station and fill up before the meeting.

  “Thanks,” I say as Ryan pours milk into his coffee cup. “Ryan did it.”

  “Ryan?” Chloe turns to him, touching his hand. “Who knew you had these fine motor skills? I’ve always seen you as more of a gross motor guy. You have some magic hands.”

  Right. Magic.

  RYAN

  Chloe turns me into a tongue-tied little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Normally, that’s bad enough.

  But Carrie is the cookie jar right now.

  I want her cookie, and I want it bad.

  Chloe reminds me of my oldest sister, Ellen. She’s fifteen years older than me and a second mother. Ellen’s eyes have two expressions: 1) wide with incredulity and 2) narrow with speculation.

  No one has ever told Chloe she reminds me of my oldest sister. And no one ever will.

  Chloe is touching me, her manicured fingers examining my palm.

  The same palm I’ve been dating ferociously since Carrie kissed me the other day.

  “We could add braiding to the service menu,” Chloe says under her breath. “We have the hair salon, and our stylists are top of the line when it comes to hair care.”

  “But this isn’t about style,” Carrie interrupts, her voice gathering excitement. “It’s about the rush of having a man’s hands on you, fingers tugging at your hair, touching you in this half-intimate, half-compassionate way that just makes you feel so cared for.”

  Chloe’s eyebrows go up.

  And there it is.

  Wide-eyed incredulity.

  A rush of pleasure and impulse pounds through me as Carrie looks at Chloe with a flushed face, her eagerness still there for a split second before it drains out, embarrassment replacing it.

  Then she punches me. It’s playful and it kills the mood.

  Her laugh is tinny and thin, weird and awkward. “You know,” she backpedals. “For the paid customers. They’ll eat it up. Not only can he dance and massag
e you, he’ll braid your hair. Plus, evolutionary biology says that, you know, primate behavior makes us feel more like part of a social group when others touch our hair. Pick out nits. Eat the bugs. Groom. You know.”

  Now Carrie’s just babbling. I want to save her, but Chloe’s holding my hand and I’m enjoying listening to Carrie ramble about how having me braid her hair turned her on. That’s my translation, and I’m sticking to it.

  Chloe’s eyes turn to Carrie and narrow. “Eat the bugs?”

  “Chloe!” calls out a familiar man’s voice.

  Carrie looks relieved. Saved by her boss’s boyfriend. Nick Grafton walks down the hall, confident in that way older men have when they’ve been successful in the business world long enough to know they’ve earned it. His suit is tailored and he’s wearing cufflinks like the ones I inherited from my grandfather. Tall like me, but with more of a marathoner’s build, Nick has a touch of silver in his hair and that casual assumption that when he speaks, he’s in charge.

  I like him. Unlike the men who work at O, he’s not jockeying for the role of alpha male. Most of the guys here have a thing about their looks — Zeke especially. Henry’s the unofficial pack leader here, and he’s welcome to that role. I wouldn’t want to deal with all the petty shit people dish out. Work is a place where I earn a paycheck and have some fun.

  And, lately, find reasons to run into Carrie.

  “Ryan,” Nick says, giving me an obligatory handshake where we mutually crush each other’s knuckles as testosterone takes over. “How’s it going?”

  “You know. The uniforms get smaller and the tips get bigger,” I reply with a smile.

  Chloe lets out a soft laugh at Nick’s surprised response, his bewilderment rippling through the confident expression he normally has. Then he laughs as he wraps a possessive arm around her shoulders and plants a kiss on her cheek.

  “Half an hour ago, I was in a design meeting for a chain of funeral homes. Or ‘transition centers,’ as they’re calling themselves. O is a refreshing change of pace,” Nick observes.

  “From coffins to sex toy hotlines,” Chloe muses, smiling up at him with that flawless grin. “You’re quite the Renaissance Man.”

  My throat tightens. I want someone to look at me like that.

  Carrie catches my eye.

  I want Carrie to look at me like that.

  Instead, she’s giving me the stink eye.

  “I thought I was the Focus Man,” Nick teases Chloe as Carrie motions for me to come closer to her.

  “Do I really look okay?” Carrie whisper-hisses, her nervousness calming me. I become the comforter, the confident one, the leader. “I need a handler, Ryan. Did I really go on about monkeys eating bugs as a form of foreplay?”

  I choke on my coffee. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but...”

  “I’m not fit for public interactions,” Carrie hisses. “This is all Jamey’s fault!”

  I’m not even going to try to understand how Jamey made her talk about primates eating hair bugs. Anything that makes him the bad guy works for me, though.

  I reach for her shoulder and press gently, as if pinning her in place so she doesn’t shoot off to the moon, fueled by adrenaline. “You’re fine. You’ll be great in this meeting.”

  “There’s Amanda Warrick!” Carrie gasps, reaching up to touch her hair. “I look okay?”

  “You look fabulous. Calm down.”

  “I am calm!” she hisses just as Amanda appears. Amanda Warrick is the assistant director for marketing for our parent company, Anterdec. She’s engaged to the CEO, Andrew McCormick, and all the guys here at O know a dirty little secret about her.

  Last year, Amanda came to O with a very enthusiastic older woman who sipped shots out of Henry’s navel like it was a baby bottle. They were mystery shoppers — the mystery shoppers who wrote up the report that set Chloe’s hair on fire.

