His demeanor puzzled her. From the moment he’d walked through her door that evening, he wasn’t himself. He was a million miles away. Not cold or standoffish, but not warm and welcoming like he usually was. It wasn’t the irritable, sniping attitude that signaled an impending migraine. Playful, witty Chris was suddenly reserved and quiet. Distracted.
Or maybe she was just more attuned to it tonight. Maybe he was always like this, and her perception was amplified by her own need to be closer to him and her fear of telling him what she needed to tell him.
Drumming her fingers on the wine bottle, she wondered if Chris had caught onto her desire to be closer to him. Maybe he was pulling back, countering her advance with enough of a retreat to keep the distance between them unchanged.
She sighed as she poured her wine. Rules were rules and he was playing by them. Still, rules didn't change what she felt for him. Ever since she'd walked out of Blake's house the other night, she could think of nothing but Chris and everything she couldn’t deny feeling for him.
Even if it meant ending their casual, sexual relationship, he needed to know. She couldn’t lie anymore.
Filling her glass a little fuller than necessary, hoping that extra bit of liquid courage would be enough, she put the bottle down and headed back into the living room. His eyes met hers and she was suddenly certain she'd need the rest of that damned bottle. No, I can do this. I can't fake it anymore. Rules be damned, this has turned into an entirely different game.
But what little confidence she had, what little certainty she had that she could confess her feelings to him tonight, sagged as she eased onto the couch across from him. If ever she worried how receptive he would be, it was now.
He gave her a puzzled look, apparently noting that she
hadn't taken her place across the board from him. "You don't want to play another game?"
She shook her head. "I don't think either of us is focused on the game tonight."
He swallowed. Wishful thinking or fear, she couldn't be sure, told her it was a nervous thing, an uncomfortable, uncertain reaction. More than ever before, she couldn't read him at all.
He didn’t speak. Neither did she. They both silently waited for the other to say something. Do something. Take a step in some direction.
Kat could strategize chess moves with just about every possible result mapped out in her mind, anticipating everything that could and probably would happen. This strange, uncomfortable quiet that hung between them now defied strategy and calculation. A simple but wrong move could throw their friendship into checkmate, leaving them with no choice but to admit defeat and move on. The right move could advance them to something more, something much more, but still there lay the possibility for more wrong moves.
She had no idea what to say.
Maybe this transcended the need for words. Taking one last sip for courage, she set her wine glass on the coffee table and turned to him. He looked at her with an expression that seemed to mirror what she felt: nervous, uncertain, and scared to death.
She put her hand on his knee. He looked at her hand, then at her, then back at her hand.
Your move, Chris I need to know if we’re still playing the same game.
His hand covered hers, that simple touch lighting up every nerve he’d ever aroused in her body.
When their eyes met and his fingers interlaced with hers, every doubt she had about how she felt disappeared. I have never been more in love with someone than I am at this moment.
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
She swallowed hard. My move.
Ignoring the way her heart pounded and her hands threatened to shake, she moved across the couch towards him. Relief swept over her as he met her halfway, his free hand touching her face just before their lips met.
The tenderness of his kiss pushed her apprehension aside. There would be time to talk later. Words could wait. For now, she’d let their bodies do the talking.
Drawing away for a second, he took his shirt off and dropped it to the floor. Then he pulled hers off and tossed it aside, the rattle of disturbed chess pieces barely registering in her consciousness over the soft whisper of his breath on her neck. He pulled her down on top of him, putting his arms around her as he kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips, then back down her neck.
She arched her back against his hands as they sought the clasp on her bra. Everything about his touch was perfect. Incredible. Somewhere amidst the intoxicated confusion of arousal, clarity worked its way into her mind. This is where I belong.
His fingers stopped trying to undo her bra. They retreated, drawing across her back to her shoulders, down her arms, and there they stopped.
There was something odd about the breath he released against her neck. It was a long, heavy exhalation, not a sigh of arousal or a hiss of frustration.
It felt and sounded…resigned.
Alarmed, she raised her head. "Chris, what’s…" She stopped when their eyes met. He quickly closed his eyes and looked away, his lips thinning as his brow knitted together. She shifted her weight onto one arm and touched his face, her blood running cold when he flinched. "Chris, what’s wrong?"
At that, he looked at her and exhaled. There it was again, that sigh of resignation. "I can’t do this."
She blinked. "What? What do—"
"I’m sorry, Kat. I can’t." He started to sit up, so she moved to give him room.
She was stunned into silence until he reached for his shirt and keys. "Chris, what’s wrong?"
"I just can’t." He pulled his shirt on as he rose.
She stood. "Wait, can’t we talk about this? Have I done something wrong?"
He paused, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t look at her. "No. No, you haven’t done anything wrong." When he finally looked at her, the pain in his eyes was palpable. "Kat,
I’m sorry. I can’t."
And he was gone.
The front door clicked shut, the sound echoing through her apartment. Outside, a car door slammed. A moment later, the engine turned over and she listened to its muffled hum until it faded into the distance, leaving her with only the sound of her own heartbeat.
In the silence, she shivered, the cold emptiness of the room settling in on her bare shoulders. She picked up her shirt, holding it to her chest like a life preserver.
I wonder if this is how Blake felt.
At that, the tears came. It wasn’t just guilt at hurting Blake, but the realization of what Chris’s departure meant.
Whoever you are, you’re the luckiest woman on the planet.
Forty
At least a hundred times on the way to work, Kat considered calling in sick. She didn’t feel up to breathing, let alone facing a job that already threatened to put her blood pressure into quadruple digits. It was the last place she wanted to be.
That wasn’t entirely true. The last place she wanted to be was home. Alone. Surrounded by Chris’ absence.
When she got to work, she vowed to make it to the end of the day. By the time she made it to the door, she’d bargained herself down to 'make it to lunch, play the rest of the day by ear'.
Numb and exhausted, she trudged into the office, staring at the floor and avoiding eye contact with anyone who might want to talk to her. Either they’d want to give her more crap to do, or they’d ask what was wrong. She was sure she looked like hell. After a few restless hours of sleep, she’d put herself together as best she could, but there was only so much she could hide from the scrutiny of fluorescent lights. A quick glance at her semi-transparent reflection in an office window confirmed that she looked awful.
At least I don’t look as bad as I feel.
She slipped undetected through the gauntlet of potential conversations and dropped into her office chair with a relieved sigh. Shoving her purse into a drawer, she looked at the mess of crises littering her desk. The stack of reports. The blinking voicemail light. The sticky notes and file folders that had materialized since she’d gone home last night, each with scr
ibbled messages in varying degrees of urgency. Her phone was still on 'do not disturb' mode, and judging by the number of lines already lit up, it would start ringing off the hook the second she switched it back to 'available'.
She sighed.
Only eight hours and I can go home. I can do this.
As she eyed the mess, Bill walked into her office, a thick file folder under his arm.
Okay. Ten hours.
"Good morning, Katrina," he said, his joints cracking as he sat in one of the chairs facing her desk. He pulled his ankle onto his opposite knee, cradling the file folder in the crook of his bent knee as he leaned back in the chair.
Twelve hours.
"Morning, Bill," she said, sipping her coffee.
He drummed his fingers on the file folder, but eyed her. Whatever it was he’d come to talk about was in that folder, but his expression suggested that something else had crossed his mind that he wanted to address first. His pre-planned discussions were lengthy, but if he suddenly veered off on some impromptu tangent, his filibustering was second to none.
Oh God, I’m in Purgatory.
She put her hands together on the desk in front of her, assuming a prayer position that was much more deliberate than Bill probably realized. Kill. Me. Now. "So, what can I do for you?"
The drumming slowed, but his eyebrows tugged together above his nose. Here it comes. He cocked his head and pursed his lips, the last sign of an impending speech. Tapping his fingers on the file folder as if it were a podium, he drew a breath. "You know, even though this office is generally a call center, we do have customers come through on occasion."
Kat nodded, unsure where he was going with this. "Right, I know."
"And as such, we want to keep up our best appearances. You know, let them know we’re a friendly, professional group."
"Of course." She wondered which of her call center employees had worn a too-low shirt this time. Or a pair of shoes that didn’t quite fit the company’s definition of 'business casual'. Perhaps came in with a hairstyle that, while stylish on the club scene, was considered 'bed head' in the workplace. Which one of you do I have to strangle for getting Bill into my office?
His eyebrow lifted and he looked right at her, but said nothing.
She swallowed hard. He was waiting for her to say something. This was one of Bill’s little games. He decided who spoke next in a conversation, regardless of whether or not he’d finished explaining what it was about in the first place, and they’d better have the right answer. Damn it, Bill, don’t do this to me right now, I do not…
Her spine straightened as she recalled her reflection in the window earlier. The red eyes, dark circles, and alarming pallor she’d tried to cover with makeup. Clearing her throat, she dropped her gaze. "Bill, I’m—"
"I’ve got enough problems with customer service reps coming into my call center hung-over, disheveled, and looking like they were out partying all night." His scrutiny hardened into a pointed glare. "I expect more from you, Katrina. Unless you’re ill, you’re—"
"Bill, I am not sick, and I’m not hung-over."
His mouth twisted into a skeptical sneer. "Then—"
"Bill, honestly." She knew she was treading on thin ice by cutting him off, but there were a lot of heavy objects on her desk that might end up flying at his head if he kept going. "I just had a rough night. Didn’t sleep. I’m not going to pretend I’m at my best, but it wasn’t bad enough to call in sick."
She wasn’t lying. The alcohol had nothing to do with the aching between her temples and the sick feeling in her gut. Come to think of it, her wine glass was still sitting on the coffee table, two thirds full of the liquid courage she’d never had the chance to use. That thought made her stomach turn.
Bill looked at her for a moment. "Well, I can’t have any of my call center reps, managers included, coming in after partying all night. We can’t have customers seeing it."