  Zeke remembered Amanda but no one believed him. Then Andrew McCormick’s brother got married and when Declan McCormick escaped from his own wedding with his bride, the crazy older blonde lady was all over the news. We happened to be in the employee lounge when some cable news channel interviewed her going on about how the president stole her daughter from the wedding.

  Henry told us never to say a word to anyone. Not sure why, but when Henry tells us to do something, we do it.

  Every time I see Amanda, though, I can’t help but smirk. Like right now, as I shake her hand and say, “Hello.” She has beautiful auburn hair, a shade redder than Henry’s, and big brown eyes that are perfectly round.

  Eyes that narrow as I smile at her. It’s like she can read what I’m thinking.

  Nick, Chloe, Carrie, Amanda, and I all exchange handshakes and pleasantries, the kind of corporate shit I hate. Chloe insisted Zeke and I sit in on this meeting. Normally, Henry would handle it, but he has some class he can’t get out of at Harvard, where he’s working on his master’s degree in public health.

  Overachiever.

  Once we’re settled in at the big conference table, I realize this meeting is bigger than I thought. Diane from accounting has joined us, and some guy I don’t recognize is sitting next to Chloe. Nick’s on her other side. I angle for a spot next to Carrie, but end up sandwiched between Zeke and Diane. There are two other men in the room, dressed in t-shirts and jeans. I look down at my denim shirt and frown.

  I didn’t have to dress up after all.

  The two men are arguing about something on a laptop. I didn’t catch their names so I think of them as Geek and Geeker.

  “But it looks all wrong,” says Geek. “We have to make it look exactly like the O Spa’s branding.”

  Geeker snatches the mouse and hisses to his partner, “But look, it does everything we need. Emails, text messaging, and each rep can customize their own messages. It’s already all paid for.”

  Now I’m getting interested. “That’s perfect. All you have to do is customize the branding to make it look like the O Spa, and all the hard work is already done for you.”

  Geek and Geeker stare back at me like I’ve just farted in an elevator.

  “What is your job, exactly?” Geek asks with a sneer, eyes on my tatted arms.

  Chloe stands. “Thank you, everyone, for coming to this very interesting meeting.” She clears her throat gently, suggestively, and everyone grins. Geek turns away from me.

  “Instead of making everyone go through introductions, allow me. I’m Chloe Browne. This is Amanda Warrick, assistant marketing director from Anterdec, our parent company. Nick Grafton, branding director from Anterdec. Ryan Donovan and Zeke Kelsroy are master staff members here at O, and will be manning the phones as beta testers.”

  “Nothing beta about me,” Zeke whispers under his breath.

  “Diane Delman from O’s accounting team is with us, as is Jack Simonds from our New York office. Assuming all goes well, New York will be the phone line’s next target market. Carrie Shelton is my assistant designer here at O, and has managed the details of development and content for the phone line.” Chloe pauses, the silence ticking, taking on meaning.

  We all look at Geek and Geeker, who are currently looking at their phones, ignoring the rest of us. Some subterranean part of their minds kicks in, like a second grader who realizes the classroom is a little too quiet, and they both look up, ostriches emerging from a hole in the ground.

  “Advanteque Systems sent two of their primary developers here to help with specific coding and tech questions. Welcome Justin Rantz and Sanjay Mehta,” she adds.

  Both grunt out something close to “Hello” and raise their hand as Chloe says their respective names. Sanjay looks at Carrie with more interest than he has any right to.

  “Let’s get down to business. Carrie, it’s your floor.”

  At the mention of Carrie’s name, Sanjay’s eyes widen and he does the once-over. I know exactly what he’s doing. Carrie is being graded.

  “If you look at the outlines in front of you,” Carrie says confidently, pointing
to our papers, “you’ll find the basic phone system that an O member will experience when they call the number:

  Press 1 to schedule a massage appointment

  Press 2 to request a master masseur

  Press 3 to speak with a coordinator about bachelorette or divorce parties

  Press 4 to purchase merchandise

  Press 5 for device troubleshooting

  Press 6 for an intimate chat with a master masseur

  “Device troubleshooting?” Diane asks, her brow down with confusion. “What sort of device?”

  “Sex toys,” Chloe answers cheerfully.

  “Oh,” Diane says, her face turning a furious red, matching the bright lipstick she wears.

  “That’s right!” Carrie says, a little too cheerfully. “O!”

  I groan. Nick raises an eyebrow. Geek and Geeker don’t react.

  “But,” Chloe adds, brow knitting, “if that term is too confusing, maybe we should simplify.”

  “How about ‘battery-operated boyfriend’?” Zeke helps out.

  “Marketing can handle name generation,” Nick adds smoothly, not taking the bait.

  “We have the system set up in advance. All of the options except number six are free, and included in O club membership. Intimate conversations with master masseurs are a separate charge, and require a permission-based system,” Carrie continues.

  “Opt-in,” Sanjay mutters.

  “Right,” Carrie replies. “On multiple levels.”

  “The operative word being ‘multiple,’” Zeke jokes.

  Chloe shoots him a look that says, Really?

  He just grins back.

  Until Nick gives him a staredown.

  “Clients are charged one-eighty per half hour for these conversations.”

  Justin the developer lets out a choking cough and gives Carrie an incredulous look. “That’s more than Sanjay and I make!” He gives Zeke and me a glare of outrage. “To talk to a bunch of horny women?”

  “You can only aspire to have my skill set one day,” Zeke declares, flexing a bicep.

  Nick’s jaw tightens. Chloe just rolls her eyes. Carrie starts to panic. No one else in the room can tell, but I see it.