Do you even listen? Why do I bother explaining myself to you? She watched his mouth move while he lectured her, letting his endless monotone go in one ear and out the other. When he finally gave a single, sharp, self-satisfied nod to indicate that he was done, she simply smiled and promised not to let it happen again.
Then she nodded towards the file on his leg. "What’s up?"
He looked at it and his eyebrows lifted as if he’d just noticed it was there. "Oh yes. That’s why I came in here in the first place…"
It was well over an hour before Bill left her office. Fortunately, most of what he said was endless repetition of simple, common sense concepts, so she could tune him out and dwell on Chris.
After Bill had gone, Kat took a deep breath and forced herself to face the onslaught of the day’s insanity. She booted up her computer, groaned at the sight of a hundred or so e-mails, and set her phone to 'available'.
The maelstrom of bullshit was as relentless as it ever was, but like never before, Kat thought she was going to buckle under it. Every crisis wanted to be a catastrophe. Every caller demanded miracles. With the endless parade of people and papers running through her office, she wondered why she hadn’t had a revolving door installed.
She could usually handle the chaos and confusion without breaking a sweat, but she didn’t usually have to face it along with the added weight of last night on her shoulders.
Why didn’t he tell me he’d met someone? she wondered as she checked over a report of order audits.
Will he call me? She paused in the middle of calming an angry customer and dug her cell phone out of her purse, berating herself for being surprised and disappointed when the screen showed no missed calls.
Did I do something wrong? The e-mail she was reading suddenly blurred and she blinked a few times, sniffing back tears.
Yes, she had done something wrong. Agreeing to that damned arrangement. Giving in to the temptation to kiss him that first night in her kitchen.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she quickly brushed it away. There was no sense dwelling on it. What was done was done, and it was definitely done. She had a job to do. She couldn’t—
A muffled but shrill ring brought her back to the
present.
Her cell phone. She stared at the desk drawer where she’d put her purse, eyeing the drawer like she’d suddenly heard a rattlesnake inside it.
Chris? Maybe?
Heart pounding, she opened the drawer and fished around for her phone.
Chris? Please?
It wasn’t Chris’s number. Disappointment mingled with relief.
Then her blood ran cold.
Blake.
She stared at it, listening to it ring, but unable to bring herself to talk to him just yet. The call clicked over to voicemail, and a minute later, the phone beeped to let her know that Blake had left a message.
Her mouth dry, she dialed her voicemail.
His soft accent made her chest ache with guilt. "Hey Kat, it’s Blake. I just, I wanted to talk to you. About the other night. Would you be up for drinks tomorrow night? I’ll be traveling today, so leave me a message and I’ll call you tonight to work something out." There was a short pause, just long enough to suggest he wasn’t quite sure what to say next. "Anyway, call me. I really want to see you." He left his number, and the message ended.
Closing her eyes, she held the phone to her chest and took a deep breath. Could she really face him after what she did to him? Obviously he wanted to see her, or he wouldn’t have called.
He still wants me even after I walked out on him. Probably because he doesn’t know that he wasn’t the problem. Chris was the problem.
And Chris is gone.
Anger suddenly flared in her chest. She clenched her teeth. And just what the fuck am I doing dwelling on Chris? She couldn’t decide if she was angrier with Chris for leaving or with herself for letting herself get too hung up on him.
She took a deep breath. Chris wasn’t gone forever. Maybe he left in the heat of the moment and would come back to sort things out sooner o
r later. They could salvage their friendship and move on. Whatever this mess of a relationship was, she’d known from the beginning what it was and what it never could be.
It didn’t matter how much it hurt. She had to move on, because she should never have gotten that attached in the first place.
And what better way to move on than a guy who was willing to give her a second chance that she didn’t deserve?
Yes, she could face Blake.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she called him back, but his voice recording melted some of her courage. She left a brief, non-committal message, asking him to call her that evening.
She’d taken a step to letting go of Chris.
Moving on. Moving on to someone else.
But she didn’t want to let go of Chris.
No, I have to. I will. I’m going to. She wiped her eyes again and forced herself to focus on the chaos that was her job until five o’clock finally, mercifully showed up.
Her desk was still piled with emergencies and insanity, but she couldn’t endure another hour of this. Tomorrow, overtime. Tonight, she just couldn’t take it.
On her way out to the car, her phone rang. Her heart skipped. Chris?
When she flipped it open though, Blake’s name appeared on the LCD screen, and something sank in her gut. As the phone continued ringing in her hand, she pursed her lips. That call was her opportunity to pick herself up, make things right with Blake, and let go of what she never should have clung to with Chris.
She liked Blake. She liked him a lot.
Ring.
She needed to move on, but she just didn’t have the heart to move forward with him. With anyone.
Ring.
Right or wrong, pointless or not, she was still in love with Chris.
Ring.
Just before the call switched to voice mail, she answered.
"Hey Blake."
"Hey." He paused. "I got your message. Did you…"
Another pause.
Leaning against her car, she ran a hand through her hair and took a breath. "Listen, I’m sorry about the other night."
The Next Move Page 21
